~Grantaire~
Pain. That was all he could feel, know, perceive, or understand. He was in agonizing pain. For some merciless stretch of time that seemed like an eternity but was probably only a few minutes, he felt that he was trapped underwater, unable to breathe, unable to see, unable to feel anything except for panic and fear, unable to understand anything except for the pain. Then, at last, he submerged out from under these black tides, he drew in a deep gasp of air, and he weakly opened his eyes.
He was alive. How in God's name was he still alive? At least twelve guns had been aimed at him and had fired at him, but they had not killed him. Why? How?! Enjolras was lying facedown against the wooden planks of the cafe's floor, and his face was resting in a pool of blood. He weakly, painfully managed to roll over onto his back, and he struggled to sit up. Yes, he was definitely alive. He was still in the cafe, before that same window, but now he what fallen to the ground, now the soldiers had gone, and now the room was littered with overturned tables and chairs. Yet, somehow, Enjolras had managed to hold onto the red flag.
How was he still alive? Enjolras looked down at his body, and tried to find an answer. There was blood on his body, running down the side of his face where a deep gash had opened across his cheek, draining out from his nose, filling his mouth, as he had badly bitten his tongue and busted open his lower lip. His body was weak and sore, and in many places he felt sharp pains whenever he moved. But these were wounds from the fall, from the impact, from hitting his head against the floor, from something or someone slamming into him and knocking him over with the force of a bullet. The bullets had not touched him. How was this possible? Then, a moment later, Enjolras remembered seeing a man jump in front of him just as the guns were going off.
"Enjolras..."
He could barely hear the weak voice call him name, but he heard it. At once, he raised his eyes and looked around the room. He saw a man lying on the floor not far from him, half buried under the tables and chairs that the soldiers had recklessly thrown about the room in search of hiding rebels. Enjolras got to his feet, slowly and unsteadily but he managed, and then, using his sleeve to wipe the blood off of his face and spitting out a mouthful of red liquid, he quickly approached this man. It was Grantaire.
A skeptic, a cynic, a drunkard, a gambler, a rover, a libertine, and a man who cared nothing for the revolution, Enjolras had never liked Grantaire. He despised him, scorned him, scolded him, and openly and harshly rejected him. Yet, somehow, Grantaire had never stopped admiring, honoring, worshiping, and following Enjolras.
Enjolras had forgotten all about him. After he had drunk himself senseless after the battle last night, Enjolras had yelled at him to put the bottle down, to stop disgracing the barricade, and to stop being so worthless, Grantaire had fallen unconscious, and he had not been seen or heard from again. Yet, here he was at the final moment of the final battle.
When Enjolras came into his view and kneeled down before him, a deep look of relief and a faint smile appeared upon Grantaire's face. "Enjolras," he said again, acting as if the harsh words Enjolras had snapped at him last night had never been uttered. "You're alive!"
"Yes," Enjolras answered after a moment, his voice expressionless and lacking any hint of any emotion. "And so are you." Grantaire gave a weak, sad smile, and he slowly nodded. Enjolras frowned for a moment, looking at the heap of wooden tables and chairs that was on top of Grantaire and crushing the lower half of his body. "Hold on a moment, Grantaire, I will get this off of you." Before Grantaire had time to reply, Enjolras stood up, took hold of the largest table, and with surprising strength, he managed to pull it off of Grantaire, throw away a few chairs, and then take Grantaire by his shoulders and pull him out from under the pile. When Enjolras began to drag Grantaire out from the rubble, Grantaire's face instantly began to contort with a look of agonizing pain, twisting as he winced, clinched his jaws, gritted his teeth, and pinched shut his eyes, his entire body stiffened, his limbs trembled, his lungs heaved, his heart hammered in his chest, soft moans and whimpers of pain flowed out from his lips, and Enjolras could see him struggling not to cry out. But as Enjolras pulled him out into the open, Grantaire could not help it, and he let out a sharp cry. Enjolras knew that Grantaire had probably been hurt from being crushed by the tables. It was his assumption that because the drunkard had lost consciousness in this room last night, he had slept through the entire battle, the soldiers had seen him and thought him another corpse, thrown the tables recklessly on top of him, and left him there. Even seeing Grantaire in pain, Enjolras felt no sympathy for him. All of the other boys had sacrificed their lives as he drank himself into unconsciousness. Not until Enjolras had gotten Grantaire out from under the rubble did he realize that he was wrong. It was not just tables and chairs that had wounded Grantaire.
Lying on his back upon the floor, Grantaire's face twisted in agony, Enjolras could see him choking on the pain, his body convulsed, and with trembling arms he pressed his hands against his wounds.
First, Enjolras saw all of the blood: everywhere, all over Grantaire's body, completely painting him red from his chest down, soaking his cloths, covering his hands and wrists, pooling out onto the floor around him. Then, Enjolras saw the wounds: a bloody gash across his right thigh; two deep holes in his lower ribcage and in his left shoulder gushing out thick, dark blood, as if a hole had been put into a cask, and the wine came rapidly flowing out; but the worst of it all was the mutilation of his stomach. The bullets had come in at a lethal and horrible angle, not going into him from the front but cutting across his belly, slashing it open as if with a knife. Now, there was a large, deep wound across Grantaire's stomach, which now gapped wide-open. Grantaire held his wound, but blood came freely flowing out from between his fingers, and only his hands kept his insides from spilling out, as well.
Enjolras was never affected by blood or by gore. All of this time at the barricade, witnessing and fighting through three battles, Enjolras had seen much death, and while he was grieved to see his friends fall, it did not bother him to see death. But this... This was terrible, disgusting, repulsive, gruesome, terrifying... Enjolras found himself wanting to look away, gagging, and fighting off the urge to vomit or to pass out.
But even worse than the terror of seeing a man's stomach ripped open, bleeding, and dying before him, was the sudden understanding that struck Enjolras's heart like the blade of a knife. Now, Enjolras understood. It was Grantaire who had thrown himself between Enjolras and those guns. It was Grantaire who had taken the bullets for him. It was Grantaire who had saved his life. Grantaire, who Enjolras only scorned, rebuked, mistreated, and insulted, who Enjolras called worthless, cowardly, and disgraceful, had saved his life.
"Grantaire..." Enjolras heard his own voice whisper, as he stared in shock and in horror down at Grantaire's body, wanting desperately to look away but unable to do so. "Grantaire, you..." You saved my life, he thought, but he was unable to bring himself to say it, for the guilt was too great. He swallowed down the knot in his throat and said instead, "Grantaire, you are hurt."
Grantaire painfully forced open his eyes, looked up at Enjolras, and managed to nod.
"You need a doctor, at once!" Enjolras declared, unable to hide the panic and fear in his voice. "You cannot walk; I will carry you." Enjolras quickly bent down, took Grantaire into his arms, and began to lift him up off of the floor. At once, Grantaire let out a terrible cry of pain, and he began asking, begging Enjolras to let him go, not to make him move, not to pick him up, telling him that it hurt him too badly.
Enjolras fearfully put Grantaire back down and laid him on his back, not because it put Grantaire in pain, but because Enjolras was afraid that if he lifted Grantaire, the man's guts and intensities would spill out of his body and onto the floor. He hesitated for a moment, his mind racing, as he tried to decide what to do. Then, he saw the red flag lying on the floor across the room, where he had left it. At once, Enjolras hurried across the room, snatched up the flag, and returned to Grantaire's side. He knelt down beside him, and ignoring the terrible, strangled, tortured sounds that escaped through Grantaire's lips, he quickly wound the flag around his waist and tied it tightly, so that it held in Grantaire's guts, holding them inside of his body. When Enjolras had finished, he looked down at Grantaire, whose eyes were tightly closed, whose face had contorted into a look of unbearable pain, whose flesh was now white but had that sickening grey look, like the shadow of death, upon it.
"Come now, Grantaire," Enjolras said, forcing his voice to sound calm, unafraid, and in control. "I am bringing you to the hospital."
Grantaire painfully managed to open his eyes, and when he did, Enjolras could see tears in them. He looked sadly up at Enjolras, his leader, his king. "Please, don't make me," he choked out, his voice weak, trembling, broken, dying. "Please, don't make me move again. It—" He abruptly stopped talking, and his words turned into a cry of pain. He threw back his head, pressing it against the wooden floor below him, and he tightly wrapped his blood-covered arms around the red flag that held in the wounds on his stomach, as if this could somehow hold back the pain. His eyes still pinched shut, and breathing heavily as he tried to force down the pain, he said, "It.. It hurts too much."
Enjolras stared helplessly at the dying man before him, this man who had saved his life, not knowing what to do. "Grantaire, I am trying to help you," he cried out at last. "You need a doctor, at once!"
Enjolras was surprised when a faint, bitter, yet somehow easy, as if this man was happy and at peace to stay here and die upon the floor of the café, smile spread across Grantaire's lips, and he shook his head. "Not even the finest surgeon in France could—" He choked on the pain, began to cough, and a spray of blood came forth from his lips, spilling out of his mouths, splattering across his face, and running down his chin. Yet, he fought to keep speaking through the blood and through the pain, "…could help… help me now."
Enjolras knew that Grantaire was right. He had been pierced with several bullets, which had no doubt hit his organs, severing and rupturing them. Grantaire had already lost too much blood, and his intestines were practically falling out of his stomach. There was no chance of his survival. Enjolras could have carried him to the hospital, but the doctors would not have been able to save him. This would only have put Grantaire through so much more pain. Yet, Enjolras could not just stand there and do nothing, and watch this man die, let die the man who had saved his life without even trying to save him. "But Grantaire—" he began to protest, but then he saw Grantaire trying to speak, and he fell silent.
"A doctor cannot help me, Enjolras. I do not need a doctor. All I need is—" He started choking again and coughing up blood. Enjolras could see in Grantaire's wet eyes, that he was afraid. He was afraid of dying. "—is a friend."
A friend. Enjolras had never considered Grantaire a friend. But now, Grantaire had given his own life to save Enjolras's. Now, Enjolras saw that everything he had once believed Grantaire to be was wrong. Grantaire was not weak, or cowardly, or selfish, but strong, brave, and ready to die for what he believed in. Enjolras believed in the Revolution, but Grantaire believed in Enjolras. He was not so different from the other boys. He was not so different from even Enjolras, himself. Now, if Grantaire could find it in his heart to forgive him, Enjolras would call Grantaire his friend.