13
The ringing of gunfire and the bellowing of the cannons were so loud in the little street that the noise threatened to crush Enjolras. Their lonely little barricade of less than fifty men was steadily losing ground to the massive French National Guard. Men were dying – men whose names Enjolras did not know and others whom he considered his closest friends – all falling to the ground in agony. Bahorel had been the first to die in the outbreak of the violence. Now, no more than a quarter of an hour later, his body was lost amongst the rising tide of the dead or dying. Their final cries were accusations.
"Enjolras, we need to retreat!" called Combeferre from where he was fighting, a few feet from Enjolras. He fired one of his last remaining bullets into the forehead of a bold young soldier who was trying to scale the barricade. Enjolras had long been out of bullets and had resorted to using his carbine as a cudgel.
He took in the scene before him: the crumpled bodies of both sides, the debris and the blood, Joly, who was shivering in fear just inside the Café Musain. Enjolras' mind was having trouble processing what his eyes were telling him, but he knew that he should follow Combeferre, his guide.
The French army was reloading their weapons and repositioning their cannons, and Enjolras took this opportunity to do as Combeferre suggested. Nodding mutely to his friend, Enjolras slid down the battered barricade. There were still twenty or so left of their numbers, including the only remaining members of Les Amis de l'ABC: Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly, Feuilly, Marius, and Enjolras. The last of the Amis followed Enjolras into the Café blindly.
The defenseless, weary, and frightened men made a mad dash towards their final safe haven. Feuilly was struck down after only a few steps, but the rest managed to make it into the Café. Joly sobbed harder than before as Feuilly's body fell heavily onto the pavement, becoming one of the many littering the street.
Luckily, the cloud of gun smoke and the confusion that battle produces left the enemy unawares of Enjolras and his lieutenants retreating into the tavern. The morning sun was blotted out by the unrelenting miasma of battle, but Enjolras' lieutenants followed him to safety as though he were an angel who was guiding them to the Promised Land.
"We need to barricade the door!" shouted Combeferre when they had all entered the Café, his voice shrill and cracking.
Marius ran out of the side door before Enjolras had a chance to respond, unthinking, and began to pull furniture from one of the smaller barricades in the alley. A shot rang out louder than the rest and Marius fell, angry red blood leaking from the new hole in his side.
"Marius!" howled Courfeyrac, panicked. He made to run to his friend, but Enjolras grabbed his elbow and held him back firmly.
"Everyone get upstairs," he ordered. Enjolras' face was a mixture of utter anguish and eerie calm; he knew he was leading them to their deaths. Joly did as he said, running up the stairs and tripping over his own feet like a baby deer.
Courfeyrac, Combeferre, and Enjolras hung behind to barricade the door. The only piece of furniture left in the whole room was the bar which Joly had been using as his operating table, and the three men grabbed it and pushed it against the broken entrance to the Café. That bar and the broken door were the last things standing between them and the French army, who had begun to crawl over the barricade like spiders from beneath a stone.
When the bar was secure, Courfeyrac and Combeferre followed Joly to the second floor of the tavern. Enjolras, using the butt of his carbine, began to break the steps from their slats on the staircase. Courfeyrac was doing the same work from above with a floorboard he had ripped up. Moments later, Enjolras was jumping with all of his remaining strength upwards, grabbing at Combeferre's hand where it was being stretched from the opening in the ceiling. He disregarded the searing pain in his thigh, too focused on the sound of fighting filtering in from the street outside.
The army was split: half was breaking down the flimsy door of the Café and the other half was fighting the nameless workers still left standing. The rebels were flinging glass bottles and broken pieces of wood down upon the soldiers from the windows and the dangerous rain was slowing their progress, but not enough. It wasn't long before the soldiers broke through their pitiful attempt at a barricade and inundated the first floor of the tavern.
Enjolras, Joly, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac huddled together in the center of the hall – a hall which had been the birthplace of dreams, laughter, and happiness, which was now to become their tomb. Enjolras signaled for his friends to be silent, and he moved to stand protectively in front of them. The soldiers below also fell silent, searching for the insurgents.
Joly shifted his weight and the old floor creaked. He choked back a violent sob when he realized what he had done. The enemy below heard the sound and, under their captain's orders, grouped together beneath the epicenter of the noise, preparing to fire into the ceiling. The cornered men above braced themselves for the inevitable, Combeferre and Joly clinging to Courfeyrac for support. Enjolras put his hand on Joly's quaking shoulder in an attempt at telling him that this wasn't his fault.
There came the loud click of twenty muskets being cocked in unison from the first floor. Courfeyrac whimpered, the last sound heard before an explosion of gunfire. Three men fell to the floor, dead. Enjolras' hand was still poised in the air as though Joly's shoulder was beneath it.
Why am I not dead? I want to have died.
Enjolras looked down at his slain friends, at the fear still etched on their faces. The noises from below resumed but he took no notice. There was an order for the men to search the upstairs; it was not enough for the soldiers to have killed his men, they had to admire their handiwork.
Enjolras recognized that he had only minutes left, at best – or perhaps, at worst. He heard the officer, the one who had ordered for the cannons and sealed their fate, commanding his men to scour the bottom floor and then check upstairs.
"Someone pile up the scraps of that table and count the bodies up there!" he barked.
Hopeless, Enjolras scanned the little room. The billiards table had been spared, upon Grantaire's request, and only a few rickety chairs around a single table remained aside from that. His eyes stopped on a figure in the corner, a dead man whose lifeless body was slumped peacefully and face-first against the singular table.
"Grantaire?" he breathed. Guilt and unexpected grief washed over Enjolras.
At the sound of his name that carried across the room to his ears through the momentary silence from the battle, Grantaire lifted his shaggy head. He yawned and rubbed his eyes childishly before turning around in his seat to face Enjolras. Grantaire's jaw fell open when he saw his friends lying dead on the floor and Enjolras standing amongst the carnage. He raised his eyes to meet Enjolras', finding in their depths only defeat and coldness where there was usually hope and fire. Enjolras' gaze was as dead as his men and Grantaire shuddered.
"Have I –" he began loudly, but was silenced by a fierce shake of the head from Enjolras. Grantaire heard the banging of the soldiers beneath their feet for the first time and nodded in realization. Fortunately, the men had not heard Grantaire through the din that had resumed outside and the scraping of the wood from within the Café.
"All is lost, Grantaire," Enjolras whispered, his voice reflecting the look in his eyes.
"Does this mean we're going to die?"
"Yes, mon ami."
"No."
The vehemence with which Grantaire uttered that single word was pitiful. Now, in the face of death, had Grantaire become passionate about something? Enjolras laughed darkly in spite of himself, the noise attracting the attention of the soldiers.
"Build that ladder faster, damn it!" order the officer. The sound of wood scraping against the floor of the Café grew louder, almost deafening.
Grantaire leapt unsteadily from his seat, physically inebriated but mentally sober. Enjolras walked brusquely to the window and looked out upon the damage he had caused, resignation pouring from his every movement. Grantaire's heart was aching.
"Enjolras, you can't die," Grantaire blurted. His tongue felt heavy in his head from the absinthe he had been drinking all night, but his mind was racing.
Enjolras made no reply, turning to face his friend. On his lips he wore the patient smile reserved only for Grantaire. He was sad, but his sadness was overshadowed by his determination. Even on death's front door, Enjolras was dedicated to every decision he made.
"Grantaire, please. It is my fault that this has happened to them –" he made a sweeping gesture towards the tableau outside and another to their friends on the floor "– and to you. Just as that spy deserved what he was dealt, I deserve to be summarily executed."
The noises from below increased yet again as the soldiers made progress on their makeshift ladder. Judging by the volume, they were almost done. Enjolras smiled at the thought of it no longer being minutes until death, which would come quite soon. Their situation was growing serious; Grantaire knew he had to act, to convince Enjolras.
"Listen to me, damn it!" he cried, clutching to Enjolras' sleeve desperately and shaking his arm. Enjolras looked surprisingly from Grantaire's hand to his face, so full of pain and passion that he almost didn't recognize the devout non-believer.
"You cannot die, Enjolras."
"Why not, Grantaire? These men have died and they are less guilty than I."
"Because France needs you," pleaded Grantaire. "Mademoiselle Éponine needs you. When this is all over, neither will have anyone to stand up for them, to take care of them. Enjolras, that someone has to be you. You are the only one who can."
At the mention of her name, Enjolras was again reminded of all of what had been and all of what could have been. He slumped against the wall, unable to suppress his regret. His eyes drifted closed, losing himself in reverie. Grantaire felt a pang of jealousy at the profound affect her name had had, but continued regardless.
"Please, Enjolras, live. For France, for Éponine… for me."
Enjolras opened his eyes and met Grantaire's, who had moved to stand only a few inches from him. The scene reminded him of his encounter with Éponine on the Pont Neuf, the intensity in Grantaire's gaze mirroring the anger in hers. There was a thinly veiled longing in those eyes that Enjolras couldn't help but notice.
"Why?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I am in love with you, Enjolras. I would do anything for you – polish your boots, make your supper, even die for you."
Grantaire's voice was thick with emotion, but he was smiling. It was as though the world had been lifted from his shoulders. Enjolras opened his mouth to make a reply, but shut it again when he heard a soldier yelling to his officer that their ladder was finished.
"Please," Grantaire repeated, capturing Enjolras by his shoulders and squeezing insistently. "This is my dying wish."
Enjolras merely nodded in consent, unable to process anything. Grantaire collapsed against his chest, hugging him both roughly and tenderly. He hugged back, limply.
Just then, an insurgent who had been grappling with a soldier atop the Café roof fell, soldier in tow, to his death. The pair hurtled past the window by which Enjolras and Grantaire had been standing and landed on pieces of the furniture from the alley barricade below. Grantaire pulled back from the hug, his eyes ablaze with hope.
"Quick! Jump out that window, those men will break your fall," said Grantaire, talking fast and slurring a few of his words.
Enjolras turned and looked out of the window at the bloody men. The soldier and insurgent had been unfortunate enough to both land on the cobblestones, but right next to their mangled bodies was a discarded mattress. He looked left and right, surveying the area for any additional means of escape and found nothing but a red flag that was nearly ripped to shreds from bullets hanging to his left.
Grantaire nudged his elbow, the grunts of soldiers growing louder. They had started their ascent; the time to act was then. Enjolras looked over his shoulder at Grantaire, his heart too full for farewells or apologies. He put his hand on the back of Grantaire's neck and met his tender gaze, trying to explain himself without words. A sob escaped Grantaire's lips, but he said nothing. He pushed Enjolras' elbow again, insistent.
Enjolras faced the window again and took a deep breath. He stepped onto the ledge and looked down, and then back at Grantaire for the last time. He smiled that patient, perfect smile and Grantaire's heart melted; he knew that he had lived his whole life to see that, and he could die happily. A soldier began to emerge from the hole in the floor, his hands bloodied and his face drenched in sweat. It was do or die.
"I am on my way, 'Ponine," he whispered as though praying, steeling his nerves.
Looking away, Enjolras grabbed the tattered flag securely with both hands and leapt from the window. The flag, the symbol of his revolution and of his dream for France, ripped in two under his weight but it did its job in slowing Enjolras' descent. He landed on the mattress with a thud with no bones broken and only the wind sufficiently knocked out of him. As he lay on his back, his vision shaky and his head feeling as light as a feather, Enjolras heard Grantaire's voice drift through the window.
"Shoot me boys, I'm your man. The name's Enjolras, Jean-Luc Enjolras. Long live the Republic!"
Twenty guns fired simultaneously. Grantaire was dead.
A/N: So, let's just say this: I hate this chapter. Like, I hated writing it, I hated re-reading it, ugh. It made me sad and I'm so disappointed in everything that I wrote, but I had to update and this was the best draft/version I'd written. I'm so sorry, guys. I'm sorry I've failed you like Enjolras failed his men. Ugh. Anyway! The next chapter starts the hardcore deviation from all things canon, 100% all me. This also means ten million times more E/E feels! Alas, no more E/R. Harrumph. Anyway! Read it, review it, and please, for the love of God and Aaron Tveit, give me suggestions on how to improve this chapter, and the next one. Thanks! Lots o' love.