Archive of Our Own

Enjolras watched as Grantaire scrambled up and down the barricade, from man to man, and seethed. It had not bothered him at first, he had not even noticed, he was so accustomed to Grantaire sharing his bottle with Joly and Bossuet, but then he had clamoured on to Feuilly, who tried to refuse his offer of wine but relented good-naturedly when Grantaire persisted, and then Marius, who acquiesced with much less grace and after much more badgering. Grantaire seemed oblivious, moving along and then on again, and again, laughing and tripping in his drunkenness and generally disrupting their ranks.

Enjolras ignored his actions still. It would have been strange to be without Grantaire's antics, he reasoned to keep himself from snapping. His presence was not contributory but he was a pleasant sort of drunk this night, inadvertently keeping morale up. If a drunkard could tramp about to share stories and wine, then surely their situation was not so dire, a pest but a jovial one. Enjolras could almost smile when he pulled Gavroche onto his knee and shared a bit of bread and cheese he produced from somewhere with the boy. He lingered with Gavroche, made a game of it with him as he scaled the barricade to reach one man and then the next, Gavroche chasing after him, inevitably disappearing for a moment into the barricade, then popping up ahead of him. Enjolras could ignore the ruckus they caused because it made the men smile to see them. He watched carefully though. He knew his friends well, he knew Grantaire well, and he knew Grantaire's steps were becoming unsure with all the wine he was consuming, knew his falls were becoming truth and not the stage play he put on for the sake of others. Grantaire was prone to uncomfortable excesses; after a certain depth of wine his good humour faded and he became morose and intractable. His friends tried, with little success, to guard against it on normal days. Here, Enjolras could not have it, not from any of his lieutenants.

Enjolras sighed. He would step in as he must, although he disliked doing so. He disliked hurting Grantaire, as was inevitable when Grantaire got himself into such a state but he would not have Grantaire lowering morale by falling from the barricade and breaking his fool neck; nor would he have the winecask come to any real harm because of his weaknesses. Just before Enjolras judged that his steps were unsteady enough to step in and forcible separate Grantaire from his bottle, Grantaire placed Gavroche upon Joly's knee and changed the course of his stumbling journey to land upon them.

"Courfeyrac! My dear citoyen, come share a glass of wine with me!" Grantaire boomed jovially, face ruddy and smiling still, as if he had not tripped and would have fallen if not for Courfeyrac's quick, steadying hands.

"We have liberated all the glasses, my friend," Courfeyrac told him cheerfully as he put him back on his feet. "But let me lighten your bottle. I fear it has already stolen any semblance of your aim from us for the next attack."

"I am hardly a child of Ares, good citoyen, and, while Aphrodite may find cause for many wars, she is a poor guide for bullets that seek soldiers such as we face. There is no great tragic love here, only our own pitiful affairs and certainly none of her chosen for her to guide," Grantaire laughed. "And my Dionysius is an even less helpful in such things!"

Courfeyrac laughed and took several swallows from Grantaire's bottle before Grantaire snatched it back, less Courfeyrac drain it dry, and finished it himself, belching as he did. He finished and swayed, his eyes open but mere slits.

"Steady, R," Combeferre said, speaking before Enjolras could. "Come inside. Let us find a place for you to rest awhile."

“Or elsewhere,” Enjolras scowled. Combeferre ignored him. Grantaire seemed not to have heard.

"Combeferre!" Grantaire exclaimed, throwing his arms wide as if he had only just seen him. "You must have a drink with me."

"No. Thank you."

"Or share a piece of bread. You...you must. You must share a drink. You..." Grantaire's voice had lost all it's merriment at a shocking speed, even for him. Combeferre took hold of his arm. Grantaire staggered at the touch and seemed to list into him. Courfeyrac and Enjolras exchanged troubled looks.

"Steady," Combeferre said again. "Come sit, Grantaire, there will be time for that later."

"There will be no time later. There is no time now. There has never been enough time. There can never be enough time," Grantaire rambled. He seemed to have lost his coherency. Enjolras frowned at how quickly it had happened. "Never enough time. There is..."

"Come sit with me," Combeferre cajoled. His hand moved from Grantaire's arm to his waist. Grantaire squinted at him as if he was unable to focus and to Enjolras' surprise he quieted and allowed Combeferre to draw him into the Corinth.

"I have never seen him be persuaded to cease speaking with such little force before," Enjolras said. He looked at Courfeyrac and saw his look was too knowing. "You disagree."

Courfeyrac laughed. "I do not. Only, he is very drunk."

"He has been drunker before," Enjolras countered. He sighed. "I should send him away."

"Do not."

"He does not believe in our cause. He believes in nothing," Enjolras said, exasperated. "He will only find trouble if he stays and I do not mean his usual fits of pique. I would not have him die here because he was too drunk to depart and staggered before a stray bullet while searching for his next bottle. Nor would I have him distract the men from our aims once the fighting begins afresh. This is not the place for cynics and drunkards."

"He chooses to be here as any of us do," Courfeyrac said gently. Enjolras shifted uncomfortably; he was not unaware of the root of Grantaire's choice. "Leave them be. The disturbance has ceased."

Enjolras frowned at Courfeyrac's wording. "You are not wrong."

"I rarely am!" Courfeyrac said, full of cheer.

Enjolras, however, was thoughtful. "Combeferre rarely seeks to silence Grantaire, despite having as much cause to as any of us."

"Combeferre is a patient man."

"He is not so patient as that," Enjolras said, watching Courfeyrac with narrowed eyes. "You know something I do not."

"That is true in many ways."

"Courfeyrac."

"Enjolras," he returned with a mocking lift to his shoulders. Enjolras looked mildly affronted. "Leave them be."

"Then speak."

"It is not my place to tell."

"That has rarely stopped you from meddling in their affairs of our friends before," Enjolras charged.

Courfeyrac simply shrugged. "The same can be said for you, dear friend, and do not try to deny it. You are hardly above such things."

"I do not deny it, now, be satisfied with that and speak on this," Enjolras said.

"I do not know the way of it," Courfeyrac said, shrugging. "I have only read the scenes before me, as you just have, and if I have read them correctly, then I would not interrupt what may be a farewell."

A muscle in Enjolras' jaw ticked, annoyed with himself for having missed so much of a very dear friend. "I am going inside."

"Enjolras, I say again, leave them be."

"I will not interrupt. I only wish to..."

"Be a meddlesome fishwife!"

"I only wish to help, if I must. Grantaire was very drunk," Enjolras said, though he was not, not nearly as drunk as they has seen him before. Enjolras would not admit Courfeyrac was correct and, once discovered, he desperately needed to have this hypothesis confirmed. But...that was not the only reason.

"Enjolras..."

"Courfeyrac," Enjolras said, his voice both gentle and fierce. "If it is best, if Grantaire is...unwell, I would give them the chance to depart."

Courfeyrac's mouth parted in surprise but he recovered quickly. "Neither of them will be budged from here lest it is in victory."

"Yes, I know," Enjolras said but ducked inside nonetheless.

It took him longer moments than he thought to find them but, to his chagrin, even now he expected to hear Grantaire making a scene. Instead, the quiet inside the cafe — the murmur and shuffle of their men outside and the occasional crack of far off gun shots seemed strangely removed — was almost eerie. It unnerved Enjolras and for a moment he thought to turn back, rejoin Courfeyrac, before he heard a muffled whine from upstairs, so quiet it was almost lost.

Yes, they would retreat there. Both of them would.

Enjolras had not set out to spy on his comrades. He had only meant to see that they did not require assistance — perhaps even Joly's aid — and have Courfeyrac's insinuations proved or disproved. The door was ajar; he could peer in easily from the shadows without being seen. Grantaire was seated, slumped in his chair, his head pressed against Combeferre's stomach, a new wine bottle between his feet. Combeferre had his hands in Grantaire's hair, cradling his head as if there had never been a more precious thing in all the world. Enjolras swallowed. He had his answer and he would have gone, heart both strangely heavy and light, except that Grantaire chose that moment to stir and looked up at Combeferre.

His eyes were black.

Enjolras was so shocked he did not startle, could not even process what he was seeing for a moment and then another. Grantaire's eyes were black. Not the swollen pupils of a man struck by too hard a blow to the head but black, eclipsing both irises and the whites of his eyes. It was no trick of the light for he moved his head, even closed his eyes briefly, and the darkness remained.

Combeferre made a quiet, distressed sound as his thumb traced the line of Grantaire's cheek. There was no surprise on his face, only worry and deep, long-held concern. "You have taken too much. You know better than to try for so many at once."

"I did not finish. I did not..." Grantaire replied. He swayed and pressed his face back against the softness of Combeferre stomach. “You must have a drink with me.”

"There will be time..."

"There is no time! There has never been enough time!" Grantaire said, shifting in agitation. His movements were jerky and almost...almost pained. Combeferre held him still but said nothing, let Grantaire rant into his waistcoat until he exhausted himself. It was a quick thing; he seemed as if he had done more than drink and clamour up and down their barricade with a child. He seemed utterly wearied.

“It will all go to wrack and ruin,” Grantaire mumbled, clutching at Combeferre when he could not shake his hold. “We will all die. We will all be swallowed up by the earth and sent forth to be judged by a cruel god, cruel to have created us, cruel to have abandoned us, if he even lives still. There is nothing! No time. There is never time! Only the darkness piled atop and atop each of us and I cannot blot it all away. I cannot erase it all. I cannot save them all but...You. You must have a drink with me, Combeferre, please. Please.”

“You say there is no god but you seek to protect me from the sins I have chosen to commit,” Combeferre said and there was something like a smile on his face. “Thank you.”

“You will not accept,” Grantaire said, his voice small and sad. He sounded as if he might cry. It was worse, somehow, than the agitation. “You must accept. You must...”

“We have spoken of this before. My sins are my own. I do not seek for another to carry them.”

“Not another,” Grantaire said. He tried to raise his head and Combeferre allowed it,
his fingers tangled in Grantare's hair. Grantaire's eyes were still black and open very wide. “Me. Please, Combeferre. I beg you."

Combeferre hesitated. Enjolras thought he saw the moment he wavered, sighed and gave in. He bent and picked up the bottle of wine at Grantaire's feet. Grantaire caught his hands.

"It can be bread if you would prefer it," Grantaire said. He winced, even looked contrite. "It is the act not the substance, you know that. I am only being contrary because I am contrary and I wished to...I know you will want your aim to be true."

"You wanted to share a moment with your friends as they know you to be. You were saying farewell," Combeferre said, his voice impossibly fond. "And you were keeping from arousing suspicions. Come, give me the wine. I would have you as you are, always."

Grantaire did not smile at this victory, only pressed the bottle into Combeferre's hands, turning from the light as he did so. Combeferre's eyes never left Grantaire's face as he raised the bottle and drank. Enjolras could no longer see his face and he frowned, taking a step forward to stop this disruption — must Grantaire corrupt all his lieutenants? — when Combeferre leaned forward and pressed his wine filled mouth to Grantaire's.

Enjolras froze again. He was neither ignorant nor a fool; he would not disturb moments such as these. He was not wholly oblivious to their importance. He could see Grantaire tense and then relax, watched his throat as he swallowed, a trickle of wine at the corner of his lips as he sighed into Combeferrre's kiss. Combeferre's hands were sure and familiar on his body and though the kiss did not last overly long, they stayed together when their lips parted, breathing into each other's mouths, their foreheads pressed together.

"I thought to take some of your burden," Combeferre said, a sigh, no, more than a sigh, a sob in his voice, sadder than Enjolras had ever heard him. He thought he saw a glint of moisture on Combeferre's cheeks but surely it was a trick of the light. "I have researched it in as much depth as possible and from what you have told me I thought...I thought to take not give. Oh Grantaire."

"It is not yours to take," Grantaire murmured, his voice slurred. His eyes were closed. He did not seem wholly present.

"Neither are they your sins to carry!" Combeferre said, agitated. His fingers gripped at Grantaire's arms. "I would have some of your burden or have kept my own!"

A sound like a whine caught in Grantaire's throat. "I would not have that for you. For any of you."

"You think I would have it for you?"

"I...I do not apologize. I know you would bear them yourself. I know they are your sins and you would not..."

Combeferre pressed his forehead to Grantaire's. He held to him so tightly his knuckles were white. "Steady, R. Please. Come back to me for a little while longer."

Grantaire's eyes blinked open. His eyes remained black but he seemed behind them once more. Combeferre's face went soft and sad. He cupped Grantaire’s face in his hands, making him meet his eyes.

“There is no other I would trust with those parts of myself. None but you," Combeferre said. "As such, you are also the last person I would lay this burden upon. I would not condemn any to be judged for my failings in my place, least of all the one I love.”

Grantaire’s black eyes glinted and turned his head to kiss Combeferre's palm. “I have been long since damned, Combeferre. I was damned before you met me. I expect I would be damned even by what little I have taken tonight. If there is anyone in this wretched world I wish to spare from that, it is you.”

"And I never wished to be parted from you. No matter where it means I must follow," Combeferre said, fiercely. He sighed and pulled back to regard Grantaire longingly. "I wish it had been me your heart had so fixed upon."

“The outcome would not have changed,” Grantaire sighed. His voice was soft and, though present, he seemed a shadow of his normal exuberant self. "I am sorry that I was needed here, that I am so sure your rebellion will fail, but I cannot regret that it lead me to you. You must understand, there was never a future for me. I accepted my doom too long ago and I am so weary now. You must see that. You must see my own great sin. I have been weary for so long. I saw nothing but death when I was drawn here and I longed for it. You made me question that. You made me wish for so many silly things I knew I could not have. It is better that you were not where my heart first fixed; I would rather have it fixed upon you here, at the end.”

"I can only be glad it has fixed on me at all," Combeferre said. "I love you so, Grantaire."

"And I you," Grantaire said and he laughed, a quiet, almost sad little sound, but so much truer than Enjolras had often heard from him on the past. "Though I will never understand how you came to it, all the pieces that are left of my heart are yours."

"I thank you for trusting me with them," Combeferre said and kissed his mouth again. He did it slowly and with great intent until Grantaire had relaxed, had all be melted against him. Combeferre kept him there against him for long moments after they parted, his hand bracing Grantaire's back, the other stroking his hair. Grantaire's arms were curled around his waist, his head resting on Combeferre's chest. Slowly, they began to loosen and Grantaire's eyelids began to droop.

"You should rest," Combeferre said, as Grantaire's hands began to slip from his waist again. "You have taken too much today."

"I did not finish. There is more...Enjolras has never...I must..." Grantaire's words were badly slurred and he stirred but his movements were clumsy. He seemed half asleep already. Combeferre's touch remained gentle but it changed, became a little firmer, his voice more compelling.

"Shh, no, my beloved," Combeferre hushed, holding Grantaire so closely for a moment, Enjolras nearly lost site of the other man. "That is enough for now. You must rest. Tomorrow...tomorrow is another day."

Grantaire made a whining sound in the back of his throat. "No. There is no more..."

"You can do no more tonight. You will make yourself ill. You have stretched yourself too thin already. I never meant to add to..." Combe swallowed and kissed Grantaire's head. Grantaire had gone quiet, his hands tighter around Combeferre's waist. "You can do no more tonight and you know I speak the truth. You must rest and this is as safe as I can make you while we both remain here. Let us pretend it is enough and that we are at home and tomorrow Joly and Bossuet will be clamouring at the door if you are not there to meet them for breakfast."

Grantaire managed a weak chuckle; Combeferre an equally thin smile. His hand rubbed slow circles on Grantaire's back. "You have seen how cross they become with me if I keep you for myself too many mornings and poor Joly does not know what to do with himself when he becomes annoyed with a friend. No, I will have to be unselfish and deliver you to their breakfast table to spare us all. No doubt once you are there it will take hours before you will be parted. If Joly has no classes, you might while away half the day with them. Not on one of your grand explorations, I think — you will still be weary and they will be gentle with you in what they perceive as your melancholy — but at the breakfast table until it turns to lunch, drinking over dominos and gossiping of Marius' newfound love. They will have all sorts of theories and guesses about the girl, I imagine, and you will undoubtedly add to them, and when, one day, we should chance to meet her, all three of you shall claim to have been the most accurate in your predictions."

"You may even linger long enough that I shall come find you before you have said your farewells," Combeferre said and there was a very slight smile playing about his lips. "You may even draw me in for a time. I...I find it pleases me, to see you enjoying yourself with them. They love you so."

Grantaire made a soft noise. Combeferre bent to kiss his hair and rubbed the back of his neck. "Shh. You have done all you can, dearest. They are as safe as you can make them. You have always kept them safe, haven't you? You have been leaching the sins off them for years. I understand why you insist on paying such a price when I see you with them."

"But we are not talking of such things, are we? Forgive me, but I would draw you away from them eventually. You bring out the selfishness in me like no other. I hoard my time with you and I always come to want to have you all to myself. We shall have a meeting to attend, first, of course, but I will find you before it begins and whisper in your ear how I want you and try to keep you from an excess of your wine with my words. I am determined, so I will win our game tonight and when we depart, it will be together. It will be a clear night, I think, and you shall be set on strolling, as you so often are. You will keep me walking by the river much longer than I would usually dare, because I find it impossible to cease when we begin to speak. I will find myself wistful when it comes to an end, even when I succeed in leading you back to my lodgings, where I shall love you well, as you deserve, no matter the hour of our return."

Even from his place peeking through the door, Enjolras could see how Grantaire's head had grown heavy and his breathing had grown even and slow. Combeferre must know and yet he remained where he was, as if he could not let go. There was a glint in his eyes before he closed them, and bent to rest his head on top of Grantaire's.

"I would have a hundred tomorrows with you, my beloved, a thousand. There is so much I wish for us, for you," Combeferre said, eyes closed. "Would that all my wistful dreams come true! I would have taken you home, at the least. I wished so badly to see you there, away from all this, if you would have gone. If we had made the time. You...and others.”

He looked up then, to the door, and met Enjolras’ eyes and Enjolras knew that Combeferre had had him made from the very beginning. He made as if to leave but Combeferre shook his head. He laid Grantaire on the table gently, head pillowed on his arms. Grantaire stirred at the motion but Combeferre's hands on his back and stroking through his hair soothed him and he didn't wake. Combeferre tarried a moment longer, time enough to lay his jacket over Grantaire's shoulders and smooth a reverent hand over his hair, before straightening. He wiped his face and made for the door. He did not look back.

Enjolras stood but stayed where he was and met Combeferre's eyes evenly. "Com—"

"Let us speak downstairs. I do not wish to wake him," Combeferre said. He hesitated, then inclined his head: "Nor should I like to test my resolve."

Enjolras felt his mouth tighten in dismay — he should hate to lose Combeferre; he should hate it more to have him with his heart torn in two — and nodded. They did not speak as the descended the stairs. When he turned to look at him, Combeferre was wiping his face clear of tears again. Enjolras was full of questions but he caught Combeferre's arm. First, he needed to make himself plain.

"If it comes to it, you should take him and go. I would not fault you for it," Enjolras said, his voice firm, though his heart quailed at the very thought of Combeferre abandoning them. He forced himself to go on. "I would want it for you, dear friend, if you are in love..."

"I am. Please," Combeferre said, halting him. His voice was gentle but it was firm. "Please. I am resolved. We both are. We have chosen this path, though our expectations of the outcome are not shared. Do not tempt me from it when the decision is mine alone."

Enjolras tightened his grip and nodded. Combeferre put his hand on Enjolras' and squeezed tightly for a moment. "I am sorry I did not know."

Combeferre smiled, a small, sad thing. "You are my brother, Enjolras, but this is something I could not share. There was a fragility to it at first and then...forgive me, but there are many times you have been mistaken when it comes to Grantaire. He is often much more than he appears to be."

"He did not drink enough to warrant the state he was in," Enjolras observed, because that much was clear to him, but he could not keep the frustration out of his voice when he spoke of it. "What was he playing at?"

Combeferre grimaced and Enjolras looked away for a moment because that, that was why Combeferre had not spoken of it when he had lost his heart, and perhaps he had not been wrong to keep it secret, even amongst them. "I...apologize. What was he doing? I saw...His eyes appeared black in the light, such as I have never seen. I do not understand it. I have never understood why he remains here."

Combeferre laughed a little and Enjolras was relieved to hear it, strained though it might be. "The answer to the latter is simple. We are his friends. That is the only thing in the world for him. The former is less simple and you may choose not to believe it. What do you know of sin eaters?"

Enjolras frowned and shrugged. "Nothing. Folklore holds little appeal to me. I would assume from the name it has something to do with the eating of sins."

"Well extrapolated," Combeferre chuckled. "Your interests have always been...more intensely focused than mine — that is not a criticism — and I have read what I could on the subject now, though I admit I was only familiar with the concept in passing when we first spoke of it. To put it simply, a sin eater takes on the sins of others by breaking bread with them. The town fool or drunkard is traditionally cast in the roll, though I have begun to wonder — never mind, Grantaire is right in that we have little time for this — it is seem as symbolic, generally done near to or after death."

"A rural mourning ritual," Enjolras concluded. "I would not think Grantaire believed in such things."

"I doubt very much he would, if he were not a sin eater himself," Combeferre said flatly. Enjolras was not sure what face he made at the idea of that but Combeferre held his hand up to stop him from speaking. "Do not. I have said you may not believe it and I do not ask you to, but do not dismiss him out of hand before me. I believe him. I do not fully understand how it is possible nor why such a thing would be given to a man who despairs of the existence of God — or if it is not that living with such a burden causes the loss of belief — but I believe in all the possibilities of man. More than that, I have seen it. You have seen one of the physical changes that occur when he has pushed too far and taken too much. I have observed the toll it takes on him and the peace it gives those he relieves many times. He used to come to the hospital to share a sip of wine or water with the dying. I did not understand at first, I thought he could only be looking for Joly, but the changes it wrought on them, Enjolras! Those that died, died in a remarkable state of peace, but a number recovered when none who attended them believed they would. I observed him at his work for weeks before I broached the matter with him. Then, I merely wanted to understand, to see if there was a way to replicate the effects. He tried to explain, though it is difficult for him as he had very little information beyond what he instinctively knew he could do and I have since made my own study of it. I will admit that had I not seen the effect it had, or the toll it exacts from him, I may have been more skeptical but not to the exclusion of the possibility, I have always believed such things may be possible and the concept...I find it fascinating."

"And that is how you came to love him?" Enjolras asked. He did not understand it but he supposed it made sense that the easiest way to Combeferre's heart was by way of curiosity.

"No," Combeferre said. "No. I love him as he is, wholly, and have for some time. This is but a small part of that."

"For how long?" Enjolras asked. Combeferre's actions did not seem those of a new lover.

"How long have I admired him? I could not mark the moment, perhaps from the day we met; though it was clear to me there was nothing for it then. Loved? I gave myself over to loving him over a shared bottle of wine and a smile, near to three years ago. I found it reciprocated nearer to two," Combeferre said.

"Two years!" Enjolras exclaimed.

"Yes."

"Would that you had told me!"

Combeferre inclined his head and looked at Enjolras curiously. "What would it have changed? Should you have treated him better had you known he was my beloved? That does you no justice, nor would he have thanked you for hiding how you truly felt. Would you have discouraged me from pursing him? And it was I who pursued him. That would have only served to create a rift between us, one we could not afford."

"It does not matter what it would have changed. You are my dearest friend," Enjolras said. "I am glad to know you have loved and were loved in return."

Combeferre's face softened. Enjolras took a breath. "I would not have been so harsh with him, had I known he was more than a drunk and a cynic. I cannot abide by wasted lives!"

"Enjolras," Combeferre said, his voice a warning. "I loved him before I knew him as anything other than what you have seen before you and I love him still. No life is wasted, though not all fit your definition of usefulness."

Enjolras lips thinned but he nodded curtly. It was not an argument he would win. "I would like to have known him better, as you do."

To his surprise, Combeferre smiled. "I doubt that, my friend. You have never been one for all the ways I have known him."

Enjolras flushed slightly. Combeferre clapped him on the shoulder once and Enjolras relaxed a little, feeling that all was right between them again, at least. But then Combeferre's face fell and he glanced to the stairs again and Enjolras wondered if he might lose him yet.

Combeferre looked to him again. His eyes were sad and he squeezed his shoulder once. "He did not share a drink with you."

Enjolras blinked, taken aback. He tried to recall if he had ever broken bread with Grantaire or shared a glass of wine with him. Grantaire had offered, again and again, but Enjolras had never consented.

"He would be wroth with me if I did not tell you," Combeferre said. He swallowed once and his eyes never left Enjolras'. "If you go upstairs and wake him, he will beg you to share a mouthful of bread with him so he can take your sins and be judged for them as his own. He will beg you for them and then thank you for it after."

Enjolras shuddered to think of it. He could picture the expression on Grantaire's face, he had seen it before, though now he thought he understood it better. "Why tell me?"

"As I said, he would not forgive me if I did not. You discovered us, and more than that, you knew there was more than what you simply saw. You would have pressed and kept pressing. I respect you and love you so I have told you the truth; I respect and love Grantaire, so I must make his offer where he cannot," Combeferre said.

"You also know I will not accept," Enjolras said and, truly, the idea of another being judged in his place was appalling to him. As it would be to Combeferre. "Do you think, then, that we are doomed?"

"No, Enjolras," Combeferre said, smiling faintly. "Of course not."

"You spoke to him as if you agreed with his...opinions," Enjolras said, attempting to keep the distaste from his voice. "You...shared a drink with him."

Combeferre's face fell. "It is not worth the argument when he is so far gone into the despair of others. It is an argument we have had before. I do not wish to fight with him. Not know. Not when..."

Combeferre faltered and sighed deeply before continuing. "I believe we will be successful but wars such as ours always come with casualties. It is the cost of such things, as you well know. I may die; I have accepted that. But you must understand, I have made a thorough accounting of my sins and I have heard him speak of those he carries. If we should be struck down, if what I believe proves true, then we would be parted. I truly thought I had read enough, that I understood enough to take some of what he carries from him. I was willing, I understood what I was doing, I was sure it would work. Above all, I hoped to ensure we are not parted, no matter the cost, and now I am free of sin and he has added mine to his burden."

Enjolras did not know what to say. There was no comfort to be given, unless God proved merciful, and Combeferre would not hear it if Enjolras tried to spin him a pretty lie as Combeferre had done for Grantaire nor was Enjolras well versed at preaching what he did not believe. He clapped Combeferre on the shoulder instead and said: "Then we must win the day and give you time to discover how to absolve him of the sins he carries."

Combeferre smile was relieved, perhaps more relieved than Enjolras would have preferred. Surely, Combeferre did not think Enjolras would censure him these affections. It was Grantaire, yes, and they might not ever understand each other, but Enjolras would not begrudge Combeferre his love, nor Grantaire, nor any of them, really, though it vexed him when it interfered with their work. Enjolras did not understand it himself but saw in Combeferre — even in Marius, the besotted fool — the power of it.

"Thank you, my friend," Combeferre said. "I will — we will explain it as fully as we can, when there is time, I promise."

"Yes," Enjolras said. "I will look forward to it."

Combeferre's eyes lingered on the stairs for a moment as they exited and Enjolras made to stop but Combeferre shook his head and Enjolras did not make him speak of it again. He tried not to think of it, as he checked with the men and then went again himself to check on their position as the others slept.

It was all he could think about as he returned, angered by the way he dwelt on it, as if such a small tragedy could matter in the face of one so much larger: the other barricades taken or abandoned, the people asleep in their beds, tyranny allowed rank and rule once more.

He tried to corner Combeferre as they sent the men with dependants away, tried to tell him to take Grantaire and go. Combeferre was a son and a...a beloved both but he had made his decision and proved elusive in the moments Enjolras would have reminded him of his mother, pressed him back towards his love. He noticed, though, that Combeferre hesitated over his weapons, unwilling to waste the gift Grantaire had given him. His guns fell away from his hands and he made for the wounded, first theirs and then the guardsmen as they came over the barricade and Combeferre's training from the hospital took over. Enjolras saw him stumble from one body to the next, aiding where he could, unable to stop himself once he began. He bent to try and help a soldier and then...

And then...

Enjolras tried to reach him as the bayonets thrust, as they ran him through and Combeferre faltered. Fell. But he could not. Enjolras could not reach him. He could not reach any of them, his friends, his brothers, dying all around him. Bahorel first, then Jehan taken; the girl shot and Gavroche murdered. Then Combeferre and Joly and Bossuet and Courfeyrac and Feuilly, struck down in the fighting. Enjolras fought on, as they pushed him back and his gun jammed, his borrowed sword bent and broken. He did not think, as he retreated back into the Corinth, of anything but continuing to fight, but there was nothing left, nothing but himself and his resolve. His friends were dead. Only he remained with their ragged banner, trapped where they had once met, once spoken, once laughed together.

Only he could stand still and he did, now before the firing squad. Tall and proud and unflinching. He did not think of Grantaire or Combeferre or any of them when he refused the blind fold. He thought of them all, as a whole. There had not been a moment when he would have thought to accept it, he would die facing his foes, as his lieutenants had. That was his only thought, that he would die as they had, when a voice rang out from the back of the room.

"Vive le France! Long live the Republic! I am one of them!"

Grantaire had risen. Enjolras had forgotten him. His eyes were clear as crossed the room, his gaze never faltered as he came to Enjolras' side, came to stand with him, though Grantaire knew Combeferre was dead. Enjolras could see it. Grantaire knew they were all dead. Enjolras wondered if he had felt it or if he had always known they would come to this and allowed himself to love them all despite it.

Grantaire's eyes were clear and sad and full of love. He stayed because of love, Combeferre said, he would die because of his love for them. There was bravery in that, in him, either way. Grantaire had never believed in their aims or their cause. But he loved them. He loved them enough to choose to die with them.

He had always been one of them.

Enjolras would have liked to have known how it worked, he thought, why...why his eyes turned black, how much it hurt him, if all Combeferre said was true. He loved his friends, he loved them so, so dearly but Grantaire...he had not known Grantaire well, not as he deserved to be known, only poor shades of him. Enjolras thought now he would have liked to know him better.

"Finish us both with one blow," Grantaire declared and Enjolras was glad. He did not wish to die alone. He did not want Grantaire to die alone.

Grantaire's eyes were only hesitant when they turned to Enjolras and he asked, softly: "Do you permit it?"

Grantaire had taken no sin from him. Enjolras had never given him the opportunity. He did not know how harshly he would be judged for his sins — the death of the artillery sergeant writ large in his mind — nor how those Grantaire had taken would be tallied against him but he hoped...he hoped they might be together, whether they were given over to purgatory or Hell.

Enjolras took Grantaire's hand.

He hoped God was merciful in death. He did not want Grantaire to wander alone and lost through purgatory or worse. Enjolras hoped he might be permitted to accompany him, wherever he might go. He found he had no desire to be alone either.

Enjolras smiled at Grantaire, here at the end. He would like the chance to know Grantaire as he hadn't, if it was granted to him. He hoped...

"Fire!"

Shots filled the room once more. Then all was silent.