A/N: Okay, so, first Les Mis fic and first sort-of slash fic, all in one! Hope you all like it. :)
Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo, as I most certainly not male, French, and dead. (I think.)
The moment Gavroche announced Lamarque's death, Grantaire felt his stomach sink. Making his way over to the bar he grabbed himself a fresh bottle of wine before dropping down into the nearest chair, watching his friends start to run round making plans for the following day. He couldn't help but smile bitterly as he saw Marius's face light up when Eponine appeared, shaking his head sadly. Grantaire knew they were all deluding themselves. He wasn't the cynic they all accused him of being, instead he called himself a realist. If they dared take on the French army, they would lose. Marius had fallen in love too late to be able to do anything about it. Raising the bottle to his lips, he drank deeply, letting himself get steadily drunker as the night progressed, until he was finally slumped over the table, snoring quietly.
When Grantaire finally awoke, it was silence that had interrupted his sleep. Blinking, he blearily looked round, confused by the sudden lack of people surrounding him. A faint scratching sound confused him, until his vision cleared enough for him to see the figure sat at the far end of the room, writing away earnestly. Enjolras. Even when planning a revolution, and with only one day more to live, the revolutionist still couldn't find it in himself to ignore the homework set by his professors.
Standing, Grantaire swayed slightly but managed to stay on his feet long enough to reach Enjolras's table, collapsing onto a stool the moment he could.
"You should be in bed," he mumbled.
"So should you," Enjolras replied, not looking up from his work. Taking his chance when the student paused to think for a moment, Grantaire grabbed his hands and pulled them towards him, squeezing one slightly so the pen slipped from his grasp. "Grantaire, really?" Enjolras sighed as it hit the table, splatting part of his paper with ink. "I'll have to do that again now."
"Why are you bothering?" the drunk asked softly. "With this." He waved vaguely in the direction of his friend's work, pulling Enjolras's hand along with him as he did so. "I mean, Lamarque is dead. That's it. You would happily raise the barricades tomorrow and throw your life away. In fact you plan to!"
Enjolras raised his eyebrows slightly. "Watch out, Grantaire, you may actually make it sound like you care about something if you're not careful," he said dryly.
Grantaire was glad the room was empty as he jumped to his feet, letting go of his leader's hands just in time and running his own through his hair.
"And there's the funny thing. You still don't know why I'm even here." Watching him for a moment, Enjolras stood and walked round the table to join him.
"Good question," he said quietly, looking Grantaire in the eye. "Why are you here? You certainly don't believe in anything we talk about."
"No," he said firmly, shaking his head and repeating himself. "No. You can work that one out for yourself. You're the scholar after all." Taking Enjolras's hands again, he lifted them. "Look at the ink. A soldier doesn't have hands covered in ink, only a scholar or a schoolboy would have that. You cannot win this fight, you know that as much as I do." Hesitantly, Grantaire placed a gentle kiss against his fingers. "Don't play games you can't win, Enjolras."
"Is this all you think this is?" Enjolras errupted, pulling back sharply and janking his hands away, his temper rising so fast at the words that he barely even noticed Grantaire's actions. Grantaire almost flinched at the look of fury and scorn he was blasted with, a feeling of soberness leaking in as Enjolras continued to berate him. "Do you really think this is just a game for those with too much time and money on their hands? The people are suffering! They need our help! If you don't want to be a part of that, or if you cannot take this seriously, then you had best leave." His voice turned mocking. "Seeing as you fear death on our barricades."
"I would sooner die than walk away," Grantaire said simply, grasping Enjolras's hand again. "I'd hoped you'd know this by now." Glancing down, Enjolras breathed out, letting the contact dissolve the anger that had built up inside him. He sighed as he looked up to see the almost nervous look he was being given.
"Grantaire I-" He sighed again and pulled his hand away, turning to face the table and his work as he did so. "Get some sleep, 'Taire," he said, voice slightly muffled. "You'll need it."
Grantaire knew better than to try and continue the conversation, instead making his way back to his corner. He cared not if he died in clothes he'd worn for two days, and so he flopped back into a chair there, falling asleep to the quiet noise of Enjolras working the night away, a faint smile on his face due to the fact he'd finally been able to kiss his Apollo in some way.
Once again, it was the silence which awoke Grantaire. Real life flooded back into his mind quickly, and he groaned quietly at the thought of facing Enjolras after his drunken outburst in front of everyone at the barricade the night before. Why he'd decided to inform them of the pointlessness of their upcoming deaths was beyond him, he just knew that decision had made sense to him at the time.
Suddenly, he realised what the silence must mean. The battle was over. Leaping to his feet, Grantaire's cry of shock was muffled by the crash of his chair hitting the ground behind him. He stood there swaying for a moment, staring at his friends. Courfeyrac's eyes stared at him accusingly, as if it were his fault they were dead, that he may have been able to save them if he'd been awake and sober.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered, though whether it was at their deaths or guilt at the feeling of relief that Enjolras was not lying with them, he could not say. Hearing a faint creaking on the floor above, he practically threw himself at the stairs, desperate to know whether anyone was still alive and not even thinking of any soldiers who may be around. As he rounded the corner he stopped and clung onto the bannister, a wild look in his eyes as he stared across the room at Enjolras, who was surrounded by guns, his precious red flag clenched in his hands. Grantaire almost groaned again at the look in his eyes, for it was not only one of defiance but also slight fear, something Grantaire had thought was impossible for his friend.
Faintly in the background he heard a soldier say something and he moved before he could think things through, seeing only the panic, and - dare he admit it - slight relief, in Enjolras's eyes as the doomed leader caught sight of the drunk. Pushing his way through the soldiers, Grantaire shouted "Vive le Republic! I am with them," as he went, stopping as he reached his Apollo. "Do you permit it?" he whispered, the soldiers already fading away again as he looked straight into Enjolras's eyes. He got no reply, only a small nod. Smiling slightly, Grantaire slipped his hand into his friend's.
"Thank you," Enjolras said quietly, surprising Grantaire. He smiled back before raising their linked hands and brushing his lips softly over the back of Grantaire's. "And I understand."
Grantaire knew what he meant instantly, knew that the revolutionary leader who was the complete opposite of the nihilistic alcoholic had finally understood why he had stayed with the friends of the ABC. He had an overwhelming urge to kiss Enjolras and his grip tightened automatically, knowing it was too late.
The guns fired before either could move another inch. As he thudded to the ground, Grantaire's last thoughts were ones of happiness.
If I reach heaven, maybe there we can have a chance at love together...