Inspired by George Blagden's wonderful interpretation of Hallelujah, one of my favourite songs.
Please tell me your opinion!
I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord…
You've always lived in the shadows, you've never been free, your chains have been your alcohol, your music has been his voice, your breath has been the decadence and the filth and the numbness. And suddenly you can see the light of freedom and it's calling you to its embrace, but you are drunk and you've just woken up, and what is there to be done, what is there to be thought?
You are an intruder, and intruder who does not belong in here, you are a man who does not believe, you are a man without faith or conviction. What do you have to stand next to him? What do you own? Is there a heart in your chest, under the wine stained waistcoat?
You cannot think. Your head is aching and it's not. It's clearer than it's ever been before, you see the light and it's calling you, you see the white halo standing by the window, a few stray sunrays reflecting on gold locks, and your heart is racing but it isn't, because you don't have a heart now, do you?
Your heart is racing and you can feel your pulse in your ears but you can't hear anything, your ears are blocked, you just need to touch him, he needs you too, he needs you to be there.
Someone needs you, he needs you and it will be the first and last time such a thing can happen.
You only ask for permission. You are too afraid to disgrace a saint, to touch a holy cause with your filthy skin.
He smiles and your heart stops beating, it stops beating a second before you are even dead, because it forgets how to. His hand is wrapped around your own, and then light, so much light making its way out of your own body, you are blinded, there is an explosion of light but you can't hear and you can't see.
And then dark.
…But you don't really care for music, do you?...
Night has fallen and the Bacchus in the emerald green vest raises his head and fixes his eyes on the concentrated leader, who is the only one left in the overall deserted café, deciding to allow himself to get a little more drunk than he already was, with the sight of the Godly man's features under the effect of the candlelight. "I would offer to buy you a drink if I didn't know you are too much occupied with changing the world."
Enjolras raises his tired eyes from his book but they don't meet the drunkard's ones. "Are you laughing at me?"
"No, mon ami,not at all, after all we happen to share this specific ambition."
"Is that so? I thought your only ambition was to fill your veins with enough alcohol to make you lose any contact with your surroundings."
Grantaire grins enigmatically, examining the content of his glass. "Exactly, that's the reason I drink in first place! So that the world that surrounds me can change entirely in my eyes, thus my soul won't ache for being painfully despised and woefully ignored by the leader of our revolution. You see now, Enjolras, we doshare the ambition to change our world!"
…It goes like this, the fourth, the fifth…
Enjolras tidies a pile of papers in front of him. "Be honest R, is there anything in this world which can affect you or make you feel ashamed? Can your soul actually hurt? I was under the impression that you lack a soul."
Grantaire, always with the same bitter smile on his face, gets up, a quite thoughtless decision, concerning that he obviously experiences difficulty to keep his balance. "Hardly,m'sieur.However incomparably clever you might be, as much as your speeches may inspire even the coldest of minds, you do possess the ability, or rather the talent, of making mistakes. Thinking this world may be changed with your sacrifice is one. Thinking that I don't have feelings is another."
"Freedom is the power to choose our own chains,said Rousseau, therefore I have the right to choose my chains, Grantaire, and I choose to be sacrificed for this land, for my principles, for République,even if a winesack as you finds it all very amusing." Enjolras finally raises his head, and faces the drunk man with an inexplicable expression, that one could even call painful.
Grantaire's calm smile grows bigger, as he rests on a wall. "A winesack indeed. But as your beloved Jean-Jacques also had said, I may not be better, but at least I'm different!"
"Nonsensical, that's what you simply are. And you terribly frustrate me."
"Peut-être."Grantaire shrugs his shoulders. "If you'll excuse me now, Apollo, it could only be wrong of me to be bothering you all this time. I hope you'll generously forgive me, but if you don't, you will at some part, for I do not promise to relieve you from my presence, not unless you ask me to." And with that he turns away and walks to the door.
The blond man is resting his forehead in his palms. He is staring at the table without really managing to look, with a frown on his face that makes him look like a stubborn gamin trying to find a way to be fed for the day. He turns his head to the drunkard's direction. "What keeps you coming here, R? You don't believe in all this. You don't believe in revolution."
Grantaire stops, a new smile appearing on his face when he hears the one he admired addressing him. He slowly turns around, tottering in an unexpectedly classy manner. "Why, Apollo, I can't think of a place I would rather be!"
Enjolras is unconsciously crinkling a piece of paper in his fist. "I don't understand." Says he.
"There is wine here, there is Joly to amuse me with his hypochondria, Courfeyrac who is kind enough to remind me when to change a vest after being hung over, there is Combeferre to make me feel ashamed, Prouvaire to remind me how my life could be and Bossuet to remind me how my life is not. There are Bahorel and Feuilly whom I can understand even when my brain is not functioning properly, and then there is you, mon ami!"
"Really?" Enjolras surely wishes that his voice would come out to sound more disapproving than it actually does. "And what did I do to you, as all our other amis surely have some effect on your existence?"
Grantaire half closes his eyes, trying to focus his drunken mind to the face of the young leader, to his troubled figure lighted by the faint candlelight. He sighs, as if he is about to explain something patently obvious to a curious child. "That's easy to answer, my dear Apollo! You exist to make me drink even more!"
The minor fall, the major lift…
Enjolras' fingers are tangled in his own golden locks. "Damn you, Grantaire, I've had enough of that, why don't you go and mock a girl willing to run after your silk yet wine stained cravat instead?"
…The baffled king composing Hallelujah…
Grantaire makes a sound of ignorance. "Because there isn't such a girl around, that's the most satisfying answer I can provide you with for the time being." He waves his hand. "Goodnight dearest, we will meet again tomorrow, for now I feel obliged to leave you alone in Patria's welcoming bosom!"
And with that, the drunk man walks away.
Your faith was strong but you needed proof…
The beautiful man raises a shaking hand, and his fingertips touch the drunkard's unshaven cheek. They both forget how to breathe as their eyes are locked together.
Grantaire is certain that he is hallucinating, the green fairies have taken over his mind once again, for it is impossible that he is in the empty café Musain with Enjolras, and that it's his leader's touch that has his stomach tied into a heavy knot, he doesn't understand, he is unable to tell what's happening and how it's happening.
Enjolras is holding his breath. As much as Grantaire is startled and stunned, Enjolras is even more confused and incredulous. Drinking has granted Grantaire with passivity towards everything which seems out of the ordinary. The cynic can welcome a fairytale with more ease than the visionary is able to, even though Enjolras is a dreamer, far from down to earth. He doesn't have the faintest idea of what exactly is happening to him, he doesn't know why two men who always find more pleasure in arguing with each other than in remaining quiet, are now silenced in a devout way, staring at each other with bewilderment.
"I am bemused." Enjolras' voice comes out hoarse, as his fingertips softly brush on the other man's cheek, and touch a dark lock of his hair. "I don't understand."
"I should be the one to understand better than you, as it is my dream we are living in, but I feel the need to apologize, because I probably know even less than you do."
"Why do you never make sense?" a wave of air brushes Grantaire's face and makes him shiver.
…You saw her bathing on the roof…
"Because I am dreaming, Enjolras. Dreams do not make sense."
"This is not a dream." Enjolras whispers. "We are awake, I can assure you on that." His fingers get tangled in Grantaire's hair. "I… I don't know. I am sorry. I cannot control…"
"Be silent." Grantaire's voice can barely be heard as his hand reaches for the fingers on his hair. Their skins make contact and they both shiver. "Make no sound."
…Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you…
"I can't." mutters Enjolras, his pale skin flushed like he suffers from a fever. "I need to know."
"Ask me what you need to know about and I promise that I shall try my best to help you out of your ignorance."
"Will you tell me?"
"Anything." Grantaire's own fingertips are now resting on the hollow of Enjolras' soft neck. He can feel his pulse against his heated skin. "Anything for you."
"Tell me why. Tell me why you are here. Why… why do you look at me that way? I have tried to read your eyes so many times in the past, my attempts have always failed miserably. What do you see in me, Grantaire?"
Grantaire lowers his glance, his heart is racing. "I would plead you to take a seat."
Enjolras obliges, he cannot feel his legs very steady in first place. He makes a step back and lets his body fall on a chair.
…She tied you to a kitchen chair…
"In you I see what I lack. In your passion I see the light a blind man seeks for. In your fervent glance I see the faith I cannot find. In your beauty I see a reason to beg for oblivion, yet to keep struggling for survival. But ask me to die and I will. You will have me, breathless soul, motionless body, bleeding breast, you will have it all if can be of any help to you."
"How can you possibly die, Grantaire? How can you tell me you will sacrifice yourself for me? You don't even believe in our cause, in our principles, in what we're fighting for. You speak of faith but you do not have any, this is a paradox."
"I have faith in you."
"That is not enough."
"I would die if you asked me."
"That hardly gives me any satisfaction."
"You are marching to your death, Enjolras. Allow me to walk with you."
"How could I, possibly? You do not believe."
"I believe in you."
Their eyes were locked together and their breathing was rugged.
"I do not understand."
"Ask me no more, Enjolras. These are words that shan't be spoken, only felt."
…She broke your throne, and she cut your hair…
"Show me some way to feel them, if that is the case." Enjolras' voice is barely louder than a whisper, and Grantaire leans forward, over the sitting man. He takes Enjolras' hand in his own, and before any of them has realized what is happening, he is pressing it on his chest, right over his heart.
Enjolras once again loses his breath, as he feels the frantic heartbeat against the emerald waistcoat and the wrinkled blouse. His own heart catches on his throat, he raises his head and stares at the man who is leaning above him. Grantaire's blue eyes are glowing, his lips are dry and a vein is visibly pounding on the hollow of his neck. Enjolras closes his eyes and he feels Grantaire taking his other hand in his own and bringing it to his lips. He places a soft kiss on his palm and Enjolras lets a low sigh.
"Allow me to die with you." The other man's breath brushes gently against his hand as he speaks. "Ask me, it's all that it will take from you. Your permission is all I am asking for."
Enjolras tries to catch his breath. Eyes are locked together, ice and fire, sun and moonlight. "Give me a reason to trust you. Prove me that it's worthy." Enjolras breathes.
And then Grantaire's dry lips are softly pressed on his burning ones, his hand finds it way on the nape of his neck, their heartbeats are irregular yet synchronized, and Enjolras does not understand, he does not understand because he is unable to think, for once he can think nothing but the warmth of those lips against his own, the callused fingers against his skin, the scent of wine and sweat in the oxygen they exchange.
And then Grantaire pulls away, and walks outside the café, without turning back for a last glance.
…And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Enjolras can sense his blood pounding in his veins, the blood which has now colored slightly his usually pale, marble cheekbones, producing a sight of him that is even more stunning than what his friends and certain hopeless seamstresses have ever witnessed in the past. His delicate yet strong fingers are clutching on Grantaire's shirt and he can feel the drunkard's heart hammering with guilt and terror against it, as he pressed him to a wall.
"You have been trying for a long time to achieve such a thing, and I must congratulate you on the case in which you have finally succeeded", he hisses, sending a warm breeze of air on the other man's face. "You've made me feel like an utter fool, Grantaire." He pronounces the name not differently than a vulgar swear. "I've been a fool for trusting you."
Grantaire's breathing is rugged, yet he is calmer than any other man in his state would be, eternally the same, refusing to ever show any passionate sentiment, whether that should be called fear or enthusiasm, for anything apart from alcohol. However, if anybody could be inside that confused, drunken mind, he would only meet disgust, complete, endless disgust which Grantaire felt for himself, horror for the realization that he had failed again, and for that fact that the other man had him pressed on a greasy wall, sending shivers down his spine. "You have only done your duty as a leader: you have given a lost cause a second chance. That doesn't make you a fool. Nothing could ever make you a fool." He breathes.
"Damn you!" shouts Enjolras, in a rage his amishad rarely witnessed. "Do you have the cheek to keep laughing at me, at all of us? Do you think this is a game of dominoes? Do you think all this is a fairytale, a… a vivid dream of absinthe, do you think that messing around with our cause, wasting our time, do you think that makes you more amusing,more of a bon vivant,do you think that such actions will make you look more charming in seamstresses' eyes?"
Grantaire waits until Enjolras is quieted in order to seek for some oxygen, his fingers still clutching on his shirt. Then he speaks gently, quietly, an expression of sincere regret on his usually cynic face. "I have even disappointed myself, but little do I care about the guilt my abhorrent being bears at the moment. What I cannot get over is the fact that I have disappointed you –failed you-again. I'm sorry."
Enjolras clenches his fist, looking ready to hit him, but after taking a few deep breaths, he eventually releases him. "For once in our life we agree. You have disappointed me. Again."
"I'm sorry", is all that Grantaire can repeat, never letting the shame that's burning his insides to force him to take his brave, expressionless eyes from Enjolras' bright ones.
"I must ask you to leave. You can't continue on our cause without caring for it. Why did you take such a responsibility today, Grantaire? Why are you still here? Do you know that we may sacrifice our lives, fighting for our principles?"
"I am very well aware of the fact, monsieur, I'm positively sure that the people of Paris, despite their interest in your beliefs, will let you down in the end. I'm waiting for my end patiently, like a loyal Penelope waiting for her Odysseus."
"The people of Paris will come to our side, whether that ruins your plans or not, Grantaire!" spits Enjolras. "And still, I refuse to let you die without caring, disgracing our venture for freedom with your blood."
"However filthy one may be, Apollo, he always has the right to choose how to die." Grantaire's words are unusually sharp and cool.
Enjolras looks back, and makes a few steps away, then turns around and sighs. "I never called you filthy. You could achieve such great things, you could be so useful indeed, so helpful, if you only believed in anything but wine… I don't know how you live, I don't know what keeps you in life, other than a seemingly beating heart, a heart that beats for nothing but indifference."
Grantaire raises his eyes which had rested on the ground for a while and smiles slightly. "Love, I daresay. Are you aware of the definition of this word, my leader?"
Enjolras freezes in his position for a few seconds, then chuckles bitterly. "Me? Are you asking me whether I know what love means? That you should ask yourself! Do you consider love what you feel, not even for naïve females, but more particularly for a glimpse of their stockings?"
"Invocation at the moral of the enemy." Grantaire has suddenly found his sarcastic grin again. "Mon cher ami, you have only bothered to accuse me of such trivial displays of love, but you have forgotten that the question was firstly addressed to you. Do you know what love is?"
"I love democracy." Enjolras' now fervent voice reminds Grantaire of his usual cordial speeches. "I love liberty, I love freedom, I love my Patria." One stray sunray of the twilight lights his gold hair, the golden buttons of his Robespierre vest, the veins in his arms were visible as he clenched his fist tightly; he is more inhuman than he's ever been in the past. He has Sun for a father and Earth, the Earth of France, for a mistress, a terribly enviable one.
Grantaire doesn't realize a serene smile appearing on his face. "Of course you do." Says he, in a tender voice. "But Patria is insincere, Enjolras, she is ungrateful and she will keep deceiving you. She will never appreciate your efforts, your struggle, the devotion of your heart, no matter how much of your blood you spill upon her skirts. Patria has no eyes for you…"
"…And yet you'll keep attempting one suicide after the other for her eyes because you have no mind, principles have taken over it as much as wine has taken over mine, and Patria is glorious…"
"Ever the witty one, Grantaire!" shouts Enjolras. "Thou have a talent with words, and then people praise my ability for speeches! Although I shan't be persuaded, as you clearly have not the faintest idea of what you're talking about, and that is because you haven't experienced all these feelings, you don't know how this is, because you have no Patria! You are more than welcome to come and find us if you ever find one. Until then, you deserve no respect of ours."
Grantaire is staring at a coin he had softly been kicking with the tip of his scruffy boot. He remains silent for an instant, and then raises his head and offers his leader a tender smile for once again. "For the second time in such a short period of time, you have terribly disappointed me for being woefully mistaken. I know very well what I am talking about. I do have a Patria." His hand reaches for Enjolras' one, causing him to flinch in surprise. "And my Patria is you."
Then, he gently leads Enjolras' hand to his lips, and presses them on the pale fingers. Before Enjolras can manage to remember how to breathe, Grantaire lets his hand fall down, puts his own in his pocket and walks away, leaving the younger man alone, standing there, at the Barriere du Maine.
Back at his untidy, small apartment, Grantaire falls on his knees and look under his bed in order to find a dusty bottle of absinthe he had been keeping for emergency situations. He rests his back upon the door and strokes the foggy glass. The first drops that fills his body and spirit, make him sigh in relief.
He was going to die for Enjolras anyway, on some sort of miserable barricade; therefore it wouldn't make any difference if he allowed his Apollo to keep killing him softly on every occasion, on each passing day…
Baby I have been here before…
He's had so much to drink. So much he doesn't know where Enjolras came from, he doesn't realize how he got in his room, he doesn't remember what they talked about, how they looked at each other, he doesn't have the faintest idea of the way they ended up kissing on his own bed. Grantaire has drunk so much and the room is spinning around him, but what he doesn't know is that it's spinning around Enjolras too. Enjolras is drunk, but not with wine.
…I know this room, I've walked this floor…
Enjolras knows even less than Grantaire does. He doesn't know what's happening to him, he doesn't know why it is a man his lips are pressed upon, not a woman; a man. A man who he terribly despises, a man who deceived him and betrayed him, a man who stinks of brandy, a man who feels like heaven against his hands.
Little they know and little they care about. All that matters is the breaths they exchange, the oxygen they lack, the mass of limbs and legs on the bed, the struggle and the fight, the noise of the fabrics of their clothes, the grunts and the hisses.
They need some air but the kiss shan't be broken. Their lips are pressed so fiercely together, their tongues are dancing frantically and perfectly synchronized, Enjolras is determined not to leave any corner inside Grantaire's mouth untasted yet they cannot breathe, they have to breathe but they forget how to. Enjolras' palm is on Grantaire's nape, then fingers tangled in black locks and he pulls his head away, they break the kiss and stare at each other, hungry for some air but even hungrier for swollen lips. Enjolras leans for another kiss but Grantaire's fingers push his head back and expose his pale, visibly pulsating neck. He is a true Greek God, and Grantaire is pressing his lips on the cord, feeling the irregular throbbing against his teeth, as he tastes the sweaty, salty, precious skin. His fingers grasp the collar of the white shirt and they pull it as though it will obey and open itself. He groans hungrily and pulls away from the other man's neck, his shaking hands trying to release him from the waistcoat.
…I used to live alone before I knew you…
Enjolras is a man able to willingly seek for sobriety of any kind. His fingers are steady as he unbuttons the waistcoat and then unties his cravat. Grantaire struggles with his own shirt, but his movements are clumsy and the sight of Enjolras' marble body makes the room spin around him even more. Enjolras is impatient, he throws Grantaire back on the bed and fights with his braces and with the buttons on his trousers. His shirt is now unbuttoned, one hand of Enjolras is pressed upon his bare chest and the other is pinning his wrist back on the bed. He is half naked and he feels exposed, but he can only let a moan as Enjolras' teeth are pressed on the skin of his throat.
"Please, Enjolras…" begs Grantaire.
"Don't say a single word." Hisses Enjolras against his skin, as his hand makes its way to the hard bulge on his trousers. "The things I would do to you… The things I would say to you, were you worthy, Grantaire. The things you'd be capable of, should you set yourself free from the chains of your misery…" Every word was a new collision in Grantaire's chest.
"I'm sorry." Is the only thing he manages to say, under the leader's painful touch.
"Prove it. Prove me that you're worthy."
"Anything." He moans, as Enjolras pulls his trousers lower and takes him in his hands hungrily. Grantaire has to clutch on the sheets, his heart is ready to erupt out of his chest. "Anything for you."
"Speak no more. Take me, Grantaire. I'm foolish and I'm breathless and I'm painfully yours."
He needs not to ask a second time. They are naked and Grantaire's hands are on his hips, his body is that of a marble statue, his hair are made of stray gold sunrays and all the drunkard can do is try to touch every heated inch, make him moan until he has no breath left as he takes him in his hand, a proper prequel of a revolution taking place on a bed, clothes spread on the floor like a barricade and a red waistcoat on top, a true flag painted with passion, painted with the blood pounding still in their veins.
…I've seen your flag on the marble arch…
And they grunt and they groan and their breathing is rugged and their heartbeats irregular, they couple by the candlelight, sharing their most intimate sweat and the most shaking touches, it's a war yet it's an apology at the same time, hips moving frantically, lips tasting every hollow, every corner, every wrinkle. And they shake, they shut their eyes in ecstasy, or rather Enjolras shuts them, for Grantaire cannot spare a second of not staring at his Apollo, he's too afraid that with a single blink of his, he will wake up from a vivid dream, the most real yet the most extraordinary dream he's ever had in his life.
...Love is not a victory march…
They moan, they sigh and they collapse, Grantaire's hand still on Enjolras' manhood, as he reaches for a cloth to clean them both up, and he can't breathe, his knees are shaking, his stomach is light and all he can do is stare at the perfect body laying on his bed, the pale chest rising and falling, the damp gold locks spread on his pillow, and all he can say is "I wish I was sorry." And Enjolras says "I'm not." And they aren't, because why do you need a heart if it never tries to erupt out of your chest, and why does the world go round if it isn't to make your head spin violently with it?
…It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
There was a time when you let me know…
Grantaire opens his eyes and he doesn't need to turn his head to the window, even when it's such a beautiful morning of June, because he is laying on bed with Sun himself, legs tangled and arms wrapped around each other. Apollo is stunning, his eyes are closed and he sleeps peacefully, he smells sweetly, of morning and sweat and revolution. Grantaire could stare for hours, but Enjolras opens his eyes. Blond locks are blocking them and Grantaire's hand brushes them away from his face as Enjolras stretches his body, looking innocent and young, extremely different from the usual terrible revolutionary. He rests his head on his chest, feeling the peaceful yet strong heartbeat against it, and his fingers trail circles on the hollow between Enjolras' stomach and thigh. Half the blond man's body is wrapped with the white sheet, and Grantaire thinks that he couldn't look more than a marble statue of the Greeks, pale chest and firm hips and strong arms around his own body.
"Did you sleep well?" he hears the man mutter sleepily, and feels his chest tremble as he speaks.
"That night's sleep was definitely precious, but one cannot compare it to the perfection of opening my eyes and staring at your sleeping form."
"I highly doubt that my sleeping form is any more interesting than my woken one. I'm hardly of any use when I sleep."
"Allow me to differ. Closed eyes, heavy eyelids, a slight joyful smile… what were you dreaming of, Enjolras? Did your Patria pay you a visit while you were in Morpheus arms?" Grantaire raises his heads and their eyes meet. "Or was there an intruder in your revolutionary dreams tonight? Should one keep any hope?"
…What's really going on below…
Enjolras' fingertips caress Grantaire's cheek. "Revolution and you are quite the same thing." Says he, his voice raw and deep from sleep.
Grantaire's stare is incredulous. "How can that be? I am hardly a revolutionary myself. I am a cynic and you have been calling me a drunkard ever since I met you. I fail to notice similarities of any kind between me and your precious cause."
Enjolras examines his features. Grantaire is considered to be ugly, and for the first time the young man fails to understand the reason. Blue eyes that stare with devotion and adoration cannot be described with any word less than breathtaking. Wild curls and unshaven cheeks, curvy neck and thin lips, lips capable of the most horrible of sounds, of the most piercing of words, yet for once, the only thing they are capable of doing to Enjolras is to fascinate him and to cause him to sigh in ecstasy as they brush against his heated skin. Pale shoulders and strong chest from the boxing classes, all Enjolras can think of is spreading kisses on every bare inch.
"You both are in some way, my causes. You both are challenges. I must win you just as much as I have to win my crusade, if I fail, then I shall die for you as much as I shall die for it."
Grantaire's heart is racing. Enjolras can feel it, their bare chests are pressed together, fingers wrapped and eyes locked. "You have already won me, Enjolras." He mumbles hoarsely.
"I have won your body. Now I have to fight for your soul."
"I have no soul. You have said that yourself in the past."
"I feel it as a duty of mine to help you to see, to believe and to feel."
"I'm already capable of feeling. You were the one who needed my help on that."
"You have shown me your ways. Allow me to show you mine."
…But now you never show it to me, do you?
Enjolras leans for a kiss and Grantaire welcomes it without a second thought. Relief is warm and soft for their lips and they let a small sigh, as they embrace each other slowly, carefully, as if they get together for the first time, as if they meet from the beginning. Grantaire throws his weight over Enjolras' body and his hands start caressing his exposed skin. He feels his tensed muscles relaxing under his touch, and he pulls away. Enjolras' eyes are shut and he doesn't open them, not when Grantaire's hands find their way to his hips, under the sheets, not when the cynic's lips are pressed on the cord of his throat, not when he feels his tongue on his nipple. He accepts the need of the worshiper to praise the body he believes in, and hungrily sucks every second.
Grantaire raises his eyes. Enjolras feels quite irritated and he wants to ask for the reason he stopped, but Grantaire speaks. "Did you speak truly?" he asks. "Would you be willing to die for me?" Because that is wrong. It is the other way round. I will always be the one to die for you.
"I will die for every soul that can be saved, for every soul which would beg me to be free."
Grantaire's heart doesn't sink. He doesn't mind that he is just another soul which ought to be saved, he doesn't care for not being special, that's much more than he ever excepted to hear, and his heart is pounding in his head. They kiss a little more and Grantaire's hands wander below Enjolras' waist, they travel on his hips again and he moves on his side.
"Will you permit me?" he asks. And he's asking much more than Enjolras understands. Will you permit me to join you? Will you permit me to seek for forgiveness? Will you permit me to embrace your acceptance? Will you permit me to love your unconditionally? Will you permit me to stand by you? Will you permit me to die by your side?
And remember when I moved in you…
Enjolras simply permits Grantaire to have him, and that's enough for now.
…The holy dove was moving too…
The rest is lost in a haze of grunting, gasping, breathing, in a chaos of sweat, sheets, aching limbs, swollen lips and damp curls.
Grantaire wishes to say I love you, but he isn't worthy to feel that way. Men make sacrifices for the Gods they believe in, but Gods usually cease to take notice of them. Men always keep believing, and that's enough.
For as long as they breathe, it's enough.
…And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
The drunkard clenches his bottle on his hand, his head is spinning around and he welcomes the feeling eagerly, it is particularly familiar to him and he would replace it with nothing else, the oblivion the wine provides him with, it's precious and necessary and relieving.
He goes on with his nonsensical rambling, and for once he has almost forgotten Enjolras' presence, as much as he has forgotten anything that surrounds him.
'I am the capitoul and the master of the floral games!'
Enjolras is standing on the crest of the barricade and the disgusted look on his face does not take any of the glory of his features, the gun in his hand doesn't make him any less terrible than, but he looks even more beautiful, a true Ares, the God of war, who fights like Athena, for freedom and for liberty. He looks ready to perish, and that gives an even stronger spiritual glance in his eyes, someone could say he's already an angel, even before having left his final breath.
'Grantaire,' he shouts, 'go get rid of the fumes of your wine somewhere else than here. This is the place for enthusi asm, not for drunkenness. Don't disgrace the barricade!'
Grantaire greets the sobriety which suddenly hits him as a result of their leader's very words with an expression of pain in his face and a pang in his chest.
He sits down, puts his elbows on a table near the window, looks at Enjolras with indescribable gentleness, and says to him:—
'Let me sleep here.'
'Go and sleep somewhere else,' cries Enjolras.
But Grantaire, still keeping his tender and troubled eyes fixed on him, replies:—
'Let me sleep here,—until I die.'
Enjolras regards him with disdainful eyes:—
'Grantaire, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.'
Grantaire replies in a grave tone:—
'You will see.'He stammers a few more unintelligible words, then his head falls heavily on the table, and, as is the usual effect of the second period of inebriety, into which Enjolras had rough ly and abruptly thrust him, an instant later he has fallen asleep. Les Miserables, Victor Hugo Book XII, Corinthe Chapter III, Night Begins to Descend Upon Grantaire
Maybe there's a God above…
He wakes up with a horrible taste in his mouth, and he looks around, bleary eyed, dizzy, unable to immediately understand what is happening around him. He finds that the table he had fallen asleep on, is the only one left, probably too small to be of sufficient use for the barricade. With one single look around him, as he raises his head from the wood, he can notice the corpses of his friends, his friends who have no more life left in them, no more air to breathe, no more voice to sing like they did only a few hours ago. They left their final breath in the very café they planned their revolution in. Grantaire knew that place better than he knew his own apartment. If he could only breathe his own life in them, and they could open their eyes, they would recognize it as well.
And then he sees his Apollo standing by the window, veins visible on his bloody fingers as they clench around a red flag, his very flag of freedom, the only weapon which has been left to him. Enjolras has offered his breast nobly, he is already dead but he'll never be lifeless, not even when the bullets pierce his flesh and cover his waistcoat with the burning blood of revolution. He cannot allow Enjolras to be shot, he cannot sit and stare.
If there is such a thing as God, it's too late for Grantaire to believe.
… But all I've ever learned from love…
Grantaire's heart is racing in his chest as he tatters towards the other man, the national guards not having noticed him yet.
"Long live the Republic! I'm one of them."
Grantaire has been living in the shadows, but suddenly his very own chains set him free, his heart is light as he crosses the room with a firm stride and places himself in front of the guns beside Enjolras.
… Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you…
"Finish both of us at one blow," says he.
And turning gently to Enjolras, he says to him:
"Do you permit it?"
All the dunk man can hear is the pounding of his heart in his head, one beat after the other, abnormal, uneven, strong enough to cover everything else in their surroundings. His icy blue eyes lock with the dark ones which belong to the leader. His heart is beating way too fiercely, he wishes it will stop, or it will soon explode out of his chest.
Enjolras presses his hand with a smile.
… It's not a cry you can hear at night…
And then his heart stops beating, even before the report resounds. It stops because it forgets how to continue, as he feels the bloody, clammy fingers of Apollo wrapped around his own.
Does he believe? He does not know. He believes in Enjolras. Does he believe in revolution? He does not know. He believes in freedom though, he finally believes in freedom, because only now he can be free. If there is a God above, he feels the warmth and the acceptance in His embrace, because he has all the faith of the world to give, all the faith he hasn't given all these years.
…It's not somebody who has seen the light…
It stops, and there is light, so much light, not blinding the man anymore, but instead showing him the way, because he had been blind all along.
Grantaire needed Enjolras as much as a blind man needs the light.
And then dark.
…It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Enjolras, pierced by eight bullets, remains leaning against the wall, as though the balls have nailed him there. Only, his head is bowed.
Grantaire falls at his feet, as though struck by a thunderbolt.