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Enjolras was vaguely aware, as he eyed the drunkard’s antics in the corner, and chose to reprimand him, that he was being somewhat callous. But he was not pleased with the frequent comparisons to tyrants, whether they be human or divine, and his patience had long since evaporated. Time was becoming increasingly precious, and he did not enjoy having it wasted.
As the Corinthe’s relative silence resumed in the absence of R’s ramblings, Enjolras cast bullets until Combeferre joined him.
“That was rather severe of you, my friend,” Combeferre remarked. Enjolras had no doubt what he was referring to.
“It was honest of me, citizen,” Enjolras replied, “I can no longer afford to be kind to someone who has contributed very little indeed, if anything at all to our cause, and yet continues to consume our resources.”
Combeferre did not so much as hesitate, “Perhaps not, but he is here all the same. Though you may not tolerate him, the others certainly do, and may not overlook your brusque behavior so easily as I.”
Enjolras hardly considered this before saying, “I need not care what the others think of me, so long as they’ll continue to fight for our freedom.”
“Regardless, it will do you no good to say regretful things in an hour so close to death,” Combeferre remarked.
“My apologies, but I do not require your council at this time, Combeferre, unless it be of our revolution. Have you anything relevant to report?”
Ignoring this, Combeferre continued, “May I have your permission to be blunt?”
Enjolras sighed, not pausing, “You’ve not required it before.”
“Your detachment from sympathy for individuals is the exact behavior that causes him to compare you to stone-cold, uncaring statues and gods. You would do well not to forget that.”
At this, Combeferre departed, leaving Enjolras alone with his thoughts, though he would not have time to dwell on them for long.
Enjolras was finally cornered, ready for the shots to fire out. His may be a hollow death, but it would be purposeful. He held his head high and stared his fate down the barrel.
A soldier asked if he killed the artillery sergeant. Affirmative. Enjolras was many things here, but a liar was not one of them. Even so, there would be little reason to lie this late. He could at least die with the dignity of honesty.
The militia levelled their rifles once again, and Enjolras watched them, eyes wide open. He clutched his empty rifle to his chest, his chin raised in defiance. Enjolras was completely ready to die here, alone.
“Long live the Republic! I’m one of them,” shouted a familiar voice, one which Enjolras knew had never before sincerely uttered those words. With surprise, he watched R stumble just once over a corpse on the floor as he strode across the battered room. The words You will see from mere hours– days?– prior rang through his mind.
“Long live the Republic!” R repeated, no less sincere, and with a clarity Enjolras had never once heard from him before. Stunned, Enjolras stared as their transfigured drunkard continued to cross boldly to his side.
At the unwavering confidence of the words, “Finish both of us at one blow,” Enjolras’ breath was stolen from his lungs. There was a gravity as the words grounded them in reality, unlike any he had heard from Grantaire’s lips before. Lips which had oft pontificated of gods and fantasy and the uselessness of ideals, lips which elevated Enjolras himself to exaggerated, undeserved an unparalleled heights, lips which drained bottle after bottle of absinthe, producing little but bouts of intoxicated delirium.
A man with a tongue often used to cut Enjolras’ pride, or bolster it with false praises, now imbued his words with a confidence Enjolras had never once seen; not in Combeferre, not in Jehan, not even in Lamarque.
“Do you permit it?” he asked, impossibly soft, a question shared only between the two of them. It was a request— perhaps the first and only honest one that R had ever asked of him, though Enjolras had no way of being sure.
R met his eyes with a gentle air, something he had not spared the soldiers the moment before, and suddenly Enjolras understood.
In those spoken words, there was a choice.
A hot wave of something flashed over Enjolras, perhaps shame that this was the culmination of his months’ work— a corner of a ruined wine shop that could have become something much greater— perhaps pride that he was so adored that one would die for him and him alone, perhaps guilt for the same reason.
The look in his eyes was determined, strong, but looking deeper, it pleaded something of Enjolras, a request only Enjolras could fulfill. Seeing them hardly made it a choice at all.
Enjolras took R's hand, a final sign of peace, of solidarity, of unification after all this time. Grantaire was offering himself up to the slaughter as a sacrifice to his deity– Enjolras chose to accept not as a god, but as a friend. The pedestal this drunkard put him on was no secret, but Enjolras held that he would rather they die together, as equals. If they were due to pay heavily in blood for the sake of equality, they might as well uphold it.
As their hands joined, he registered that R’s fingers were calloused and plastered with grimy dirt, which mixed with the blood smearing Enjolras’ own hands.
His gaze returned to the soldiers’ muzzles before them. R laced their fingers together, and Enjolras did not object. Enjolras did not care to deny this man anything more any longer; there was little use in doing so.
The shots rang out asynchronously, and Enjolras glimpsed a stark change in Grantaire’s demeanor as he felt a sudden squeeze of his hand and watched Grantaire’s eyes flick towards him one last time.
As the bullets pierced Enjolras’ flesh and bones, final thoughts flashed quickly through his mind. He thought of his friends, laughing and drinking and dancing, and of the splintered remains, both wood and bone, where they once sat. He thought of the people for whom he started this revolution, and the relief from suffering that they will never have. He thought of Patria, who he’s dying for, who thousands have died and will certainly continue to die for. And finally, Enjolras thought of the man falling at his side, thought of Grantaire, and who he’s dying for.
I do not deserve him.
And then he smiled.