It was strange, Enjolras thought, how everybody seemed to have a connection to one another, even in their last moments.
The Amis had always been connected. For Enjolras, they were connected by their thirst for justice. He could only guess what everyone else thought, though.
Now, all they’d been through, good and bad, was gone. Enjolras was the only living being to preserve their memories, and he wasn’t sure he wanted them.
After everything, after all the planning, it’d gone so impossibly wrong. He’d been prepared to die, ready even. But it all went wrong.
Through everything, he survived. He’d momentarily delayed the death of his friends, but somebody hit him hard in the head near the end of the battle and and dragged him to safety.
When he woke, it was over, and he was hidden behind the Musain with no more than a broken arm and a severe headache.
And, of course, his friends were dead. But he knew that already. They’d mostly died before he’d been knocked unconscious. That’s what hurt the most.
Jehan had been the first of his friends to go. It was in the beginning, the Guard having just breached the barricade. He remembered the way he turned his head towards the small poet, remembered the way Jehan’s eyes widened just slightly when the bayonet pierced his chest.
He looked up when Courfeyrac screamed, his eyes not on the guardsmen he was fighting, but on Jehan. Enjolras surged forward, kneeling next to the bleeding man. If anybody deserved to live, it was Jehan, with his soft voice and delicate yet grounded manner.
Jehan coughed and reached out for the leader, taking a hold of his sleeve. Enjolras swore and tried to stop the bleeding, though the red on the poet’s shirt only grew.
Enjolras stayed with him for a minute, before Jehan’s green eyes grew dull and lifeless, his fingers still curled around the man’s red jacket.
It made him almost want to surrender. With Jehan gone, even if they made it out alive, there’d be a significant lack of light in the room. But Jehan wouldn’t want him to surrender. So he blinked away the rising tears in his eyes, pried Jehan’s fingers off of him and stood.
Then, they fought on. Enjolras had just taken down one of the Guardsmen when he heard another gunshot. There were always gunshots, but that one echoing shot made Enjolras’ heart sink.
When he rushed towards the noise, he found another dead guardsmen and a bleeding Marius. He was leaned against a wall, his hands growing bloody with his attempt to heal himself. Enjolras was suddenly brought to the ground by another soldier who immediately began hitting him, having apparently lost his musket. He scuffled with the man briefly, trying to reach Marius before death did.
He glanced up at the young man, and what he saw shocked him.
Marius was pale, paler than he’d ever been before. He looked scared, and he had an arm outstretched, reaching for Enjolras.
He was, once again, taken away from his friend by the soldier still above him.
By the time Enjolras got rid of him and rolled to his feet, Marius was dead. The hand that had reached out for him was limp, fingers curled slightly.
He didn’t have time to mourn.
He went back to his remaining friends and fought alongside them, praying there wouldn’t be anymore death between them. Of course, there was.
Bossuet, in all his bad luck, died next. Enjolras saw it in an instant, the way he turned in the face of the gun, looking to Enjolras, reaching for him.
Then, he was gone.
He fought for what felt like hours. Fueled by anger and rage, brought down by grief and loss. Bahorel went after Bossuet, falling back on his head. His eyes weren’t open, but an arm was out, laying limp by Enjolras’ foot.
He could only stare at him for a moment, before somebody tugged him away, and ran into the Musain behind Joly, Courfeyrac, and Combeferre.
He didn’t realize just what was happening until they were above the guardsmen, hurling anything they could find before the uniformed men disappeared on the first floor.
They moved on soft feet to the center of the room, all holding onto one another desperately. Their arms around each other, holding tightly. Nobody had to say it. They were terrified.
Enjolras watched the ground for a moment, before closing his eyes. He felt three people holding onto him like a lifeline, and heard nothing.
Then, the room burst with noise, and everybody let go.
When his eyes opened, his friends were laying dead at his feet.
His mind was clouded, but he didn’t allow it to be for much longer. Then, he heard a quiet laugh from the other end of the room.
He stepped towards the noise, looking up.
There Grantaire sat, a bitter smile on his lips. He’d clearly just woken up. “Are they all dead?”
Enjolras was too tired to ask just what was in Grantaire’s head other than wine, so he simply nodded.
“Shame.” He said softly, standing up when he heard the footsteps of soldiers, just before they appeared they pointed their weapons at both of them, but a shot was was fired accidentally at Grantaire first. He fell to the ground with a grunt and looked up at Enjolras, putting a hand out. “Do you p-permit it?”
The blonde man shook his head, still somehow able to find hatred in him for his own friend.
Grantaire gasped and shifted, his arm still outstretched. “Take my hand.”
“Please, Enjolras.” His voice was breathy and almost nonexistent, but Enjolras heard the pleading, the begging, the tears in his voice.
That was where he died. And that was where Enjolras stood now, the dawn light pouring in through the window that he’d jumped out of to survive only one week previous, leaving Grantaire to die alone, quietly begging Enjolras to simply hold his hand in his last moments of life.
And he turned his back on him.
Enjolras knew that if any of his friends were still with him, they would’ve told him what an idiot he was. Is.
He loved you, they’d say, shaking their heads. More than anything.
And he knew. He knew this, and still managed to heartlessly let him die without a friend.
He was sickeningly responsible.
Everyone was gone because of him. Enjolras learned that it was Feuilly who dragged him away, and was shot down on his way out. His arm was limp in the direction of Enjolras, who was nestled between buildings, covered by a once-innocent red banner.
Everybody, in their time of sheer need and loss, reached for him, touched him. They believed in him more than anything, trusting him enough to believe he could save them.
Enjolras collapsed into one of the many empty chairs, the very chair Grantaire had awoken in that terrible day.
He felt heavy, as if he carried the weight of his friends on his shoulders. Maybe he did.
He closed his eyes, trying to rid himself of the terrible images. However, the darkness only made them stronger.
His friends were gone.
He was alone.