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What is life but a tragedy?
***
Grantaire stared into his cup, ignoring the revelries about him. Tomorrow, they would begin their fight for freedom, and everyone was more than ready for that day to come. The day of freedom would be great one, Enjolras had promised them, amid great cheers and shouts of approval. They would conquer the National Guard, and take Paris for the people. Tonight was merely a prelude to the festivities that would come after the fight.
Despite this, Grantaire could not drink and sing with the others. He had been the doubter from the very beginning, the lonely drunk who brought logic to the madness of the others. Why he still bothered coming to these ridiculous meetings, he often couldn't say. But in spite of being the only one who got drunk on wine instead of ideas, Grantaire felt a connection to these people, his friends. Without them, he would be lost. Without them, he would be alone. And he couldn't allow that to happen. So he came, every night, to this cafe where revolutions were born and Grantaire was scorned.
Well, he wasn't scorned, not really. Not by anyone but the leader of this band of ragtag revolutionaries. Grantaire's gaze flickered from the depths of his cup to the golden-haired angel who was currently predicting the rise of a new world, born from the ashes of a despicable one. "Lamarque is dead!" Enjolras proclaimed, his hands waving grandly to emphasize his words. "And tomorrow, the people of Paris will flock to our revolution like moths to flame, and we will be free from the tyranny that rules!"
"Yes, freedom in death," Grantaire muttered. His friends didn't seem to see that there was no way for them to win this fight. Especially Enjolras. The man couldn't see past his idea of freedom to the reality. They were all going to die, and Grantaire would be alone.
Enjolras was now talking about the eye of the storm, and how they would be the ones who spread the calm. Grantaire silently watched him, trying to memorize the curve of his forehead, and the others around him, who all seemed to dance in circles with Enjolras in the center. Enjolras, despite not being able to see the deadly consequences of this barricade, was passionate, almost overly passionate, about this revolution. Others were drawn to this fire within, just like Grantaire himself, and wanted to touch this man simply to warm themselves on his passion. Except with them, Enjolras's fire was the light of a candle you read by, or a fire to warm yourself by on a cold winter's day. A helpful fire, a useful fire. But with Grantaire, that fire turned deadly, scalding him and making him snatch his hand back from the flames that threatened to consume him. Enjolras frowned at Gavroche, and Grantaire's heart clenched. Small children, with curly hair and ideas of democracy running through their heads, suddenly overcame him, scampering through his thoughts and taunting him with their laughter. He shook his head, trying to dispel the images.
Stop that, he scolded himself. You know that will never happen. It's not possible.
But still that feeling came that stirred his insides, that no matter how many people he went home with he could never replicate. That feeling was for Enjolras only, and it was just his luck that the man he loved was the one who scorned him.
"I can fight!" Gavroche was suddenly exclaiming, standing on a table. "Give me a gun, and I'll show you exactly what I can do!”
"Oh, give him a gun!" Courfeyrac said, laughing as Enjolras turned to him with a face carved of marble. "He might as well help. Otherwise, he'll just be scampering around underfoot, sticking pins in people to try to get them to give him a weapon."
"You hand me a gun, and I'll show you exactly where to stick it," Gavroche growled. The room dissolved into laughter, and Grantaire found himself grinning. He was surrounded by his friends, and he was content to watch them play at revolution. They were going to die, but when they did, he would be alongside them, dying just the same.
***
Later, after most of their crowd had gone home to try and sleep for a few hours, Grantaire sat in his corner, nursing a last cup of wine. The only other people still at the cafe were Enjolras and Combeferre, who sat at a table towards the front, conversing in hushed tones. Grantaire had no desire to be part of their conversation. He was happy to watch Enjolras as he spoke, delicate and angry and beautiful. His golden curls fell into his face, and Grantaire wanted to touch them, run his hands through that hair, tuck back the curls so he could kiss him properly. He smiled softly at the thought, then went back to watching the pair.
A few minutes or a few hours later, Combeferre stood up and yawned widely, then walked with Enjolras to the door. They said a few parting words, then Combeferre left as Enjolras lingered in the doorway. Well, that's my cue, Grantaire thought sleepily. He stood, swaying for a moment, then lurched towards Enjolras, who was still standing in the doorway, staring out into the darkness.
Just as Grantaire was about to murmur an "Excuse me," Enjolras turned. His eyes flickered to Grantaire, his face suddenly a mask of surprise as he realized that the dark-haired man was so close behind him. They were face to face, nose to nose, and Grantaire wanted to move forward, take that pale face in his hands and ki-
He stumbled backwards as Enjolras took a step forward, whose eyes closed briefly before shuddering back open. Grantaire was now a few steps from Enjolras, and his mind whirled as Enjolras began to speak. "Grantaire," he began, uncharacteristically calm, "are you sure about the barricade?"
Grantaire's brow scrunched at the question. "What are you talking about? Of course, you idiot, otherwise why would I be following you and your band of merry men into the gaping jaws of death?" Why would Enjolras ask such a question, and especially why would he ask it of him?
Surprisingly, Enjolras didn't get riled up by the idiot comment. He merely clarified, "No, why are you coming? You've always been the cynic, the doubter. So why have you stayed with us these long months? If I know anyone, I know that you would not come because of your need for freedom for the people." Grantaire tried to ignore the shortening of space between himself and the blond as Enjolras took a step forward. "You would never give up your life for a cause such as ours."
Grantaire let out a huff of laughter. "You never considered the fact that I might have no one else when you all are gone? You are my friends, no matter how idiotic and righteous your ideas are." He took a step forward, noticing Enjolras's eyes darken, presumably with anger at his precious cause being called "idiotic". "After you are gone, who would I have to turn to? To share a drink with, to laugh with? I would be lost. I would have no one. I would be alone." He spat the word. "I will not stay in the world of the living if my friends are in the world of the dead."
Enjolras stared at him, eyes dark with their customary anger- no, not anger, something else, something that Grantaire was afraid to name, something like-
And they were kissing.
But they weren't. It was not kissing. It was drinking each other in, feeling the taste and touch of the other on their lips, learning far too late things that Grantaire wished he had learned so long ago.
They broke apart, and Grantaire stared at the love of his life. Standing there, foreheads touching, breath ragged, Grantaire suddenly knew that he was not alone.
***
Oh, nothing but a song and a dream.