Work Text:
Enjolras wonders how time moves on.
He wonders why he's in the here and now, planning a revolution that's spurred on so suddenly.
He wonders why the Musain is so dimly lit at this hour.
He wonders why he's sitting across from a man he once despised, holding his hand with such gentle fervour, watching his eyes as they move this way and that, half-lidded, delirious, and beautiful.
Grantaire simply smiles back. "Hey... What's going on, Enj?" There's a flicker of sympathy, but mostly mischief in his tone.
Enjolras snickers, and blinks back to life. "Just thinking," He sighs, "Thinking about all of this, what I'm doing..."
The other man leans forward, squeezes the blond's hand, picks it up, and drops it on the table with a soft thump, before holding it tightly again. "Do you... Do you have to?"
"Do what?"
"Do this? Or think, for that matter? You're a man of bravery, yes?"
The revolutionary leader's façade doesn't manage to withstand that. Something akin to a laugh escapes, but it's more of a choked-back sob. Of course, he's brave, he's very much willing to die for what he believes in. Each of the Amis has rallied in this cause as much as he. Who is he to abandon them? Who is he to abandon his dear Patria?
But, he recoils and thinks more deeply. Who is he to abandon a man, a single man, that believes in him?
He's a fool, he decides, reverently lifting Grantaire's hand to his lips, and kissing it. It's careful, at first, and the man with black curls doesn't seem to care a wit, but he keeps going.
"I am brave..." Enjolras whispers, "But not as brave as you think I am."
"Why not?" The drunkard just manages to slur, leaning forward and pressing his head against the surface of the table, "You're leading a revolution, darling, and you'll be just as beautiful holding a weapon and fighting for France's freedom."
They're probably the most profound words that Grantaire has said in a while, even whilst in such a drunken state, sometimes it happens. Then, the man giggles, and Enjolras might just question all of those thoughts.
"What happens if my comrades fall, R? What if I fall in the battle to come? What if I don't make it?"
Silence stings the Musain Cafe.
Enjolras is due for battle the very next morning. He already imagines it, begging the people for furniture in a mad scramble. There would be no time to stop working in these Parisian streets, as he's shouting orders and standing out with his glorious red jacket. The fight would go on for hours, days too, and he knows that Grantaire would rather drink his life away than take a bullet to the chest, than deal with any confrontation against the National Guard.
"If you don't make it?" The black-haired man repeats, now sitting up. His voice is wobbly, now, and Enjolras can tell that it's not just the alcohol. "If you don't, then..."
Both men are near tears. The cynic, who believes in nothing but a single man, and the revolutionary who believes in everything, but dares to be a coward for something beyond himself. For love.
It was something he never truly thought about until the coming days. He loves Patria, he loves the outcry of rebellion that stings the air, he loves to debate, he loves the rallying of the common people...
But this, this love for Grantaire is beyond those much simpler passions. It's dependence, reverence, sheer hope and faith. It's putting trust in a man that could easily break it. It's wearing his heart on his sleeve.
Enjolras stands, letting go of Grantaire's hand, and walks over to him. There's a sigh, a pause, and an exchanging of glances, intentions before their lips meet. There's no hesitation, but from the drunken man's end, there's a sloppiness. Enjolras doesn't mind. He's never minded it. All he knows now is that this moment could be their last, and neither is taking any opportunity to let that slip away.
And when they break apart, it's not for long, Grantaire's palms clutching to Enjolras' golden locks, and Enjolras' hands cupping Grantaire's cheeks.
"I will do everything I can to make it out alive," The leader breathes, eyes watering, "But if I do not make it, do know that... Do know that I love you. Something that does not come easily to me, but-"
"Please-" The cynic croaks out in return, hiccuping, perhaps as a substitute for a sob, "You have to make it... Where would I be without..." Hiccup. "This, uhm, this guiding light of mine? The one thing to which I hold true, showing me the way?"
"... Hey." Enjolras says, surprisingly soft, his thumb caressing Grantaire's cheek, "I will do everything I can to make it out alive... I really will. But I can't quit, I won't give up."
Grantaire hiccups again, and locks lips with Enjolras again, a feather-light motion, before he buries his head in the other's chest, and cries.
Perhaps it's the alcohol in the cynic's system that means he can't take it anymore... But Enjolras prefers to think of the sheer emotion, the compassion, the strength and the moments of disunity that unite them so.
He holds Grantaire close, and stays like this for goodness knows how long, and knows that the battle to come will be worth everything.
Whether he lives, or dies, he's told his story for generations to come, of his leadership, his bravery, and most importantly, his love.