domingo, 18 de noviembre de 2018

enj and the officer in the 2012 film - headcanon fics

Where's That New World?

elissanerdwriter

Work Text:

It was over.
They knew this; they had seen their friends fall, one by one, screaming and torn apart by bullets. Lesgle dit Bossuet by a bayonet, head tossed back as he tumbled from the barricade. Bahorel as Enjolras reached for his hand, and he landed on the wrong side of the wall. Marius still fighting, and then falling, and then fallen- staring at the sky.
They hated it, but they had few options left, and so they retreated into the cafe. Combeferre and Joly pulled Jehan behind them, trying to ignore his sobbed pleas of fear, of death; they could not leave him if he had a chance, but one more round was all it took to silence his cries and they had to leave him at the base of the stairs.
Feuilly was already there, holding his position at the window, making a last bid to protect his family. His motions were desperate, his face pained, but he bought them a few precious seconds. He fell, twisting on the dirty floor, overwhelmed by the troops despite having taken so many of them. Courfeyrac screamed his name. He had screamed too many names that day.
He never heard it either way.
Leaving the bodies of their friends behind, they ascended, breaking the steps behind them. Enjolras sent them first, Courfeyrac and Joly supporting Combeferre as he stumbled, then scrambled behind them. Maybe one of them thought for a brief moment they might be safe; who will ever know now. It would only have lasted a moment. They all felt the silence as the mandate for their death, and it was.
Courfeyrac whimpered softly, lifted his hand to Combeferre’s shoulder. Combeferre raised his remaining pistol, some instinct making him push the other two behind him, hold them back, despite knowing it couldn’t help. Enjolras kept moving, looking for a way to save the four of them, not knowing the way they did that this was their last moment. He was still hopeful.
The report rang out.
Joly was first. He didn’t register it at once, the clinical training in his mind overtaking his senses. He mentally tracked the bullets through his body even as he fell. Tibia. Femur. Pelvis. Right lung. Spinal column. Second rib. Third. Clavicle. Skull.
The voice of his teacher bounced around his mind as his optical nerve failed. “The majority of head wounds do not break through the skull. The majority of those that do are fatal.”
He thought the bullet was likely to have penetrated his skull. He also thought it was very likely to be fatal.
He didn’t feel the pain. Trauma, he figured.
He fell too fast, faster than the others. But for once, he didn’t care if the floor was clean.
He was gone before he could care.
Courfeyrac was second. His hand tightened automatically on Combeferre’s sleeve when the first bullet hit his foot, but then a second and a third tore through his leg and his back and he was falling. It felt like he was melting, from the inside out, his whole body screaming with pain and he might have been screaming, he wasn’t sure. He couldn’t see what was happening, this couldn’t be what death was like it hurt too much-
Just as he hit the floor, he wondered if this was what Gavroche felt. Jehan and Feuilly and Bahorel and Bossuet and everyone else, if this was what dying felt like. He knew now that was what was happening.
And as he died, he saw Combeferre and Joly, and Enjolras above them and someone else off to the side and felt overwhelmingly sad, for in that moment he knew none of them would survive. He knew they must all feel this.
And then he felt nothing.
Combeferre was last. Five bullets hit him at once, and maybe he would have lifted from the ground like an angel but the weights of his already falling friends pulled him down. Joly’s hand grabbed his arm as if to pull himself up, and Courfeyrac’s as if to never let him leave him behind. He felt his eyes slip shut, his arms flying wide, still trying to protect them. Streaks of pain traced through his body, and his still-running mind dimmed quickly. He had no time for thought, as if for once he would rush headlong into death without realizing first what it entailed.
He was dead before he landed, twisted on the splintered ground.
Enjolras reached for them, too late. He was always too late. He stared down at their bodies, unable for once to find a way on. This was it. He couldn’t start anew without them, alone. France would not be free today. The world was still broken, to have left such people to no fate but to be laid broken on the floor of this godforsaken cafe, in this godforsaken street, in this godforsaken city.
There were soldiers climbing the remainder of the stairs, but he made no move to escape or fight. What was the point? He stared at them, making them meet his eyes, feel the anger and misery burning in him. But it was hardly their fault, was it?
They spoke, but he heard none of it. He stood, waiting for death, but still wished this didn’t have to be the end. His hopes had shattered with the floor, but his wishes still rose, unbroken.
The soldiers turned to face him, lining up slowly. They halfheartedly raised their guns, and he kept staring at them, daring them to shoot. To cut his life short.
The leader took a breath, but before he could give the command, Enjolras saw a movement. Behind the rank, a man climbed up the stairs. He was disheveled and stumbling, but Enjolras recognized him.
Grantaire looked him full in the face, and he could feel his fire falling in pieces around him. Grantaire wasn’t dead, not yet, and now he was- throwing himself away-
“No.”
Grantaire didn’t stop walking, pushing past the guards. He stumbled a bit, and several of them tensed, but he didn’t glance away from Enjolras. He stopped beside him, his eyes softer than Enjolras had ever seen them, and for once said nothing.
They turned back to the line, together. Enjolras’ hand brushed something and he took hold of it, lifting it instinctively.
It was the red cloth.
The guard reassembled, raising their rifles again. The captain met his eyes, and he saw nothing but sadness there.
“Fire.”
The muzzles flashed brightly, ten times, eleven. Beneath the soldiers, three bodies were twisted together, broken and still. Enjolras could see them alive, Joly’s happiness, Courfeyrac’s smile, Combeferre’s quiet approval. Jehan’s gentle words. Feuilly’s dedication. Bahorel’s spirit. Bossuet’s laughter.
Grantaire.
Gone.
The first bullet hit him in the chest, the next in the side, tossing him back. In the shoulder, spinning him. His thigh, making him stumble. There was no wall behind him, only open air, and he felt a sick swoop in his stomach as he fell out, hand still clutching the flag. Grantaire fell the other way, still in the room, and he felt the loss of his presence. He never would have thought…
What would it have been like?
The new day?
He would never know.
The streets ran with blood. The sky was dark, as if a certain light had been lost. The women knew what it was. The women saw everything. They were left behind. They cleaned it up.
What were the dead thinking?
did you see them
going off to fight
children of the barricade who didn’t last a night
did you see them
lying where they died
someone used to cradle them and kiss them
when they cried
did you see them lying side by side?
who will wake them
no one ever will
no one ever told them that
a summer day can kill
they were schoolboys
never held a gun
fighting for a new world that would rise up like the sun
where’s that new world now the fighting’s done?
nothing changes
nothing ever will
every year another brat another mouth to fill
same old story
what’s the use of tears
what’s the use of praying if there’s nobody who hears
turning
turning
turning turning turning through the years
Where’s that new world now the fighting’s done?

Right Where We're Supposed to Be

doctorsdaughter

Work Text:

“Don’t you care?” was all Grantaire ever heard through the haze of drunkenness he never allowed himself to come out of. As long as he was in a haze of some sort, it was okay. It could be held to a dream. A dream that wouldn’t come true. There was no barricade, and they would continue their days at college, at the university, complaining about schoolwork.
There would never be never any National Guard. They would never be in danger, especially his Apollo, Enjolras. No matter how much he drank, no matter how many pints and litres he’d drank, no matter how many times Joly would take his glass away and Courfeyrac would replace, his take on Enjolras would remain clear as day.
You’re beautiful.
You’re insane.
Don’t do this.
I don’t want you to leave.
Grantaire would stumble through the Musain, doing things that would specifically make Enjolras hate him more, because he thought -- he hoped -- that maybe, if Enjolras finally broke and said everything that Grantaire could see him swallowing, he might just hurt Grantaire enough. Because as much as it hurt to be ignored by his Enjolras, it would never hurt enough. It was always a faint numbing pain that he’d forget for a minute, and then a pang would remind him.
If the ABC knew this, there would be so many jokes about how he was nothing short of a masochist, willing to do anything Enjolras asked him to do. Which was nothing to say that it wasn’t true, just that he didn’t want to know this.
At his latest jest, which was towards Enjolras’s recent idea that no hope of working, and while everyone rallied behind Enjolras, Grantaire, as usual sat in the corner. When he laughed in the face of Enjolras, he saw him set his jaw.
Soon they were standing face to face, and if Enjolras knew how to actually fist fight and not behind a gun, Grantaire would be scared. But he didn’t, so he wasn’t. He smirked drunkenly in Enjolras’s face, and tried not to laugh as he realized it was possible to get even redder.
“Do you care?” Enjolras asked in a low tone, a tone that one got to when they were so angry they didn’t feel the need to yell. “Everything we worked for. Everything that we’ve been talking about for months. People have laid down their lives for--”
“For you. They’ve laid down their lives for you. We lost Eponine because of you. Who knows about other places in Paris who have heard tell of this mysterious tale and name who have put down their lives for a man who is only ideas and speeches.”
Enjolras was breathing heavily. “Get out of my Musain.”
“Listen here, Apollo. You may own a lot, but you don’t own the Musain. So I’ll continue to sit here and drink.”
“Get out, Grantaire,” Enjolras bellowed. For the first time since they met, there was nothing but anger and hatred in Enjolras’s eyes. Enough so that Grantaire listened. He snatched his old green shawl, and walked down the stairs, and into the street. Enjolras's voice followed him; “Go join the National Guard, where you belong.”
He looked up at the sky, and saw the stars in patterns that made him think of Eponine. He murmured to himself, things that were meant for Eponine, as he so often did. They were both the victims of unrequited love. He sat on the steps of the building, paper in his hand as he drew the last memory he had of her, and soon his pen was scratching on paper faster and paper was falling to the ground. Soon he had drawn sketches of his friends that sat in a pile in his lap. The only one missing was Enjolras.
To anyone who asked, it was because Enjolras was dead to him. However, the real reason was because, even with everything that happened, his beauty was still impossible for him to capture. He pilfered an envelope from a sleeping household, and wrote To Amis and stuck it under the door.
When he turned around, there were three guns on him with men in uniform. He immediately raised his hands in the air.
“Are you with them?” the man asked.
Grantaire didn’t know how to answer, so he looked down, scuffing his shoes.
The man lifted Grantaire’s head with his gun. “Are you with them?” he asked. After a few moments, he knew there was nothing to do. They were going to shoot him if he said yes, and if he said not anymore, they might anyway.
“No,” he said. “No I’m not. But I have information.”
“Come with us, soldier,” one of the National Guard grabbed him by the shirt, while Grantaire tucked his green shawl in his pocket. They were nice enough, most likely so he’d give them information. He ate better food and drank better mead than he’d had in a long time. He didn’t feel like he was a traitor, he was always one in Enjolras’s eyes. He took out his green shawl and rubbed the old fabric in his hand. They would give him a new name soon. One befitting of part of the National Guard. The ABC would rename someone R. He would just be a number on a soldier manifest. That was okay with him.
“21,” they finally named him. “You’re the Honor Guard of where you were found. You know the area well, where the revolts will be hiding.”
He nodded, cocking his gun. He saw the Musain, and a huge barricade in front of it. There wasn’t much new, it had only been two weeks since he’d been captured, and they’d specifically waited until Grantaire, or Luc, as he was called by his superiors. He cursed as he saw the barricade had only grown bigger. There was no way to divert. All he could do was continue to have them push back.
“Commander Luc, what are we doing?” He held his hand up in response. Guns started to poke out of the barricade and he cursed again. There was nothing else to do.
“Take down the barricade,” R yelled. “Take down the barricade leave the children to me and my order.”
Before he knew what was happening, screams could be heard by the people who once were his friends. Many of them retreated back to the Musain, many bodies laid sprawled on the barricade.
“I said no children,” R yelled. “We can take them in!”
They moved closer to the barricade, and on the otherside, the Amis retreated back. There were only a few left. Jehan had been caught in the crossfire, Gavroche had as well (a much better fate than growing up in the army), Marius was no where to be found, nor was the older man who had helped.
“Stay out here,” R yelled. “I’m going inside. Anyone follows me, no food for a week.” It was weird to have control like that, but he did.
Grantaire retreated up the stairs, where he saw Joly, Bossuet, and Chetta, huddled in a corner, the sheer look of horror and betrayal on their face. “Shoot us,” Bossuet said. “They’re here. They’re not going to listen to you forever.”
Grantaire’s eyes were wet, realizing what this would entail. “Do you forgive me?” It was a stupid question. Who could forgive the absolute treason he had committed?
Chetta stood up and hugged him. “We should have never let you go that night.” Joly and Bousset nodded. “Please, just let us go together.”
Grantaire’s gun hand was shaky for the first time ever. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. And with that, three of his friends were gone.
He heard the screams of Feuilly and Bahorel as one of his men shot up through the floorboards. He stepped back, sheer horror on his own face as he saw his two friends fall with no warning. Tears ran down his face. He wanted to get his friends that were left to leave. But it was impossible. If he showed mercy, he would be killed. If he showed any kindness, he would be killed. There was only one thing to do.
“Jacques, get up here.” Grantaire slowly took off his hat. He took off his military uniform, wrapped the shawl he had tucked away around him like it always had been, and found an unfinished jar of beer and drank it.
He walked over to the three people he had always aspired to be. The people he’d lost in trying to be them. Enjolras looked at him, and took a step to the left, leaving room for Grantaire between Enjolras and Courfeyrac.
Jacques ran up and saw what had happened. “Was this all a ruse?” he yelled at his once-commanding officer. “Did you lie to your government?”
“It was surprisingly easy. You're awfully stupid. What are you going to do, kill me?” Grantaire said, making the three friends around him laugh. Laughing in death. How ironic.
For the first time, in the last few moments of his life, he felt accepted by Enjolras. Enjolras’s arm was wrapped around him and Grantaire looked at him.
“To those who’ve fallen.” He raised a glass.
Enjolras nodded. “To France.”
--
The blast came, and they were floating up to heaven. Enjolras held onto Grantaire, refusing to allow him anywhere besides with him. And as they went to heaven, they kissed right where they were supposed to. With their friends.

the break

Murf1307

Work Text:

It's not hard to break a man when that's what you've trained all your life to do. It's not hard to break a man, even a man purportedly dispassionate and chaste and cause-driven.
Everyone has a weak point, a distortion in their armor to give them away, and this man is no different. You can see it in the way his eyes linger too long when you bring the first one in, the one who'd fought fiercest to protect him.
If there were still pity or compassion left in you, you would weep to see stone made flesh like this.
Instead, you simply know that you have him.
You place a gun to the back of this one's head. "There are still three left at large. Tell me where your safe houses are, and he lives."
There are spiderweb cracks in the calm of the prisoner's expression, but the one you have at gunpoint doesn't so much as flinch. "Kill me, then," he says, as matter of fact as you were.
If you didn't know better, he could have been one of yours.
Still the prisoner is quiet.
"I'm one of them; you'll kill me anyway. Do it now and save us all the trouble of waiting."
"Grantaire --" the only word, so far, the prisoner has spoken, and he slams his mouth closed in its wake. It's the name of the man you're about to kill.
"Enjolras," he replies, and it's gentle, almost reverent. "If you'll permit it?"
The prisoner smiles, but his heart isn't in it. It's a performance for the man about to die, but there is something intimate in the way it is exchanged.
You fire; the man falls. You are nothing if not efficient.
The prisoner laughs as he breaks, but you know something is wrong; this is not the break you wanted, this has not convinced him to abandon his cause.
"There is nowhere safe, and you won't find them. They are in the wind and harbored by the people they fought for. I won't fail them." The prisoner steps toward the glass of his cage door. "As he did not fail me, I won't fail them."
You don't know what you have created in breaking this man, and that unsettles you.
"Be serious; we will find them."
He is silent. He glances down at the body on the stone floor before him. The dead man fell prostrate, as if in an attitude of prayer.
When he meets your eyes again, his are glassy with tears and he says, his voice chilling:
"I am wild."

To Live, Dying

eirenical (chibi1723)

Work Text:

The crack of gunshot echoed, ricocheting off walls more used to reflecting the sounds of young men's voices raised in the joyous cacophony of revolutionary zeal than the very real violence of revolution itself. It was the one final insult -- the violation and claiming of a space that had once been theirs and would be theirs no longer. Captain Durand lowered his pistol and snapped out an order for the rest of the men to leave him. Sensing something dark and violent in their commanding officer's demeanor and not wishing it to find its target in their ranks, all began filing out. Several paused, stooped down as though to take the bodies with them as they returned to the street below, but Captain Durand barked out an order that they be left where they were for now. Confused but obedient, they retreated, leaving the Captain alone with the odd mood that had been riding him since last night.
Once the others had gone, the Captain finally moved, stepped over the bodies in the center of the room without even a passing glance. He knew them all. He knew their names, their faces, their habits and vices. He knew their loves and their hopes, their dreams for a brighter tomorrow -- a tomorrow which would never come. Not in their lifetimes.
6th of June. It always came back to the 6th of June.
Though he moved quickly past the young men on the floor -- Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Joly -- once past them, the Captain stopped, feet rooted to the floor, unable to take another step, unable to move any closer to the final two bodies in the room. Instead, he crouched down, touched knees to the wooden floor of the Corinthe, willfully ignorant of the blood now seeping into his trousers, of the brush of Courfeyrac's limp hand against the trailing tails of his coat, his eyes fixed on the tableau at the window. He knew those boys, as well.
Enjolras.
Grantaire.
He wondered if they'd been close this time, if they'd shared that forbidden passion of the Greek heroes of old, if they'd hardly known one another, at all. It bothered him sometimes, not to know them as he knew the others… not to care to know them.
It was too painful.
Smooth skin beneath his palm, bright eyes full of hope, full of passion, full of love, darkening to worry, to sorrow… to death. If he could take back those last days, reclaim them and live them over again, he would do so differently. He had mourned his love from the day he'd won him, cynicism-fueled words condemning his passion even as he worshipped at its feet, drunken bitterness dousing that fire before he'd had even a small chance to warm himself at it. He had killed his love with his own darkness long before he'd died in truth and, by so doing, had robbed his love of the few moments of happiness they could have stolen before the end.
Had it been the same for these two? Had they ever known each other's touch, known the joy of lying clasped in the arms of one you loved? Had they spoken words of love or merely argued as always, bitter as gall? It didn't matter. Love or no love, it always came back to the 6th of June and this moment.
His love had died, shot through by eight bullets, pinned to the wall like some macabre marionette which might awaken at any moment and yell once more "Vive la Révolution!" And he had died at his feet, crumpled like the useless drunkard he had always been, clinging to his love as though to keep hold of him even unto death.
Little had he known.
Death was not an end to torment, not for he who was Death… who had dared to love one who was mortal, who had dared to forget himself in the glory of that long ago time, so many universes past, so many lifetimes ago. There was no relief for him, no release from this life without end. And so he continued on this merry-go-round, life and life after life, watching as a universe was born, living beside it, yet within it, a part and yet apart, until it too was ready to die and give way to the next… and always it came back to the 6th of June. To this moment.
Ignoring the newly risen souls behind him, now milling about in confusion, ignoring as well the soul of the golden-haired embodiment of the Revolution -- so different from his own dark-haired love, now so long gone -- he finally rose from his crouch, Combeferre's congealed blood sticking to his trousers as though to hold him back from what he was about to do… as though he could.
There was only one soul which mattered in all of this, only one soul which could free him, only one soul which could take his place… his own. The Captain knelt again, this time by the crumpled body which had, until today, housed his kindred soul. Dark hair to his light, curly hair to his straight, blue eyes to his hazel, he had lived a hard life… they both had. And when that soul rose, ready to take that step into the Afterlife of its choice, eyes fixed on his golden-haired god… the Captain reached out a hand to stay his leaving. And when their gazes locked, he could see that no explanation would be necessary. Grantaire already knew what he would say… he always did. After all, they were one and the same, mortal and immortal sides of a single coin.
Captain Durand removed his hat, laid it to the side, and bowed his head in supplication, a chained genie, desperate for whatever release his master would grant him. And in this moment, Grantaire was his master. Whatever Grantaire asked of him, he would do. If he wished his friends alive, Durand would see it done. If he wished this rebellion successful, wished the entire course of history sent spinning from its course in some new direction -- one last tribute to the man he had loved so long… Durand would see it done. Anything, anything at all to be released from this immortality which had become more and more of a prison with the death of every universe since the one in which he had allowed himself to be mortal. Anything.
All he could see of Grantaire was his boots, the cuffs of his pants, until his knees came into view, as well, dropped onto the wooden floor, legs passing through his own body to gain the space to do so. He reached out, took the Captain's shoulders in his hands and raised him up from his bow, blue eyes bright with empathy and unshed tears. Behind them, Courfeyrac whimpered, stumbled forward through his own body, a desperate "No" on his lips. He always had been the most astute among them, sharper even than Combeferre when it came to understanding the human heart. Durand was almost glad to see that that hadn't changed. He was even more glad that Courfeyrac had never been the one who could turn him from a course of action he was set upon.
Grantaire, still holding the Captain's shoulders in a light grip, said simply, "Is there no other way?"
Durand shook his head, struck mute by the sheer possibility that Grantaire might consider doing what he never had in the past. He was suffocating, choking on the ocean of tears he'd held back through eternity, unable to even beg.
Grantaire turned his face away, once again sought out Enjolras' gaze, asking the one question to which only Enjolras had the answer.
~Am I wanted?~
Durand knew what his own love would have answered, knew it to the core of his being. He had been wanted, desired, loved. And he had wanted, desired, and loved in return. Had another been willing to pick up the mantle of his immortality, he'd have gone on to a mortal afterlife that day without a single regret. That day… he had had no choice. He turned, as well, not wanting to miss the moment which would give away Enjolras' response.
Courfeyrac was openly crying, now, clutching at Combeferre's restraining arms as tears ran unchecked from his eyes. So, too, had his own Courfeyrac broken when Durand had been ripped from them. So, too, had Combeferre sought to comfort… and failed. But this Enjolras -- severe, hard-lined, unforgiving -- did the unthinkable.
Reaching down, he took Grantaire's hand in his own and said softly, "Too many times did I refuse this hand when it reached out to me. Do you think, now that I've finally taken it for my own, that I would relinquish it again so easily?" He pulled Grantaire from the floor to stand at his side, and turned his gaze on Durand. His eyes were filled with the empty, useless threats of one who can do no harm to the one they threaten… and who knows it. Still, the presence of that threat was enough, the love, once so carefully hidden, now shining like the sun… was enough. And, so, Durand bowed his head… and wept.
He should never have allowed his hopes to rise, should never have dared to permit such foolishness. He should have known better.
As he wept, the others milled around, again, more uncertain than before. They could surely sense that the moment to move on was fast upon them and could sense just as well that without him, they could no more move on than they could resume their lives. But, Durand, for once, for the first time, for forever, was broken beyond repair, so soul-sick and weary that he could not have risen had The One Who Created All, even, demanded it.
And in that moment of despair… something changed. His power, that which made him what he was and could have made Grantaire the same, unfurled within him, slave to a master other than himself. Again, it was Courfeyrac's horrified cry which alerted him to what was happening and he whipped around to face a Grantaire whose eyes were closed in fierce concentration, one chapped lip caught between worrying teeth, one hand caught just as tightly in Enjolras' own. It was he who commanded Durand's power, but for what purpose, he could not begin to imagine.
Moments later, he got his answer. Across the room, a door began to form, a soft light glowing from the cracks -- Death's Door, a door that only Durand should have been able to summon.
Courfeyrac was actively fighting Combeferre, now, forcing Joly to join in holding him back. Grantaire paid him no heed, nor did Enjolras, focused as tightly as he was on holding on to Grantaire, serious about not letting him go as he never had been in life. Finally Grantaire slumped, power draining away from him to return to its source. Still holding tightly to Enjolras' hand, Grantaire dropped once more to his knees before Durand, his smile exhausted, but satisfied. "I would take this burden from you if I could -- for I understand, all too well, the pain which would send you seeking oblivion rather than further eternity… but I cannot. To abandon my friends now would be to condemn myself to as deep a horror as you now suffer and I… I am selfish and, in the end, a coward. And for that, I am sorry."
When Durand again bowed his head, unable to keep it raised for one second more, Grantaire cupped a hand below his chin and gently turned his face to the Door he had summoned. Softly, lips nearly touching Durand's ear as he spoke, he said, "I could feel it, in that moment, how you would have turned the Universe on its head for me, would have turned it inside out to grant my last wish if I would but take this burden from you… and in that moment, I could see, as well, how I could use that same power to grant yours. I cannot take this burden from you… but I can see to it that you no longer have to carry it alone."
With those words, Grantaire picked himself up off the floor and held out a hand to Courfeyrac who gratefully took it and covered it in kisses, so relieved that he had no words. Combeferre reached down and took Courfeyrac's other hand in his right and then Joly's in his left. And Grantaire led them all. They passed through the Door and as the light dimmed, Durand dropped his gaze again, unable to do more than rock himself against the floor, eyes blank and horror-struck at having failed yet again… until a soft, uncertain voice crept into his hearing, breaking on the one syllable it uttered.
"…R?"
At that soft syllable, the tears which had choked off his voice rolled free in great heaving sobs. It was impossible. Even for himself, it was impossible, so how could Grantaire have done it? To reach back that far? To find the one -- the only one, in all the great multiverse, who had ever mattered? Impossible. But among every Enjolras who ever was, among every 6th of June he had suffered through… Durand would know that voice anywhere.
"Grantaire… do you permit it?"
As Durand finally raised his head, met coal dark eyes with slowly dawning hazel, a smile broke out across his face -- full of such passionate optimism and joy that those who had once called him cynic would never again wish to apply the term. He held out his hand and as Enjolras' slipped into it, calloused and warm and perfect, he simply said…
"Yes."

*****************************************************************

Pull the Trigger

Work Text:

He had never been someone to pull the trigger.

 Even from his childhood, he was the one who hung back, who didn't make himself well-known. The one who everyone knew wouldn't answer the question the teacher had asked, who would sit in the corner when the other kids played in the streets. He was too scared to ask if he could play. At home, he was the last of his siblings to finish his meal (he would regret this later, when hunger was rampant), and he would sit at the table until even his mother finally left the kitchen. She would sit and embroider pretty flowers on something nice while he fled outside into the fields, the only place he really felt he was comfortable. The one place quiet enough. The place where he did feel like he could go first, do something.

 And never, never in his life, would he have ever thought to fight.

 But that was before the Revolution. That was before their food got scarcer. That was before his father ran with the neighbor's wife. That was before his mother packed up what little they had and moved him and his siblings from their spacious country farm to the confinements of the city, where she could find work easier. Before he watched his eldest brother, just about in his mid-twenties, sling his pack over his shoulder and plant a kiss on each of their foreheads before going off to join the ranks. He remembers his brother's face perfectly. Sculpted cheeks, blue eyes, wild brown curls that framed his face. His smile was like a string of stars as he walked away from their shabby little city home, following others to go battle for what seemed like a wonderful, brave, glorious cause at the time.

 That was the last time he ever saw his brother.

 After the news got to them, that he had been shot down, that his brother was never going home, that was when the reality settled in. France never truly settled after the Revolution. One sister got sick from starvation. Another screamed in her sleep. The youngest of them all, his baby brother, slept through it all, so soundly sometimes he thought he was dead. And his mother never spoke anymore. she only stared off into the distance, tear tracks staining her face without any tears falling down. She would hold a scrap of cloth was belonging to his brother's best jacket, and just clutchedEvery day crept by with nothing being accomplished. Turning, turning, turning through every second of every day. It was the worst time of his life.
He thought that would be it, nothing but starvation and sickness and silence and trauma.

 Then he heard about the National Guard.

 Of course he had heard of it. The soldiers who fought in the Revolution. Led by the best, the famous Lafayette one of the first and greatest. Their uniforms were polished and shiny. When he made deliveries to the bars from the bakery, sometimes, he would see them. Their gold buttons would twinkle in the light from the windows and their hats looked so large on their slim heads. But he had never given it much thought.

 Not until one of his friends joined up. He watched him soar above every rank until he commanded a troop of his own.

 That was when he decided. He wanted that. That glory. Command. It was something he never had as a teen, watching his family deteriorate as more was thrown their way. and what could he do? Help bake? And just bread? And for what pay? He wanted those glossy uniforms with the huge hats and the buttons that reflected the light. He wanted the security of having a job that was rewarding. He wanted the wave of his hand to bring men running to battle, the control he lacked as a kid and onward. He wanted to be on the National Guard.
So he joined the National Guard. 

 ~
He marched with his fellow soldiers towards where the disturbance had been reported. His uniform clung to his skin in the city heat. He still kept his eyes forward, one arm swinging diligently by his side while the other clutched his gun over his shoulder. The men around him which he commanded walked in perfect sync with him despite the sluggish weather.

 They had heard word of the rebellion that had sprung up in the town square only a day ago or so. He and other officers had immediate commands from the higher-ups to dismantle it as quickly as possible. It was supposedly a group of mere students, so it was supposed to be one of the easier tasks the National Guard had to complete. But they had been warned to not underestimate the enemy. It had landed them all in trouble before and would no doubt land them in trouble again.

 The only sound on the streets was the monotonous marching of the National Guard as it headed for it's destination.

 Apparently, they actually had underestimated this rebellion, because when they came to the initial site of the uprising, they were met with the sight of a barricade. And not just any barricade. It appeared to be made of furniture, chairs and dressers and tables and more, broken and piled up into one massive heap. It stretched from one side of the road to the other, blocking off the cul-de-sac from the rest of the road. It rose a good few meters up, with holes looking like they were haphazardly patched with old trunks and cabinets.
He'd be lying if he said he wasn't impressed.

 His troop came up and took position, him stalking off to the side, ready to give the call. He'd been told to give the warning this time. It wasn't his first, he'd done it with other small-scale, similar revolts in the past. All he had to do was shout out to them to either surrender or be killed. If they listened, they were arrested, and the job was done. But if they didn't, he would bring his hand down and call for the soldiers to start firing.

 He should have been used to the second option by now, but he still had to clench his teeth at the sound of the gunfire.
And this would be like every other uprising, with either option weighing the fate of the revelers, and nothing would be out of the ordinary.
Shouts began to sound from behind the barricade. The words were nothing new— reform, change, fight and die for freedom. It was the youth in those voices that traced a lance near his heart. The pitches that clearly haven't seen past the rust of age yet. These were young students then. University, maybe. And the excited squealing of an even younger voice hit a little harder. There was a child back there too, then. A boy. Judging from the voice, he couldn't have been past twelve at most.
He felt a lump rise in his throat.
He signaled for his men to take position. They did. Air flooded his throat as they sat at the ready, waiting for a visual sign from the barricade that there was indeed life back there. Soon, they provided.

 The first to peep his head out was a young man, maybe in his twenties. He had a head of wild hair that looked like it had attempted to be styled, and the look of determination on his face. He had the smirk of a flirtatious man.
The second was a man who looked very well read, if one could look that way, with straight hair and a twinkle of fear and curiosity in his stance. His clothing was disheveled, but he didn't look awful.

 Others came up, all with fierce expressions of excitement and fear that made him want to sigh. Every time, these faces showed up. Every time they disappeared as quickly as he saw them.
One hopped up dangerously near the very top of the barricade, significantly shorter than the rest. His clothing was practically in rags, dirt smudging everywhere. His hung to his shoulders. He held tight to the barricade like how he thought a monkey would. That had to be the boy, then. He did look very young.

 There was only one student who stood at the top of the barricade, higher than the young boy.

 The sight of that face struck him hard, so hard, he feared he'd fall. It brought back the memory, watching out the open door, feeling his brother's lips peck his forehead in a last farewell, forever. The face of this man almost perfectly matched brother's. The perfectly proportioned cheeks, the ocean blue eyes. The halo of curls on his head gleamed blonde in the sunlight. His lips were set in a fine line, a different expression than the excited smirks and resolute frowns from the other students. It was a terrifying expression. He looked so calm. Collected. A confidence that shrieked without making a sound.

 He felt horror pooling in his gut. He didn't know if he could move.
That man was an angel of death coming to kill them all, and in the haunting image of his own brother.
Did his brother die exactly like this? Fighting off the newly formed National Guard behind weak stick forts, with the knowledge that he was probably going to die but still standing there ready to take every bullet if it meant freedom?

 His men were getting impatient. He had no choice in this. He had to speak. He inhaled, lashed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, either to moisten his lips or get feeling back into the muscle, he didn't really know himself. Raising his voice up, he shouted his script.

 "You at the barricade, listen to this,” his voice was already becoming hoarse in his throat, each face that peeked from the barricade hardly moved at the volume, “No one is coming to help you fight. You’re on your own.” It took all his soul’s strength to keep his voice steady. “You have no friends. Give up your guns, or die!”
His words echoed off the buildings that lined the street. The rest of his breath came out in a short puff, mixing with the day’s heat. Even when he got his position as officer, his heart had never beat so quickly before. Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump. He was almost scared it was going so fast, it’d stop and he’d die right there.

 Why was he so scared of a group of middle-class university students with the probable brain size of a pea?

 But staring back into the cold eyes of the young man at the top reminded him not to underestimate them.
He watched the young man’s lips twitch, then waver, then perk up into what could only be seen as the most petrifying expression. It was one of knowledge, of fervor, and of stone hard passion. There was something in that man, he didn’t know what, but it burned.
It came like a bullet to his face that this was why he had this group of students behind him. That look. And when he spoke out, he had the voice of a leader to match.
“Damn their warnings, damn their lies,” it didn’t even look like it took much effort to scream, as if the youth standing there above him regularly had a voice that boomed, “they will see the people rise!”
At the sound of the man’s voice, the students looked up at him, admiration piercing their bodies as they stood prouder, taller. And then from the barricade, every student, including the young boy, repeated his words, raising rifles along in their chant. “Damn their warnings, damn their lies, they will see the people rise!”
Each face slowly melted into a perfect copy of the blond man’s face. Passion. Belief in freedom that they thought they could have. But that aside. These young men had a fervor unlike any revolt he had seen before.

 And he didn’t want to shoot.
His eyes kept away from the revelling students and kept on the face of who had to be their leader. Blue eyes met his own. Again, he was shocked back to the doorway, his brother walking off, waving, hardly a life of his own really, no one would know his name but his family, that look in his eyes that said don’t worry, don’t cry, I’m gonna fight for what is right.
I’ll come back. I’ll come home.

 He shook his head. These were idiots. Fighting for what was right never helped a soul. It only landed you dead somewhere either freezing cold or scorching hot. It did nothing. It only complicated things.
His arm went into position to tell his men to fire. The barricade leader didn’t even flinch. He just kept on staring, his smile gone, now replaced with a stare and his lips pressed together. The others around him had since disappeared back behind the barricade, assumingly taking position to defend their cause. But he didn’t move.
He just stood there, red vest fluttering in the wind that only churned the heat around.
It was like the man knew.
He halted his men, who looked at him in confusion. He told them in hushed voices that they would wait for the other officers with their troops. He didn’t want a reprimanding for not following through with the plan without everyone else. Even though there was pure annoyance at the hesitation, it sated them for now. They pulled back.

 The young man at the top of the barricade stood there for only a few seconds more before hopping down and disappearing behind the pile of wood.

 ~
Staring at his gun, he wondered what was going through the young man’s mind as he stood there in the windowframe, the same exact expression on his face as before, demanding they shoot him in the name of France. The drunkard that stumbled up to him, declaring himself as a revolutionary too, going and holding hands with the youth who had swayed a group of students to die.
And they smiled when his fellow officer let his hand fall.

 But he couldn't shoot.

 So he watched as the two men were riddled with bullets. He watched them fall. The expression on the leader's face never faltered. Even during his death, he held his passion.

 He was not scoffed. No one let him off his duties forever. Even his fellow officer clamped him on the shoulder once, twice, before going to move the men out with the knowledge that they had successfully put the rebellion down.

 He could not feel that same success.

 Every time he blinked he saw the young man's face.

 And that's when he questioned. Had he been there, a student in university, would he have joined? Would he have listened to the fiery passion that laced that man's voice? Would he have stolen his gun or bought it? how many nights would he spend drunk and laughing and singing for tomorrow, even though there was that logic that tomorrow would never really come? Would he have shot at the incoming National Guard, armed only with a rifle he didn't know how to use and the fleeting thoughts that every breath he took then and there could be his last?
And then, all of a sudden, he was grateful he wasn't. And all for one reason.

 He was never one to pull the trigger.

Why Throw Your Lives Away?

shelny18

Work Text:

The barricade was far from perfect but Enjolras had to believe it would hold. If he started to let himself doubt, then he knew he would not last the night. He was the leader. The Amis needed him to be constant or sure. Now was not the time for him to be wondering if the people really would rise.
Just then, a voice rang out from the other side of the barricade.
"You at the barricade listen to this! No one is coming to help you to fight. You're on your own, you have no friends. Give up your guns - or die!"
As one, every student turned to look at Enjolras. Taking a deep breath, he gave them a brave smile, one showing more courage and belief than he felt.
"Damn their voices, damn their lies!" he snarled. "They will see the people rise!" One by one, starting with Courfeyrac, the students joined in, repeating the words Enjolras had just spoken. Enjolras looked round the group and felt pride rise at their conviction - a conviction he had helped build. His eyes passed over Grantaire and he felt like sighing. Even the drunkard was speaking, albeit quietly, eyes fixed on Enjolras. The blonde leader nodded at him with a small smile before turning away.
The volunteer was returning, sneaking back down a small alley to join them and Enjolras hurried forwards the moment he caught sight of him.
"Well?" he demanded.
"I've done as I said I would," the man replied. "Their numbers are even larger than we thought, we will have to be cunning."
"Obviously. Tell us everything."
"They won't attack tonight. They want to starve you out first. Then, they'll attack from the right."
"Liar."
Enjolras's head shot round to face Gavroche, eyes demanding an explanation for the interruption. As Gavroche continued his eyes narrowed, head turning to face the volunteer- no, not the volunteer, the spy Javert. As Grantaire shouted out drunkenly and Jehan inquired what they were going to do with Javert, Enjolras decided he needed time to think before doing anything.
"Take him through there - the people can decide his fate."
"Take the bastard now and shoot him!" Courfeyrac cried, others adding their own voices to his call for revenge.
"We have work to do," Enjolras reminded them all quickly, ordering Combeferre to take Javert through to the cafe. Sighing, he pinched the bridge of his nose, the warning of the soldier breaking through again. We're all dead, his subconscious told him.
"Don't give up," he heard a quiet voice say from behind him, a voice he wasn't even entirely sure he heard.
"Grantaire," Enjolras replied softly, looking up at the man he didn't always call a friend but whom he considered one. "Whoever said I was giving up?"
"The look on your face. You can't give up."
"Then I won't."
The death of Éponine that night had hit them all hard, especially Marius, and Enjolras wasn't entirely sure what to do. The next morning, he was ready to give in, and by the looks of things his friends were not far behind.
"The people have not stirred," he sighed. "We are abandoned by those who still live in fear. The people have not hear." He hesitated before continuing. "Yet we will not abandon those who cannot hear. But let us not waste lives. All women, or those men who are fathers of little children, let them go from here." He looked round the group. "Good luck to those who are left."
"Gavroche!" he suddenly heard Courfeyrac scream and he span to face the baricade, seeing the boy disappear over to the other side as Combeferre threw himself at Courfeyrac, trying to prevent his friend from committing suicide by following the child. The law student could not prevent the tears from falling as he dropped to his knees at the first shot, flinching at the second, at the silence that followed, at the unfinished song Gavroche had been singing. "Gavroche," he whispered, now clinging to Combeferre's arm for support instead of trying to fight him off.
"You at the barricade listen to this!" suddenly interrupted their grief. Enjolras climbed the barricade slightly, in order to better see the officer shouting at them. He recognised the voice, it was the same as the night before. "The people of Paris sleep in their beds. You have no chance, no chance at all. Why throw your lives away?"
"Why indeed?" Enjolras murmured to himself, sinking down onto the nearest ledge. "Why?" The students stared up at him, unsure of what was going to happen now. They had never seen their leader looking so confused.
"What now?" Combeferre asked quietly, still comforting Courfeyrac.
"We will all die if we stay here," Enjolras admitted, not meeting any eyes. "Already two have died. I cannot allow more to."
"We made our decisions," Jehan argued. "We all chose to come here."
"I cannot let you die for a battle we cannot win," Enjolras snapped. "This fight will change nothing, I see that now. The people are not ready." Standing, he slipped off his favourite red jacket before slowly unbuttoning the white shirt, pulling it off and waving it in the air, high enough for the officer on the other side to see. "Okay," he called out. "If you can guarantee our safety, then we surrender. We will not fight. We will give up our guns."
Les Amis could not have been more shocked if he had declared that King to be righteous but, as always, they stood behind him, not fighting back as the soldiers arrested them. Enjolras stared at the ground, tears of failure which he could not hide pricking at his eyes.
"I'm sorry," he whispered to Courfeyrac as he was dragged past, but his friend ignored him, eyes still fixed on the corpse of Gavroche. It would take time for that wound to heal.
Enjolras had never been so thankful to come from a rich family. Talking his father into paying for the release of not only himself but also his nine friends had taken him six weeks, and he hoped none of the others had had to suffer during that time. He had been cast out of his family now, the scandal too great for them, but he didn't care. He wasn't planning on going back to university, instead he would find himself a job somewhere. Work with the people he had wanted to save, in the hopes that next time they would trust him more and rise with him.
"Enjolras."
Smiling, he embraced Combeferre as his friend approached, a relieved look on his face.
"I was not certain they would let you out," Combeferre admitted. "Everyone else got out last week, we've been sending a different person each day to wait for news of you."
"I was the leader," Enjolras shrugged. "Of course they kept me longer." He paused before continuing quietly. "How are Courfeyrac and Marius?"
"Starting to forgive you, but give them time. The wounds are still fresh." Enjolras nodded, understanding perfectly. "Oh, and Grantaire wants to buy you a drink," laughed Combeferre as they started to walk away. "Something about you finally seeing sense, even if he did ask you not to give up."
"Well I never did do what he said." Stopping in the doorway of the cafe, Enjolras looked round the group, meeting each persons eye and trying to convey personal message to every single one through his looks. He felt he succeeded. "Well gentlemen, it is good to be free."
"Hear hear," cried Grantaire. "And alive."
"And alive," murmured Enjolras, taking his normal seat. "I'll drink to that."





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