“Look. Straight at me.”
Enjolras turns his head, evening sun catching like fire in his hair. His eyebrows are knit in a slight frown. Not serious, but thoughtful. Grantaire works quickly, before the light fades. Loose brushstrokes make little scratching sounds on canvas. He toggles between fits of concentration and distraction, work and admiration. It hits him that this might be his last portrait, and he thinks, Good.
To die after immortalizing the one you worship, to die for his ideals, to die because you were enraptured by his charm and could do little else but follow—well, Grantaire was always one for theatrics.
“We should be helping our friends prepare,” Enjolras says. Grantaire, at the moment in a fit of concentration, stills his brush and lifts his gaze.
Enjolras' face is of classical beauty, and he could easily have been a Greek statue if his build wasn’t so slight. The way he holds himself, with his shoulders thrown back and determination in his eyes, reminds Grantaire of Achilles. They are both full of stubbornness, vengeance, rage.
Grantaire didn’t know it yet, but they are both doomed to die at the end, too.
“What, and spend our last hours working?” Grantaire says in jest. One half of his brain tells him he won’t see the stars after tonight; the other tells him he and his friends are all invincible. And then, he gestures at the painting. “My contribution to the barricade.”
Enjolras smiles wryly. Shakes his head and looks off to the side in disbelief. “I should hope you would contribute more than art.”
“And reduce our barricade to a utilitarian garbage heap? I’ll tell you the truth: I spit upon utilitarianism—”
“You spit upon all ideas.”
“Not all.”
“Which do you not?”
Grantaire frowns at Enjolras’ hair, then at the portrait. The air becomes tense as he mixes a different shade of yellow. He followed no idea, except perhaps the one that suggested a strong drink, a good fight, a pretty girl. He dismissed them all, but some he dismissed more readily than others. And there was one that, though he still held some inkling of belief in it, he dismissed anyway. Hoping that one day he’d stop.
Believing hurt.
“Every civilization creates. The Maya, the Haudenosaunee, the Yombe, the Ainu. The French.” He looks up, almost daring Enjolras to interrupt him, but he doesn’t speak, only looks at Grantaire with that slight frown. “Art and creation is something fundamentally human. It’s pleasurable, or it allows one to release pain. These are the two driving forces of man, no matter where he lives.
“Now, take our barricade. We are building it to defend your idea. Your idea is to create a just nation, to pluck its hypocrisies by the collar, to create a nation free of suffering and cruelty. Only in this nation can one truly prosper; only in this nation can mankind truly be great.”
There’s a few beats of silence as he cleans his paintbrush and moves on to the eyes. Again, the sunlight catches, illuminating the blue. Enjolras doesn’t squint in the sun. He just continues to frown, waiting for Grantaire to continue.
“This barricade, you can then say, represents what you wish France to become. Our grandparents have seen utilitarianism, have lived fully submerged in it—and did yours tell you pretty stories about the Terror? The revolts that follow the first are forever tainted by the catalyst’s ideal; one extreme leads to another, so do not take this lightly: do you wish to reduce France once more to a bloodbath? Do you wish to see another Napoleon? Napoleon was by definition unjust, and arose from what began as a mission for justice. Why? Robespierre led before him with utilitarianism. To sneer upon creation, that which is common to all people, is to sneer upon all people. Utilitarianism is to deny pleasure and to force a society to hold onto their pain.”
In the silence that follows, Grantaire cleans his brush again. Mixes a different colour.
“But, then again, you may be better off talking to Courfeyrac, seeing as he’s a lawyer. Lawyers must also be politicians, a little. I disregard politics. They have caused problems forever, and they are destined to cause problems forever.”
Enjolras blinks, and opens his mouth to retort. Grantaire shoots him a look.
“I don’t want a debate. I answered what you asked, is all.” And then, gesturing at his own eyes with paint-smudged fingers, “Look this way.”
Enjolras turns his head just so, and the room was silent. And then, he says, “For once you are right.”
Grantaire looks at him again, deadpan.
“Politics will always cause problems. People will always be mad to be led, or ruled over, or what-have-you. But why do you stay with us, if you disregard politics? Why are you here?”
Grantaire became absorbed in a detail. Of course, this is the perfect opportunity to say the truth. Enjolras would know, and the pain of certain rejection would be short-lived, because one—or both—of them would be killed at the barricade. And he would be able to rid himself of that hope he clung onto.
“Bossuet brought me once. It was a friendly enough lot. So I stuck around.”
Enjolras fixes Grantaire with a skeptical look, and Grantaire turns back to the painting. The light outside is fading quickly, and the conversation had caught him off-guard, and so he tries madly to catch the gist of the lighting.
“Grantaire.”
“Not now.”
“Answer my question truthfully,” he says, and then quietly adds, “please.”
Grantaire sighs. “Why do you revolt, if politics will always cause problems?”
“If I answer this, will you answer my question?”
“Jesus Christ, Enjolras.”
“Will you?”
“Maybe.”
This seems to be enough for enough for Enjolras. "Hope.”
"Careful. A fire warms before it burns," Grantaire says thoughtfully. “Perhaps Zeus was right to condemn Prometheus. Living in savagery would have prevented a lot of trouble.”
“We do live in savagery. And it’s not for lack of fires.”
Grantaire shakes his head, and let out the start of a bitter laugh. “Shall we offer up another Titan to Zeus Almighty and pray that the sacrifice offers civilization?”
“Well—”
“Who will it be? Who has led us here? Do we begin at the Bastille? The Fronde? The Jacquerie? Is it all the same, or must we offer up someone new each time?”
“Grantaire—”
“When did we begin fighting? Were the kings of France ever just? Were the people ever happy? How do we know what makes happiness if we have never seen it? How do you know what will bring happiness if you have lived entirely in—”
“What is wrong with you?”
By now, Grantaire’s hands are too unsteady to paint. His brush waves madly in his hand, and drops of the same bright red he used to paint Enjolras’ vest are now splattered on the painting’s cheek. The question, the way Enjolras hisses: it all feels like a punch to the gut, and forces the air from his lungs in the same way. He looks up at Enjolras, and says quietly:
“I am afraid.”
He slumps down on the stool behind him, drags a hand down his face, and lets out a long sigh. What he wouldn’t give for a strong drink right now. He is afraid, and he shoulders the full force of it. He is afraid, and cowers in front of the Prometheus of this rebellion. And he feels as if he should not be here, even though this is his own home; he wishes to avoid Enjolras’ disappointment.
He senses, rather than hears, Enjolras approach. He rests a hand on his shoulder. Grantaire peers at him through his fingers. Enjolras opens his mouth, then purses his lips and bows his head.
And then, “I think only Jehan is unafraid.”
“I think I am the most afraid.”
“No,” Enjolras says. His hand disappears from Grantaire’s shoulder, and Grantaire misses it, but Enjolras has just gone to bring a stool for himself, and is back soon enough. He sits, facing Grantaire, pulls his hands away from his face. Looks at him with a peculiar expression, not quite a frown, but not a smile either. He says, “I am so terrified that I have not slept well for a week.”
“I don’t think I ever slept well.”
This makes Enjolras laugh. He’s every bit as nervous and sleep-deprived as he says he is, Grantaire knows, because he has never heard him laugh. And it stirs an ache in his chest. He wishes he could’ve heard that laugh more.
Grantaire gives a small smile, and doesn’t realize he’s staring until Enjolras meets his gaze. He opens his mouth to say something, and Enjolras raises his eyebrows expectantly.
He looks at the ground, and with another small smile, shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”
Enjolras leans forward, puts a hand on Grantaire’s wrist. “Say it anyway.”
Grantaire’s breath hitches. He glances at Enjolras, caught off-guard by the gentleness in his voice, and he sees real concern in his eyes, and Grantaire can feel the words trying to leave his mouth, I love you I love you I love you , feels his head trying to reel back his heart.
And there’s a space in time where his heart is winning, where all he does is reach for Enjolras’ other hand, runs his fingers over Enjolras’, prays to the powers that be that Enjolras will understand, prays that, if nothing else, Enjolras forgives him for not being able to speak.
Enjolras closes his fingers over Grantaire’s, stands, pulls him to his feet. Looks at him, eyebrows furrowed just so. Still holding his hand. Grantaire is somewhere between fear and elation. Ecstatic that Enjolras hasn’t shoved him away. Worried that he might have misinterpreted. Afraid that he might still leave. Thirty seconds to walk out the door. Hardly a difficult move. A few seconds pass, and Grantaire tries to pull his hand free, tries to say forget it .
Enjolras pulls him into a hug, practically leaping forward. Arms around shoulders. Clinging. Grantaire stumbles backward from the force. He catches himself, wraps his arms around Enjolras’ waist. The breath he was holding leaves his chest.
After a moment, Enjolras leans back, fixes Grantaire with that look again. Rests a hand on the side of his face. The last dregs of sunlight are fading over the horizon, but though they are cast in shadow, Enjolras’ eyes are still rich blue, the same shade of the rose window at the Notre Dame. He is on the verge of tears.
“What’s wrong?”
He says in a rush, “I always wonder if I drag my friends into danger for nothing. The people fight, and we learn about it, and we are inspired by it, believing in the power held by a collection of common men, but we have truly gained anything from times past? Are we destined to forever travel in a cycle of liberation and oppression? I know this is dangerous. I know we could be killed. And if it was just me, it wouldn’t be so bad, because I wouldn’t be risking the lives of the people I care about, and—”
“Shh .”
“Grantaire,” Enjolras whispers, “ I am afraid.”
Grantaire rests a hand on the side of Enjolras’ face. How does one comfort another? How does one reassure another that everything will be alright when it’s very possible that it won’t? If he spoke that line, it would be a lie, and they would both know it.
He says instead, “You are brave.”
Enjolras laughs through his tears. “In spite of my cowardice?”
“You’ve never been a coward.”
In that moment, fear for the future and reverence for the man in front of him both course though Grantaire’s blood. He feels bold. Bold enough to press his lips to Enjolras’ ivory cheek. When he pulls back, Enjolras raises both hands to his face. Kisses him on the mouth.
Grantaire feels as if he is floating.
They kiss again, and again, and again, and they are scared, and there are tears falling down their faces. Some believe that a person knows when they are close to death, that at a certain checkpoint the voice of some higher power reveals when one will expire. If, indeed, Enjolras and Grantaire knew that the next morning would be their last, in this moment, they must be mourning for what might have been. Wondering if this is the only time they will exist like this. How many kisses can one steal while one fights for their life? While trying to outrun fate?
When they pull away, they look into each other’s eyes, at the shadows that dusk casts on the other’s nose, brow, cheek. And they hold each other close.
“Enjolras?” The name is sweet on his tongue, and he fears he will only say it a few more times.
“Grantaire?”
He doesn’t want to say it, doesn’t want to end this moment, but Enjolras would never forgive himself if he abandoned the barricade, his friends, his cause. And Grantaire would never forgive himself either. He had abandoned ideas long ago, but he would never abandon his friends.
He kisses Enjolras once more, softly. Afterward, he says, “We should go. To the Cafe Musain.”
Enjolras’ eyes are still puffy from tears, and he is visibly worried, but he manages a smile. “Help our friends.”
They hold hands on their way to the door. Enjolras stops in front of the painting. It’s half-finished, marred by that red splatter of paint.
“You flatter me,” he says.
“It’s ruined. And unfinished.”
“It’s symbolism. The red. The sun sets on the old world and rises in the new.”
Grantaire shakes his head and laughs. When facing danger, it helps to laugh. One can only bear apprehension for so long. “And the blood? It's a bit grim, for you.”
“Did you sign it?”
The change in subject is sudden. If this had been a normal day, if fear and elation weren't coursing through his veins like wine, Grantaire would ask Enjolras to excuse his dark humour. But this is not a normal day. The abruptness catches him off-guard. “It’s unfinished,” he repeats.
“Sign it. If you lose it or…” Enjolras begins again, “If it goes missing, someone might know it’s you.”
What he means, Grantaire thinks, is: if you die, someone should be allowed to discover your name. Grantaire almost cries from that alone. That Enjolras - Enjolras - should think his name worthy of being discovered.
Instead, he shakes his head again. Normal Grantaire would find this exasperating, and so he tries his best to feign that. He lets go of Enjolras’ hand, and reaches for a fine paintbrush. “Shall I take this to the barricade?”
“You weren’t joking about that?”
“No. I was thinking of setting up a little art gallery there, actually. Remember, I—”
“Spit upon utilitarianism, yes.” Enjolras sighs and smiles. “Alright.”
Grantaire signs the canvas with a flourish and cleans the brush. He gestures to a corner of the studio. “There’s some I want to take, could you carry a few?
And so, they set off toward the Cafe Musain, carrying canvases of landscapes, of their friends, of strangers’ silhouettes. The nighttime air is still warm with the heat of the day. There’s still fear in their chests, and sometimes one will look at the other and see the moonlight reflected in his tears. But there is love in their hearts, too, and other times they will look at each other just to smile bashfully. In those moments, they are young, fearless, invincible.