The gunshots are what wake Grantaire, but it's the whispered voices that pull him back to consciousness.

"Is he dead?"

"If not, he will be soon."

"Who is he?"

"The leader, I heard him being called Apollo."

These are the words that cause Grantaire to open his eyes, to sit up and stare at the scene before him.

Around him, his friends' limp bodies lie, strewn across the floor like discarded toys. They lie in pools of their own blood. It's horrifying, it's beautiful.

Across the room, soldiers are stood in a cluster, staring at an entirely different scene. Their eyes' are sorrowful, yet they show no signs of remorse; they don't seem to regret the murder, they don't mind the blood that's soaking their shoes.

And then there's Enjolras, leaning against a wall, still godlike, even with his body riddled with bullets. His head is bowed and he's swaying, on the verge of collapsing.

Grantaire pushes his chair back and walks towards him. The soldiers turn, gaping at the man they'd overlooked and presumed to be dead, the man that smelt so strongly of wine.

The man now stumbling towards his leader. He walks slowly, with no sense of urgency. It doesn't even occur to the soldiers to shoot him; he's defenceless.

Enjolras doesn't even seem to have noticed, he's looking down at his bloodstained hands, staring in wonder at the slick red liquid.

Gently, Grantaire reaches out and steadies him. This causes Enjolras to crumple to the floor, wincing as blood wets his shirt.

"It's alright." Grantaire whispers as he kneels next to him. "I'll stay with you until you go, we've lost, there's no more fighting for you to do."

Only then does he realise that he will be the last face Enjolras sees, the last voice Enjolras hears, the last person Enjolras touches.

"If you'll permit it?"

The question matters more than the answer.

Enjolras grips his hand and smiles before saying, "I'm glad it's you."

And he's smiling gently, his expression is the softest Grantaire has ever seen it.

"No!" He wants to scream, "You don't understand, this isn't how it works, I am nothing compared to you! You are like the sun, and I am a cynic, a blind man who fell in love with a light he couldn't truly see."

But these words are too harsh to say to a dying man, and Grantaire knows it. So instead he settles for what he knows he should say, what everyone says.

"Wait for me will you?" He tries to smile, "Meet me in heaven. By the big pearly gates. If I'm not there in time for dinner, then assume I went down to hell instead."

It's a weak attempt at humour, but it still gets a small laugh from Enjolras, who's getting dangerously pale.

"I thought you didn't believe in anything?" He smiles, as though remembering one of their many arguments in the past.

"I believe in you." Grantaire said.

Those were the last words Enjolras heard.

His grip loosens, his two sticky hands gently rest on top of Grantaire's.

Then he stops breathing, and everything is happening all at once. Grantaire watches as the light fades from Enjolras' eyes.

It's like watching the sun die, Grantaire thinks. And he knows, that if the sun died, so would everything else.

What is he supposed to do without his sun?

He doesn't realise he's crying until he sees the tears landing on Enjolras' face. He doesn't care though, this isn't Enjolras, it's just a body, a lifeless body. Enjolras was so much more.

A cough reminds Grantaire that he isn't alone, and as he looks up, he feels a strange kind of joy.

He doesn't have to be alone for long.

"Take aim."

The soldiers are reluctant, they've now witnessed the damage their guns can do.

"Fire."

Grantaire closes his eyes and thinks of everyone else that died. Of Eponine who was the first to fall. Of Gavroche, who was too young, who should have stayed away from war. Of all his friends, whose deaths he hadn't seen.

Of Enjolras, who'd fought until the end, until he'd been ripped apart by bullets.

Bullets.

He feels them, everywhere, from every direction. Sharp, tearing holes through him. He feels them lodge in his stomach. He feels them fly straight through him, through his chest, through his shoulder, through his leg.

He feels one crack through his skull.

And then, darkness. No pearly gates, no hellfire, just darkness.

Then light, because he can see the brightest person to ever live.

He's like the sun, he's like Apollo.

And Grantaire is no longer blind.

Author's Note: This was the first real fic I actually wrote, I think it turned out okay, but it's pretty old and I've improved since then.