A/N: I've been writing againnnn! This is just a little Enjolras/Grantaire fic. The title's meaning is in here somewhere. R/R appreciated as much as Les Mis itself!


"Do you permit it?" Grantaire's hand extends, as if to grip yours.
Part of you wants to refuse, to force him to run, to jump, something. But most of you refuses. Your grip on the flag tightens as you take his hand, giving him a slight nod.
A line from a poem runs through your head: 'Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori.'
"It is sweet and right to die for your country."
He was your revolution, the inspiration for everything. The speeches, the fancy words, the reason for it all.
And now you will die with him.
"Vive la revolution! Vive la France!" Your final words. Grantaire's eyes shine, whether with defiance or drunkenness you can't be certain, and he smiles.
So many words left unsaid.
The air explodes into gunfire, your final thought being "You were my Patria."