Les Misérables and her characters do not belong to me. This is the second fill for the kinkmeme at LJ and first posted there.


M a r t y r

The blood orange sunset casted a sombre backdrop to the eve of rebellion, a (disappointing) Revolution: there was a heavy, intense air about the dark evening after (mournful, sad, disquiet). There remained screams of mourning mothers, the tears from once-beloveds as well as the almost-acceptance from stoic fathers filled the crisp morning as they saw their (children, lovers, friends) lying side by side in the street that held the bodies. (those not unlike the screams, tears and groans that travelled unpermeated through the gunshots in the yesterday.)

He stood at the bottom of the barricade, staring out into the dark mid-day of June 7th (black – the colour of despair), impassive, aloof, phlegmatic (black – my world if he's not there). Incomplete, broken, destroyed.

"What ails you, Enjolras? We have lost only the battle, not the war," Combeferre whispered lowly, mindful of the mourning citizens.

"Black," Enjolras whispered hoarsely (sarcastic, cynical, weary, tired, pessimistic) (just like him, nihilist ramblings and world-weary). "Black, dark – how many have we lost, Combeferre? The blood has still not been scrubbed from the street, the King has won, the world is dark; the clouds mourning with their shed tears! Paris; France has lost over three dozen of Her children. Children, men, who cared enough for Patria that they went, crossed, willing into Death's arms!

But no! – have you numbered our members? Have you counted our friends, kissed their wounds (with love), and found the numbers wanting?! What of those people?"

(the blood of the Martyrs will water the meadows of France)

Combeferre frowned, paled, and he stammered backwards in shock, "who?" he cried. "Jehan, Bossuet, Marius?"

"Jehan is with Courfeyrac, Bossuet and Joly with their mistress, Marius with his sweetheart and her father, Bahorel; taking the barricades apart, Grantaire is …" Enjolras trailed off.

"I will go find and deprive him from the comfort of sleep," Combeferre had completely misread his statement. Though Enjolras continued to nod, (you will find out the truth), unapologetic for making light of Grantaire's annihilation. He wants to keep his death close to his chest, to mourn in quiet, to cry without comfort (he deserves to feel this pain, the ache from his carelessness will never cease and Grantaire, R, will forever be naught but a memoir).

"Bring everyone to meet at the front of the Musain when you do, Combeferre."


Outside the Musain, there are seven students (revolutionaries, survivors, friends) gathered around their (Fearless) Leader, it is a mockery of when Enjolras had his Revolutionary Fervour and this would be not the cause for change but for the tears of the Amis, (at the shrine of friendship never say die). Enjolras opens his mouth to inform (of Grantaire's death, he is gone; the death count; the National Guard; R), but there is no noise.

His mouth closes, opens and closes again.

Enjolras knows what he wants to say, the points he wants to explain (he is deaddeaddead).

"The King is feeling somewhat humane this past morn, that is, from what I have heard, he has given us a chance to recuperate. At worst, we will be imprisoned and at best: fined heavily for our part in our Revolution. He has mentioned, only if we refuse our sentence or fine, will we be hunted like animals." He is lacking in passion that makes (him glow as if Apollo himself),

He is lacking in Grantaire.

Combeferre at this point arrives at the front of the café, he has already been told – courtesy of being the second, magnified his concern for Grantaire (who is deaddeaddead), "While I was out looking for Grantaire, I could not find hide or tail of him, has anyone seen him?"

No. No one. Nobody since Enjolras who had seen him float atop the pool of his own blood (red – the blood of angry men). He closed his eyes.

He reopened his eyes to see…


The shower of bullets pierced through the coverlet of mist on the blood stained cobbles; gunpowder and screams of his comrades weighted on his tongue; salt-water blurred his sight. Enjolras looked low on the floor to avoid tripping over the corpses of his dead comrades (mangled, bloodless, gouged). The night before Lamarque's death, Enjolras had used his family's monies to buy new weaponry, then hidden them under the floorboards of the Musain in hopes that they would not need to be uncovered. Though now it was apparent that those that remained would need to be revealed from their hiding.

He took out the half-dozen muskets and hurriedly placed it on one of the tables that had not been used for the barricade (we need as much furniture as you can throw down!), Enjolras dropped onto a knee, aiming his musket out of the window, shooting down at the enemy soldiers, killing (he could be your brother) (he is).

Unheard to Enjolras, there was a rouge National Guardsman, creeping up to the marksman shooting at his fellow soldiers, he began to take aim at the blond revolutionary. Unknown, unheard to both the young sniper and Enjolras, Grantaire had awoken to the violent crash on the wall of the café.

Grantaire had heard Enjolras, seen the rogue, seen the dark promise in his eyes, had pressed himself against the walls of the room and made for the table of weaponry. Just as the soldier raised his musket for his shot, Grantaire jumped for the table, twisting his body (covering Enjolras) at the same time reached for a musket. In the soldier's infinite expertise (le bâtard) his finger tightened around the trigger thus a metal ball flew towards the (un)prepared couple. It hit only the front of the duo: Grantaire (and now he is deaddeaddead). But Grantaire who had been equipped; fired a killing shot (revenge did not, would never fill his empty soul). There stood Enjolras, unprepared for the wailing of his soul and unwillingly still. (Grantaire who was and Grantaire who is.)


Something (lost, sad, bitter, hatred, R) must have been in his expression for all his brothers (for he to-day that sheds his blood with me / shall be my brother) to have closed in on him so – a shadowed mockery of affection.

"Do you know? Enjolras, do you know where he is," Joly pressed on. "I doubt he has accumulated many injuries; nevertheless, it is better to be certain."

"No, Grantaire indeed was lucky, I saw but two wounds," one from the bullet and the other his bleeding heart. "Grantaire is…he is, however…"

"Enjolras, tell us now – stop dawdling upon the subject. How bad is he?"

Eyes closed; eyes opened (cerulean to the sky).

"Grantaire did not survive the second wave of the Guardsmen."


Somehow, Enjolras was at the side of Grantaire, holding his dark curls on his lap. "How was that to help the situation?" (I would rather myself than you.)

Grantaire's mouth held a wry smile (smirk?), blood ran from the corner of his mouth, as he opened his mouth: his blood was smeared upon his teeth, "Ah…Apollo, who was I to live while my god fell from his throne at Olympus?"

"Do not call me Apollo, Grantaire. You do not believe in this cause, why die for it? Why did such a nihilist abandon his stand against humanity then fall?"

"You do not know?" A wince that jarred his wound, that caused further pain and more blood to blossom against the once white shirt. Enjolras pulled his own shirt out of his trousers, tore the thin fabric then tied the cloth around Grantaire's crying wound. "I am dying now, you would not…"

"You are not dying, I shall fetch Joly, or Combeferre. And you will live!"

"I am slowly departing this platform of life," (why are you so sure? Will you not live for me?). A hand clawed around the buttons of his top, "Do not bother our medics; let them save those who are able to be saved. Not one who will surely die within the next hour."

Enjolras quickly made his mind; he would lie with Grantaire. He would not die lonely. As his epiphany came, Grantaire spoke again (your last confession).

Rough, breathless words spilled from Grantaire's blood red (no longer a pretty metaphor) lips. Painting a picture that Enjolras found he could not enjoy. A tale of unrequited love: one of Enjolras and Grantaire. A wish to please that never succeeded. A deep, tumultuous, glorious love. (I would love you now; treasure you forever.) The yearning of a passion that he did not have, that sprung into a love for an Apollonian figure, the passion that could never be unleashed flooded into one thought, one person. This one love. The history of a Grantaire and an Enjolras that never did.

"So you will die, but not for the Revolution, for –"


"You, he died for you, you are aware?" Jehan's voice interrupted his memories, tears catching upon his eyelashes, created a curving alley down his prominent cheekbones.

"Me, yes, he told me," stutters did not fit his voice Enjolras thought detachedly. "Yes, he told me (upon his dying breaths) that he did, die for me –"

"And not the Revolution." Combeferre's lukewarm tone and disappointment weighed upon his shoulders, "you could have told me; that he had died, did not need to give me false hope when there was –"

None. No hope.

"I…I did not mean to keep the truth, but it was fresh, my mind can barely comprehend it, to speak it out loud…"

Would make it real (make it true. Do not make me: Grantaire is deaddeaddead).

Even so, Combeferre was first his friend (second – revolutionary, third – doctor) and gave comfort in a solid hold that seized his oldest living companion.

At some second in time, Courfeyrac had reached forward to fold Jehan into his cold arms, whispered words and there. There appeared an unholy jealousy in Enjolras' breast (he should be here and I would have held him so, loved him so).

Joly and Bossuet seemed stock-still, Bahorel silenced in unperceived, mad grief and Feuilly paced the area around the Amis in a manner unlike an uncivilised animal might have done. Marius opened his arms half-heartedly against the cold wind of loss, embracing the sting of (dead) close companions wash across his hazy features. All had a form of salt-water upon their face, however, a single tributary, torrents of salt-water and some silent, the others rasping, bodily sobs. (The latter was surely Enjolras, but he could not feel, he was paralyzed inside his moving form.)


Grantaire's blue eyes (icy, cool and burned from within) closed slowly, his breathing laboured. Hot hands grip his heart (panic) and Enjolras presses cool fingertips into Grantaire's face, into the sharp cheekbones and the soft skin above his clavicle, the pale flesh covering the jugular, the hollows of his throat. His heartbeat slowed: thump...thump… (unlike Enjolras' own erratic pulse) thump…

"Do not you dare close your eyes Grantaire, you will live," (dear God above).

His icy orbs flutter open and a bloody cough splatters crimson against Enjolras' loosened cravat. His mouth twitches as if he wants to speak, but does not wish to appear even more vulnerable than a dying man already is. Grantaire, reached throughout his whole body to attain all courage from the corners of his soul, spoke: "I love you… Though…you are…are surely…aware of my feelings...towards you? Nonetheless…I love you." Grantaire's eyes close, but before Enjolras can utter a single word of protest, he reopens his eyes tiredly and continues with a sigh. "Do you permit me…me a kiss?"

Surely, if Grantaire was better, surely if these were not his last words (they were), he would… (would not have asked because Enjolras could see that Grantaire had only just been granted this boon of courage) (without it he may have never spoken) But Grantaire asked if he would permit him a kiss. Therefore, a kiss he would receive (would True Love's kiss keep him alive?). Enjolras leaned down, bending to Grantaire's head in his lap.

The kiss was, overall, chaste, just the press of lips but it was the most wonderful kiss both men had ever experienced. (if so, Enjolras would lay upon him a thousand kisses.) Enjolras moved the hand that was not supporting Grantaire's head, his fingers twisting around the dark curls, to Grantaire's calloused fingers (together). (Enjolras pressed his hand with a smile.) Grantaire pressed their palms tightly together.

Enjolras leaned backwards, allowing himself to see Grantaire's face (his eyes sparkled).

The grip on his hand began to slacken (though he kept his own tight). The eyes Enjolras had begun to love started to empty.

Grantaire died in the arms of the man he lived and died for.

Icy cold vines coiled around Enjolras' breaking heart. His hot breath came out in uneven gasps; he pressed a quivering palm to Grantaire's corpse. Sobs broke out of his body as Enjolras pressed kisses (a thousand) onto him. (A hundred) trembling kisses to his cheeks, shattered kisses to his love's palm (a second hundred) and (a thousand more) kisses to Grantaire's smiling (peaceful) (dead) mouth.

Enjolras' first and last kiss was with a man and his name was Grantaire.



Comments are all welcomed and I'm unsure whether or not to write a sequel for this so ideas for a sequel may put one into motion.