Les Mis One Shots

Alone

•Instead of Marius, and by pure luck, Grantaire is the sole survivor of the Attack on the Barricade•

Carefully, Grantaire pulled Fueilly into the too-long line of dead bodies he was arranging. His vision blurred as he walked past his friends, arranging them to hide the bullet wounds and make them look more peaceful. Glancing out the window, he caught sight of a limp hand, clutching a red cloth.
His blood turned cold.
No. Not Enjolras.
He rushed up the stairs 2 at a time, ignoring the sharp pains and leaping over the hole created by his friends in one final attempt to protect themselves. He slowed as he approached the window. Carefully, he pulled the hanging body inside.
"No!!" He sobbed, collapsing to his knees and pulling the limp body into his lap. "Enjolras, no." He whispered, watching tears fall gently onto the pale face of his best friend.
He looked at Enjolras's face. The fire in his eyes was gone, no longer there to inspire the hearts of those who saw him. Gently, he pushed the loose blonde curls away from his face. Even in death he was stunningly beautiful.
Grantaire's mind flooded with images of his friends laughing and singing. He couldn't believe it. He wouldn't believe it. Gently, he picked the body of his beloved best friend, carrying it carefully to align it next to Marius. His body racked with uncontrollable sobs, as he gently placed the cloth in Enjorlas's hand and closed his eyes.
Shaking from grief, he walked outside of the cafe. The barricade was in shambles, and the streets ran with blood. His friend's blood. He walked through puddles of it, his mind clouded with grief. Then the realization struck him.
Every single one of his friends died. Died for the cause they believed in. Grief struck him, and he collapsed, blood soaking into his clothes.
Their cause was over. The revolution was dead. The fire was gone. No more would they dream about a hopeful future. They didn't have a future.
Grantaire had never believed in their cause. He had only believed in Enjolras, and now he was gone. The one soul on the
Earth that he had fully believed in, and who had believed in him, was gone.
Numbly, he stood up from the pool of blood and stumbled back inside. He knew what he had to do. His cause was dead. He had nothing to believe in.
Stumbling into the cafe, he found a rejected gun.
"I'll be with you soon, my friends." Grantaire whispered, looking at the line of bodies he had meticulously arranged.
He closed his eyes, putting the point of the gun to his head and dragging into his mind the images of those he loved.
Those he was going to join.
He pulled the trigger, and the world went black.