he sees them lying side by side

can't stop it

It is Joly of whom falls first; bullets scattering minute holes across his thickly clothed chest. Grantaire will blink; a way of clearing the foreseen image from his mind, gaze lift toward the - very much alive - Joly; grinning and laughing alongside Bossuet from atop the barricade.

And then his eyes flicker shut once more, and Bossuet's death is seen - yelling over that of Joly's body as the bayonet spears a section between his shoulder blade; shouts falling from grief to that of pain as he collapses across Joly's body - arms sprawled across the crimson stained cobblestones.

It is a curse - the images he sees; and the fact that he can do nothing to prevent them. Not even if he tries.

A blink gifts him with an image of Bahorel being pressured backwards - yells hesitantly decreasing in volume as vermilion stains a damp section of his yellowed shirt.

Jehan is to die whilst yelling towards Feuilly - advising the other to run; run as far and as fast as he can. Ultimately, neither is spared - their deaths a direct result of their foolish belief in revolution. Grantaire breathes out a heavy sigh; eyes widened and gaze cast across the cluster of future dead men.

Come tomorrow, not a single man on the premise would be breathing - he could foretell such; the nightmarish images that awakened him at ungodly hours gifted him with such knowledge.

Yet, despite all this prior information gleaned - Grantaire could do nothing. Nothing at all.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac die alongside each other - he couldn't have expected any less; struck by gunshots fired through a thin wooden floor - bodies collapsing with a collective thud of impact.

Enjolras - god, Enjolras. The man vied for death - Grantaire knew. Vied to fall as a martyr for France; his beloved revolution won.

And Grantaire knew; that Enjolras would die. Yet, he did imagine that hand in hand with Grantaire - golden smile offered toward the attackers - was not the way the blonde revolutionary had planned on going.