Survivor's Guilt

The Second Floor of the Musain

"Enj."

I spun around, on guard.

"Please, it's only me."

I relaxed, but only enough to make him happy. I never relaxed completely.

"There's no need to tense up. You know only I call you Enj," he took a sip out of his flask.

I can't deal with sudden noise or movement. Not since that fateful morning.

Bahorel was first.
Combeferre was helping someone.
Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Boussett were defending the barricade.
Jean Prouvaire simply never came back.
Joly had a cold. He tried his best, but his coughing and sniffing gave him away. 
Pontmercy was lost in the sewers.

It's only R and I left. The cynic and the dreamer. The artist and the leader.

Sometimes, I thought about what would have happened if someone from the National Guard found his way up into the room in which we were hiding.

I shuddered.

-

He enjoyed painting my eyes.

"Your eyelashes are the longest I've ever seen. Whenever you blink, they brush the top of your cheeks. And the color is hypnotizing. Not quite as dark as a sapphire, but darker than a twilight sky. They sparkly a certain way in the daylight, but only around mid to late afternoon, when the sun is at the perfect angle, hitting the window of the Café."

What a poet. He always said things like that.

"If you can't relax all the way, just think about Jean-Jacques Rousseau or Jean Maximillien Lamarque," he laughed. He was never a true revolutionary, but at least he paid attention.

"In case you haven't noticed, both those men are dead. Like many other men who used to be in our lives."

"Many, but not all," he smiled, and went back to whatever he was painting.

I guess he was right. We had each other. And Cosette, if we're making stretches. She was our only other connection to the Les Amis, if we even consider him part of our group. He only joined the cause because he thought he would never see his beloved Cosette ever again.

She and Pontmercy would have most likely gotten married.

Pontmercy. Head always in the clouds. He was never focused on The Goal. He would always swear up and down that "this girl is the one, Enjolras. We will get married one day, I promise you that."

He did this at least five times.

I think Cosette may have been the one, though. I spoke with her at the funeral. Of course, only he had a funeral. None of the Les Amis. They were all too poor. Pontmercy had his grandfather.

They were very much alike, Cosette and Pontmercy. Both had their head in the clouds, focused on things that didn't matter.

Of course, who am I to mock those with their heads in clouds? R always called me a dreamer.  Fighting for a New World that would never come to reality. Wanting equality, liberty, and brotherhood.

I ran my fingers through my long, dirty blond, curly hair.

"Stop!" I heard R yell, "do not move, or else I'll cut off all of your hair."

I wasn't one to care too much about physical appearance, but I did love my hair. It was probably my best asset, appearance-wise. It looked as if I had curled all of it using curling tongs, then ran my fingers through it to loosen it, but it was all natural. I did as he said. I've learned to just do whatever he asked, because he usually had some method to his madness.

He walked around me a few times, studying my blond locks. He nodded, and went back to his canvas.

Of course, it was a little strange, but I didn't think much of it. Grantaire was a little strange.

I looked back out the window, down to the street. Pedestrians walked along the sidewalk, while policemen on horses trotted along Rue Cujas. Not too long ago, there was a barricade there, similar to our's on Rue Mondétour.

I smiled. Most of the men fighting at Rue Cujas made it out. Our barricade wasn't so lucky, but at least we went down fighting.

Well, most of us went down.

I pounded my fist against the wall.

"What's got you so mad?"

"I don't know, survivor's guilt?" I whipped around to face R. Our eyes met.

He wasn't known to have the most attractive face in Paris, but his green eyes sparkled in the light.

"But Enj, there's nothing for you to be guilty about."

He was wrong. "Yes there is. I convinced everyone to join. It's my fault they're all dead."

"It's not your fault. It was their time. It was in God's will," he said.

"Since when have you been religious?"

He looked at me dead in the eye. "Since never," he responded, dryly. He turned his attention back to his art.

Thanks for the help, R.