CROSSPOSTS |FROM MY AO3|

THE SPACE BETWEEN SONGS | LES MIS

Grantaire made his way along the edge of the barricade, keeping an eye on Enjolras at all times. The stupid leader's face was smeared with dirt and ash as he climbed up to get a clearer view of the surroundings, sun hitting his hair like a halo and turning his red vest into fire. The only reason Grantaire had bothered to turn up at all was to keep Enjolras- and the rest of his friends- as safe as he could. He knew that this would never suceed, that the best outcome he could hope for was that they'd flee before they were captured, or worse, killed. Maybe he could convice them to see sense, he thought, but deep inside he knew that was fleeting.

But something else was keeping the cynic at the front line of battle. The leader, who'd barely spared him a side-eye, except to argue with him, mostly which Grantaire had provoked him into. Grantaire couldn't help but tease the man, with his silly ideas and out-of-fashion dress, and the wine loosened his tongue so much that the words slid out like melted butter. And he couldn't help but enjoy seeing the electricity in his face as he yelled at him, the furious passion that would only be directed at him in anger, nothing like the friendly warmth he showed the others. He knew it wasn't to be, that he couldn't hope for Enjolras to take him as a lover- even calling them friends would be a stretch, but still he drunk himself on wine and love, yelled at him until his heart broke, and painted in a dimly lit studio pictures of an angel. He was hopelessly in love with Enjolras, and at the same time believed that he hardly knew he existed.

He'd go through fire for that man, he knew that, or freezing snow, or vast, empty nothingness. That was what ran through the subconscience of his mind as he saw the uniformed soldier turn, pointing at Enjolras's exposed back as he turned the other way, raise the rifle, and, as if in slow motion, pull the trigger.

Grantaire let instinct take over from there, felt a jolt of pure fear as he threw himself in front of the taller man, feeling something hot and cold and heavy tear into his chest. For a moment, the only thing in his mind was relief. Enjolras was safe. Safe, safe, safe.

He felt the world start to blur around him, darkness scattering at the edge of his vision, feeling himself fall to the ground as if he was swimming in syrup, and his entire body hurt, like whatever had hit his chest was a beacon of scalding, boiling water pulsing and steaming inside of him, burning away everything until only bright light and aching pain was left. He could hear shouting that felt like it came from far away, and he struggled to keep his eyes open as he dragged a hand over the epicenter of the pain.

He wasn't surprised to find it soaked in what looked like wine but really wasn't. Grantaire wasn't stupid, he knew the odds of surviving this, even with the best medical care, were astronomical at best. All he could do was hope that someone- anyone, would find him, notice him, see him...

All of a sudden, he felt someone grab him by the shoulders, pull his face into their lap. He looked up to see the blurred face of Apollo himself, the sunlight casting a strange, almost ethereal glow around him. He could feel him shaking underneath him, as Enjolras's hands made their way to his stomach, trying futily to stop the blood.

"Joly! Get Joly! JOLY!" Enjolras yelled, stubborn even when there was no use. All he'd do was waste precious medical supplies that the others would need.

"S'okay, Monsieur," Grantaire choked out. "I don't... it doesn't hurt." He was lying, but what use was truth at a time like this? Nothing. All lies. All of it. Why was Enjolras here, caring now? He did not want to be a nusiance. Not now.

"Grantaire..." Enjolras muttered, his voice almost breaking. "Grantaire, y-you weren't... you didn't... you didn't even w-want t-to be h-here..."

"Shh, 'Pollo," he moaned, trying to move his hand to touch the other man's shoulder. "Don'- don' dirty your jacket." He tried to smile.