#te plot point

“Pardon me, Monsieur,” a voice at the bottom of the barricade called respectfully.

The leader looked down at the shorter man who was looking up at him. “Citizen?”

The other man fidgeted with the glasses in his hands. “You asked me to report to you on the condition of the man who was struck by a bullet at Bastille earlier today.  He went by the name of Combeferre.”

The leader stiffened and slowly climbed down the barricade. “What is his status, Monsieur …?”

The other man slipped his glasses in his pocket and wiped his blood-soaked hands on his blood-soaked shirt. “Joly.” He stuck out his hand.

The leader shook his hand firmly. “Enjolras. And the status of Combeferre?”

Joly pointed towards a small café that had been turned into an infirmary. “He is resting in there, you may speak to him if you would like.” He turned back to Enjolras. “I did all I could but … he was shot in the heart.”

Enjolras nodded solemnly and placed his hand on Joly’s shoulder. “Thank you for your help.”

Joly nodded. “Of course, Monsieur Enjolras.”

The café was hot and muggy and filled with men and women with bloody bandages covering their bodies. Enjolras sat beside a table with Combeferre lying on top of it. Courfeyrac was already by his side, grasping his hand.

“T-The … Bastille …?” Combeferre muttered, breathing heavily through the blood in his teeth.

“Taken,” Enjolras said, gently.

Courfeyrac tried to smile through the tears running down his face. “The people are still fighting back.”

Combeferre closed his eyes and smiled. “Change h-has …” He coughed. Courfeyrac looked away and Enjolras closed his eyes as blood trickled down their friend’s face. “… has … come.”

Enjolras opened his eyes and put his hand on Combeferre’s shoulder. “You can rest—“ he stopped and stared at Combeferre’s green, unblinking, lifeless eyes that were starring up at him.

Enjolras was shot and killed the next day.

Courfeyrac was stabbed and died shortly after.

6th June 1832 - Paris

Smoke.

Fire.

Shouts.

Screams.

Cries of anger, freedom, vengeance …

Equality.

The National Guard had stormed the barricades and were killing what all was left of Les Amis de L’ABC.

Enjolras reloaded his weapon and shot at a solider, not even bothering to see if the solider was dead after he fell.

“Enjolras!”

Enjolras swiveled around and saw Courfeyrac a few yards away from him, pointing to the Corinth.

“We have to fall back, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac yelled. “We have to—“

His words were cut short as a bullet collided into his chest causing a fountain of blood to erupt from his mouth.

“Courfeyrac!” Enjolras screamed, running over to his friend, who had fallen back against the wall of the Corinth … dead.

Enjolras looked desperately around for a doctor and spotted Combeferre bending down next to the soldier he had shot at a few moments earlier.  Enjolras’s cry got caught in his throat as he watched two soldiers quickly come up behind Combeferre and stab him in the back with their bayonets.

Combeferre’s eyes rolled back and he slumped over onto the cobblestoned road.

Enjolras was shot 8 times in the chest an hour later.

3rd July 1916 – Hills north of Verdun-sur-Meuse

Smoke.

Fire.

Shouts.

Screams.

Gunfire.

Cries of pain.

“E-Enjolras … Enjolras, I want … I want to go home,” Combeferre stuttered, shivering under his rain-soaked army uniform, his hand doing a poor job of hiding a large bloodstain forming over his heart.

Enjolras leaned against the muddy wall of the trenches and gripped his rifle. “Me too.” He put his rifle down and pulled off his large overcoat and draped it over Combeferre. “Hang in there, alright? Courfeyrac is trying to find a medic.”

Combeferre pulled off Enjolras’s overcoat and pushed it back towards him. “…y-you’ll g-g-get … sick.”

Enjolras forced a smile and wiped his wet hair out of his face. “I’ll be okay. It will stop raining soon enough.” He recovered Combeferre with the jacket.

Combeferre was silent for a moment. “D-Do you think we’ll … we’ll win?”

Enjolras put his rifle in his lap and crossed his arms over his chest. “The battle or the war?”

Combeferre coughed painfully. “The war.”

Enjolras thought for a moment and then nodded. “Yes, we’ll win. Even if we don’t win this battle, we will win the war.”

“I think … I th-think you’re … right.” Combeferre coughed a few more times.  “The king won’t … he wont give up anyway.”

Enjolras fingered the royal seal that was patched onto his army uniform. “I’m not fighting for him … I’m fighting for the people.”

Combeferre lurched forward and coughed harder, blood splattered onto the muddy ground in front of him.

Enjolras grabbed his arm and put his other hand on Combeferre’s back. “’Ferre?!”

Combeferre went slack and fell to the side.

Enjolras squeezed his arm. “No … no no no … Combeferre? Hold on … Courfeyrac will be here soon … just … don’t leave me …” Enjolras sat back and put his head in his hands and sobbed. “ … not again,” he whispered. Though he didn’t know why.

Courfeyrac never came back; he had been shot down by a German sniper while looking for a doctor.

Poisonous gas flooded the trenches 3 days later. Enjolras gave his gas mask to a younger soldier, whose own mask was crushed in all the fighting.

9th March 2015 – Paris

Misery.

Anger.

Darkness.

Loss.

Loneliness.

An aching pain …

Enjolras remembered this feeling.  He could tell he had felt the unbearable pain of losing Combeferre before, but he was unable to place exactly when he had felt the feeling before.

Courfeyrac slowly tied Enjolras’s black tie, trying to hold back his tears. He had successfully cried eight times that morning and he didn’t want to add another time to the list, but he had a feeling he would lose that battle.

“I don’t want to go,” Enjolras said softly, the ache of loss apparent in his voice.

Courfeyrac straightened the tie and then brushed off some lint on Enjolras’s black shirt. “It’s his funeral, E.”

Enjolras sat miserably on his bed. “I don’t want to go to Combeferre’s funeral.”

Courfeyrac brushed the tears out of his eyes, thankful, for once, that Enjolras couldn’t see them. He went into Enjolras’s closet and pulled his black jacket off a hanger. “I don’t either.”

“So we should just stay here. We’ll be doing exactly what we’ll be doing if we go … crying and feeling like shit.”

Courfeyrac grabbed Enjolras’s hand and put the jacket in it. “Come on, E, you know we have to go.”

Enjolras felt the fabric of the jacket. “Is this the one Bahorel gave to me?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Yeah, do you want me to pick a different one?”

Enjolras shook his head. “No … no, it’s perfect.” He stood up and put it on. “Is my cockade still on my red one?”

Courfeyrac went back into his closet and pulled out his red jacket. “Yes, do you want it?”

Enjolras nodded.

Courfeyrac took the cockade off and walked back over to Enjolras and pinned it onto the black jacket. “There.”

Enjolras touched it gently and stared out into nothingness. Suddenly his face crumpled, he let out an involuntary whimper and collapsed onto his knees.  He put his head in his hands and sobbed.

Courfeyrac quickly followed him down onto the floor and embraced him. “Enjolras …”

“I can’t … I-I can’t …” Enjolras sobbed in between words. “I can’t do this … I don’t know how to … how to not … not have him somewhere in my life.”

“I know.” Courfeyrac squeezed him as tightly as he could. “But even though he’s gone, even though he’s … dead …”

“No, no, no, no … fuck …” Enjolras whispered.

“… he can still be a part of your life, Enjolras. Combeferre will always be a part of your life, a part of mine and a part of everyone’s who he ever met and helped.” Courfeyrac pulled away from the hug and put his hand over Enjolras’s cockade. “You know better than anyone that gone does not mean forgotten.”

“What does it look like?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire, who was standing a few feet behind Enjolras, looked down at Combeferre’s headstone. “It’s an arched headstone made of dark grey marble. It says ‘Guillaume Andre Combeferre, son, brother, friend and guide. Martyr of France.’ then the years of birth and death.” He smiled. “There’s a very nice engraving of a compass at the top.”

Enjolras nodded and was silent … then he slowly extended his open hand out behind him.

Grantaire looked at the hand in confusion. He glanced up at Enjolras but the other offered no sort of explanation. Grantaire didn’t move any closer but merely extended his own hand out and lightly grasped Enjolras’s.

10th March, 2015

Enjolras couldn’t believe where he was. He couldn’t believe that he was standing in front of the Arc de Triomphe, surrounded by the National Guard (who weren’t trying to kill him) with the red and tricolor flag waving proudly everywhere (so Courfeyrac said), about to hear a Presidential swearing-in ceremony for his own country.

La Marseillaise, played by the military marching band, rang out proudly, as did the voices of thousands of French citizens. This was the only time in Enjolras’s life that he did not sing the national anthem of his country … he couldn’t. He only wanted to listen to the beautiful sound of the freed citizens of his homeland sing proudly and loudly.

That noise was all he ever needed to hear. It was the music of the people who would not be slaves again.

Enjolras could die right then and there, and die happy.

About an hour later, Enjolras was almost deafened by the thunderous applause and cheers President Lefévre got when he gave his inauguration speech. Enjolras had helped him write it and Lefévre had delivered it very well. But there was something inside Enjolras that seemed antsy to get away from all of this. Perhaps it was the blindness that was making Enjolras feel disconnected from all the events that were happening. It was almost like he wasn’t meant to witness such events, like he was a man of a time that had past … like he was a man who was around when he wasn’t supposed to be. Enjolras fingered the cockade attached to his jacket …

“Enjolras we need to follow the President to the right, okay?” Courfeyrac’s low voice interrupted Enjolras’s thoughts. “He’s heading back towards the car.”

Enjolras nodded and grabbed the back of Courfeyrac’s jacket and walked behind him.

“GOD SAVE THE KING!” A shout echoed out across the street. “DOWN WITH THE DEMOCRACY!”

Enjolras jumped at the shout, he heard the crowd scream and Aramis bark.

He heard the sound of someone getting tackled, which was quickly followed by a gunshot.

Enjolras felt something heavy collide against him while simultaneously hearing Joly cry out …

“COURFEYRAC!”

Courfeyrac had fallen against him.

Enjolras wrapped his arms around his friend, making sure that Courfeyrac fell safely on top of him, and he fell on the road. Enjolras’s head collided hard against the pavement and a bright whiteness exploded behind his closed eyelids. His eyes flew open and suddenly … there wasn’t darkness anymore.

The noises, the lights, the pressure of Courfeyrac on top of him, the stabbing pain in the left part of his chest … Enjolras couldn’t figure out what had just happened.

“Courf … are you okay?” Enjolras gasped out.

Courfeyrac’s answer came in the form of choking gasps and wheezes.

Enjolras heard several people running towards them and then coming to a halt.

“Courfeyrac?” Joly’s voice was laced with worry. “Courf, don’t move … don’t move.”

Courfeyrac cried out.

Enjolras made a noise of distress at the sound. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear the whiteness out of his eyes. “Joly what happened?”

Grantaire answered him. “There was an attempted assassination of the President and—“

“Enjolras can you sit up?” Joly asked.

Enjolras let Joly and Grantaire help him sit up against the Arc de Triomphe; all the while he still clung onto Courfeyrac. “And what, R?”

“And the assassin was tackled and he misfired and Courf took the bullet.” Grantaire finished.

Enjolras swallowed. “He’s going to be okay though?”

“Grantaire, have they called the hospital?” Joly asked.

“Yeah, I think—“

“Well go be sure!” Joly snapped.

“They have, Joly! But the roads are all blocked and filled with people and it’s gonna take them forever to get here!”

Courfeyrac’s hand slowly moved up to weakly grasp Enjolras’s, which was resting on his side. Enjolras dropped his forehead down on the top of Courfeyrac’s head and squeezed it back.

“They need to get here now!” Joly muttered, his voice mixed with anger and worry. “We don’t have the fucking time to wait.”

Courfeyrac’s weak voice broke through the short silence that followed. “J-Joly … I can’t … I-I …”

“I know Courf, I know.” Joly’s voice sounded ten times older than he actually was.

“What? What’s wrong?” Grantaire asked.

Joly sighed and allowed a small whimper to escape his lips. “He can’t breathe. The bullet hit his lung.”

There was a silence before Grantaire hesitantly asked, “Is the bullet still in his lung?”

“I’m not sure. Courf, we’re going to lift you up for a second and see if there’s an exit wound okay?” Joly asked. “Enjolras, can you let go of him for a second?”

Enjolras lifted his forehead off of the top of Courfeyrac’s head and reluctantly let go of his friend.  He felt the weight of Courfeyrac being lifted off of him and Enjolras immediately gasped as the stabbing pain in his chest suddenly multiplied. Grantaire made a noise of distress and Joly cursed.

“Enjolras … you’ve been shot too,” Grantaire gasped out.

The time passed slowly. The blinding white refused to clear out of Enjolras’s eyes but it was starting to get dimmer. His head swam with incomplete thoughts and pieces of conversation between Joly and Grantaire slowly penetrated the wall of haziness in his mind.

Courfeyrac wasn’t going to make it … his lung had collapsed and the only chance for him to live would be if he were in the hospital right at that moment. The ambulance sirens were slowly coming closer and closer but Enjolras had figured out one thing, the only complete thought in his head … he wasn’t going to leave Courfeyrac. Joly said that the bullet had hit Courfeyrac and passed all the way through his back and then hit Enjolras in the spleen, and from the way Joly was talking now it would take some intense surgery to save him. Enjolras was tired of surgeries. He was tired of hospitals and respirators and stitches and pain … he wanted to stay with Courfeyrac … he wanted to die with him.

He wanted to see Combeferre.

The paramedics soon arrived and Enjolras did his best to fend them off.

“Enjolras you have go with them! You will die if you don’t!” Joly pleaded.

Enjolras shook his head and squeezed Courfeyrac’s hand; the latter’s grip was slowly becoming weaker and weaker. “’m not … gonna … leave him.” He flinched when he felt someone’s hand pull on his arm. “No!” He yanked his arm away so forcefully his head slammed back against the stone of the Arc de Triomphe. He made a pained noise and shut his eyes. When he opened them again …

… he could see.

The sunlight was still too bright for him to make anything out but he knew he could see. There was someone sitting next to him, blocking a figure from taking him away from Courfeyrac.

“Get away from him, man!” Grantaire yelled at what Enjolras supposed was a paramedic. “If he doesn’t want to go, he … doesn’t want to go, okay?” Grantaire turned around and leaned forward so his head blocked the sun. Enjolras was startled by the pair of worried, green eyes that met his own. “They won’t touch …” Grantaire cocked his head a little and moved his upper body around and slowly smiled when Enjolras’s eyes followed him. “Can you see me?”

Enjolras kept his eyes fixed on Grantaire and nodded.

Grantaire let out a sad chuckle. “Well, now’s a fine time for that, huh?”

Enjolras smiled weakly.

The grin disappeared from Grantaire’s face. “Don’t look down, man.”

Of course, Enjolras did anyway.

His red button-up shirt was … wait, he wasn’t wearing his red button-up shirt, he was wearing his white one.

Oh.

His white button-up shirt was completely soaked in his blood. Courfeyrac was leaning up against him, his head coming up to the middle part of his chest. His friend’s bow tie had been removed, his light green collard shirt was open and bundled up strips of fabric were on top of the wound in his chest. Joly was sitting at Courfeyrac’s feet, cutting his jacket into pieces with his pocketknife and placing the strips on top of the wound in a pointless attempt to stop the blood from seeping from the wound. Aramis was lying down beside Courfeyrac with his head on his master’s shoulder, every so often licking his face and whining.

Courfeyrac was barely conscious and the hand that was not grasping Enjolras’s was slowly petting Aramis. “Who’s … a … good … boy?” he muttered, his words slurred together. “You’re … a good … boy.” Aramis whined and licked the tears off of Courfeyrac’s cheeks. “You’re so … furry … furry baby …”

“E?” Grantaire asked, softly.

Enjolras looked up at him.

Grantaire rubbed his hands together nervously and put one of them on Enjolras’s shoulder. “You’re gonna die and … I’m … I’m not.”

Enjolras smiled, gently. “’s okay. I’m … glad.”

Grantaire shook his head. “But … I’m supposed to.”

Enjolras laughed once, ignoring the blood that trickled out of his mouth as he did. “Bullshit. You … you wanna live … don’t you?”

Grantaire nodded slowly.

“Th-Then live.” Enjolras removed his hand from Courfeyrac’s side and placed it on Grantaire’s hand. “Y-You don’t … you don’t n-need me to … to do that. I …” Enjolras caught his breath, “I … want you to know … that I’m … proud of you, R.  You will … h-help France into … into its new age. I …” Enjolras coughed.

Grantaire’s lower lip trembled. “E, you don’t have to talk.”

Enjolras composed himself and looked Grantaire in the eye. “I believe in you.”

Grantaire smiled.

Courfeyrac died within the next ten minutes. Before he closed his eyes for good he promised to tell Bossuet that Joly loved him. He asked Grantaire to leave Gabby a present in her room on her birthday and pretend it was from him. Courfeyrac looked up at Enjolras but didn’t say anything … he didn’t need to.

Then he was gone.

Aramis howled for five minutes.

Enjolras didn’t feel any sadness ... only relief that he would follow his friend soon.

Joly constantly took Enjolras’s pulse, looking more and more defeated all the time.

“’s not … your … fault,” Enjolras muttered, looking at Joly.

“I know.” Joly sniffed. “I just … I could have saved you.”

Enjolras nodded. “I-It was … mercy not to. Thank you.”

Enjolras died shortly after that.

The backroom at the café Musain was warm and welcoming. Laughter filled the air, the candles and lights cast an orange glow on the walls, the windows were open and the sweet smell of the rainy Paris streets rushed into the room.

Bahorel’s laughter was the loudest noise in the room. “And I’ll tell you what, guys, I am never going back to that bar again!”

Feuilly, who was doubled over from laughing so hard, sat up and drank from the bottle of rootbeer in front of him. “What? That establishment didn’t like random guys running through there on fire?”

Bahorel pointed to Bossuet across the table. “He’s the one who was on fire!”

“Yeah, and you were the one running after me and carrying the goat.” Bossuet laughed. “You had to pay more for stealing the goat than I had to pay for catching a doorway on fire.”

“I still can’t believe we had to give the goat back,” Prouvaire said, putting a half real, half fake pout on his face. “I loved that goat! We were best friends!”

“You can’t really be best friends with a goat, Jean,” Combeferre said, without looking up from his book.

“Not with that attitude you can’t!” Prouvaire sassed back.

Courfeyrac stood up. “I think we are all forgetting the most important part of this story, guys.” He pointed to Gavroche, who was sitting on top of the bar. “Gavroche broke the goat and Bahorel out of prison with his bare hands!”

Gavroche stood on top of the bar and puffed out his chest. “Yes, bask in my amazingness!”

“Yeah, how did you even do that?” Feuilly asked.

Gavroche giggled. “I shall NEVER reveal my secret!”

There was another round of laughter, which was cut off by the door to the backroom squeaking open.

Combeferre looked up from his book and smiled. “Enjolras! Come in!”

Enjolras stood in the doorway and smiled widely at all of his friends. He stepped over the threshold of the doorway and walked towards the table they were all sitting at. The floorboards creaked under his feet, the air smelled like old papers, peanuts and wine and every face in that room had a smile on it.

Enjolras had finally come home.

“Take a load off, chief!” Bahorel said, motioning to an empty chair beside Combeferre. “We’ve been waiting for you! What took you so long?”

Enjolras sat down beside Combeferre and shrugged. “There were some things I had to do.”

“E, you need to hear this story Bahorel and Bossuet were just telling us!” Prouvaire said. “It’s the best thing ever.”

Enjolras sat back in his chair and sighed contentedly. “I can think of nothing I would like more than that.”