Grantaire wakes with a start to cannon fire. Flashes of light come from the barricade, burning black spots into his vision. The sky is still dark, only the grey tint above the rooftops hinting toward the passage of time. Panicked and confused, he reaches out for Enjolras, finding empty air and cold pavement.

Shouts and screams echo distantly against the walls, colliding mid air with bullets and cannon fire, formless and loud and meaningless. Everything seems so confusing, his head feels too light, his arms too heavy. He swears somebody calls his name, but that gets lost too.

Grantaire pushes off the wall, struggling to balance as he stands. He glances blearily around, trying and failing to catch a glimpse of Enjolras. It is too dark, and too bright, all at once. Stumbling, he makes his way toward the barricade. A student runs past him, half of his face covered in blood, teeth bared in a grimace. He yells something, but Grantaire doesn't hear.

A flash of red, illuminated by cannonfire, catches his eye. He looks up in time to see Bahorel dragging someone off the barricade. The form is limp in his arms.

Something painful seizes him by the chest. He would recognize him even in another life, unmistakably. His blond hair is matted by sweat, and blood, and dirt, but it is him. Enjolras.

Grantaire rushes toward them, stumbling over the leg of a student, dead or dying at the base of the barricade.

A shout sounds to his left, it's Combeferre. What is he doing?

"Grantaire! No don't-" He pants, grabbing Grantaire by the shoulder, "- stay back! Please!"

It was too late, Grantaire had seen him.

Enjolras' red coat has been darkened, blood blossoming out from the wound in his shoulder. A lot of blood. Too much blood. Joly is rushing toward him screaming something.

"-Hold him still! Keep R back- No!- Bahorel your cravat! Now!"

Joly scrambles to direct Bahorel in setting Enjolras on the pavement, taking his cravat and pressing it into the wound.

"He's got a pulse!" He shouts triumphantly.

Grantaire tries to run to him, to help, to do anything, but Combeferre holds him back.

"Grantaire, please, calm down." He begs, holding tighter as Grantaire struggles against him.

As though struck by heavenly revelation, Grantaire knows what he must do. They'll be alright. He can save them. He just needs to get to him, he can do this, he can-

"No- I- I have to go to him! Let me go!" With a surge of sudden, surprising strength, Grantaire lunges out of Combeferre's grasp, diving for his pistol.

The cool grip feels too heavy in his hand, and he regrets what he must do, but he rises up regardless, leveling the barrel at his friend's chest.

Combeferre steps back, glancing fearfully between the barrel and Grantaire's eyes, narrowed with concentration. The gun shakes, but the aim is true.

"Let me to him, Combeferre." He says gravely, voice torn.

"Grantaire, R, please," Combeferre pants, raising his hands as though he could calm the man before him, "Put the gun down. You're not in your right mind. Please."

"I'm right enough." Grantaire stares him down, "Step aside."

Combeferre only stares at him, a mixture of surprise, betrayal, and frustrated sorrow twisting his normally pleasant features. He opens his mouth to say something, but thinks better of it as Grantaire's grip on the pistol tightens. He hesitates a moment more, wordlessly begging Grantaire to set the gun down. Grantaire stares back evenly, unmoving. Combeferre steps aside.

Grantaire rushes past him, now levelling the gun at Bahorel, who hovers over Enjolras, watching Joly work.

"Give me his coat, Bahorel." Grantaire demands, ignoring Joly's tearful gasp as he looks up from Enjolras.

"His coat? You- What?" Bahorel questions, much less worried about the gun in his face than Grantaire wishes he were.

"His coat. Now."

Bahorel squints at him in confusion. Grantaire stares back at him, regrettably determined. The confusion begins to melt away as he realizes what Grantaire is planning, horror replacing it.

"No..." He whispers, "Grantaire, you can't- I can't let you do that."

"I have to." Grantaire argues, his voice cracking as his stoicism fails, "They only know his coat. It's dark. All they need is for the man wearing that coat to be dead. With the leader gone, they'll be satisfied. You'll all be able to go free, to live another day. To keep him safe." He nods at Enjolras, Joly has begun weeping helplessly, knowing now he can only save one of them, unable to take the pressure off of Enjolras' wound.

"Oh God, Bahorel, please," Joly begs, "Don't give it to him- Dear God- Don't let him have it- Don't let him go. Please!"

Grantaire's heart breaks for Joly, but he must do this. He keeps the gun levelled at Bahorel.

"Now, man! His coat!" Grantaire demands, blood rising to his lips. The taste makes him sick, harsh and metallic.

"There's got to be some other-"

"No!" Grantaire interrupts, shouting brokenly, desperately, "I'm already dead where I stand, Bahorel, I have nothing to lose. Give me the coat, or by God, I'll put a bullet in you to get it."

He knows he could never fire on them, any of them, but he hopes the earnest in his voice convinces them otherwise. He must do this.

Something shifts in Bahorel's eyes and he nods, as though suddenly understanding Grantaire's urgency. He kneels, and begins removing Enjolras' coat with the utmost gentleness, careful not to jostle him.

"No!" Joly screams, still holding the cravat to Enjolras' wound, unable to let go, even to save another, "No Bahorel, please! You can't let him do this! Please! Oh God! Bahorel Stop! Save him-" He dissolves into hysterical sobs, still begging Bahorel, Combeferre, anyone, to stop Grantaire.

Bahorel only holds him back silently, his strength easily overpowering Joly's struggle. He finishes removing Enjolras' coat, setting it aside and forcibly guiding Joly's hands back to where they held pressure to the wound. Joly dutifully does as he must, still yelling for Bahorel and Combeferre to hold Grantaire back. Neither move to do so, Combeferre turning away, no longer able to look on. Bahorel holds the blood-stained jacket up to Grantaire, who takes it with shaking hands, finally lowering the gun.

He slips the coat on, shivering as the blood-slicked fabric, now cold, settles over his heart. He sets his jaw, checking that the pistol is loaded, ignoring Joly's cries as best he can. He will not weep, or say goodbye. There will be time for that later.

"I'm sorry," He says quietly. "To all of you."

...and he means it more than he can express. To all of them.

He begins to climb, splinters digging into his hand, the pistol still gripped in the other. As he nears the top, he turns one last time.

Enjolras is pale, filthy, and bloodied, but he is no less beautiful for it. Grantaire knows, somehow, deep in his being, that Enjolras will live. He'll be alright. Grantaire only wishes he could be there when he woke. Enjolras will make a good old man, perhaps they both would have. Somewhere far away where they would have grown a lovely garden, perhaps kept a cow or two, where he could paint their days away, every joy and sorrow theirs to share. He tears his gaze away, looking to Combeferre instead, where he kneels at Enjolras side, a comforting hand on Joly's shaking shoulder.

"Combeferre!" He yells, catching the man's attention easily, "Keep him alive for me, will you?" He opens his mouth to say more, but even now, the words he wished he could say stick in his throat. It is no matter, Enjolras knows. That is enough.

Combeferre nods to him, a shallow bittersweet smile gracing his lips as he ignores Joly's desperate cries for someone to get Grantaire down.

Grantaire scrambles up the last few feet, facing the soldiers that station themselves on the other side. The gunfire has nearly died out entirely now. He takes a deep, shaking breath. This is it. He had imagined it ... quieter.

"LONG LIVE THE REPUBLIC!" He screams, blood flooding his mouth, lungs burning, gun raised.

He charges forward, jumping down once he's sure the soldiers' attention is focused entirely on him. His pulse beats in his ears as they rise to meet him. their faces turn from shock to determination as Grantaire charges them turning at the last second into an alley, the soldiers following.

As hoped, they pursue, giving the others a chance to get out from behind the barricade. Grantaire prays they take it, pounding his feet harder and faster against the cobblestones, the echo of his footsteps drowned out by the soldiers' cries behind him.

He raises the pistol, pointing it blindly behind him and firing at his pursuers, hoping to buy himself some time. He winces at the following cry, his bullet connecting with a young man some ten meters back. The soldiers follow regardless, leaving their fallen brother behind.

Adrenaline alone is keeping him upright. His lungs heave and burn, blood dripping from his lips, dots dancing in his vision. He takes another sharp turn, nearly slipping on the cobblestones as he ducks out onto a larger road, the river straight ahead. He can hear the soldiers clambering after him, the turn buying him just a few moments more.

He slows down as he reaches the bridge, His body shuddering, nearly giving out beneath him. He turns away from the soldiers approaching, leaning against the railing. Dawn is beginning to peek over the rooftops, bright, gold, and red. It shimmers faintly over the water, waiting on the cusp of the horizon. Only seconds more. He only has seconds more. Everything is passing too fast. He's not ready. He's not-

"Halt!" A soldier cries, despite Grantaire having stopped.

Grantaire glances at him, knowing what is coming. Wishing he could do something more, anything. He had thought he would spend his last moments at Enjolras' side, but, this will do. His hands are cold.

"Are you the leader of this rebellion?" This soldier is young, merely a boy with a gun. Just like the rest of them.

"Yes," Grantaire rasps smugly, confident the man would believe him so long as he smiled devilishly. That's what they wanted to hunt after all: a devil. They need to kill a monster, because that's who he must be right? A scrappy monster, something that crawled pale and vengeful and shaking from the slums. Grantaire can be what they need him to be. He has played this part before.

"This is your final chance and warning. Pledge allegiance to the king and face the courts, or die where you stand!" The man's gun wavers. His hands are trembling.

Grantaire gazes at the golden clouds, the dawn so near he can taste it in the air. The time has come. His time has come. In a way, he isn't alone. His Apollo has come to send him off to that great unknown. He takes one last deep, rasping, breath.

"Long live the Republic! Vive la Fra-"

The rapport sounds.

Grantaire closes his eyes, his body swaying beneath him from the force of the blow. He feels himself leaning too far, too close to the railing, water rushing by, cold and unforgiving beneath him. Dawn breaks over the rooftops of Paris, warm and red, kissing his face warmly, lovingly, as he finally falls over the edge.

Grantaire smiles, and he knows no more.