Grantaire hasn't returned to the cafe for a week now. A week that has consisted of Enjolras trying and failing to focus on the revolution that is so immediately at hand. A week of wandering through his speeches in a daze, thoughts consumed by Grantaire as Grantaire is consumed by the horrible disease that has settled in his lungs. A week of wondering how much time he has left to make it right, of wondering whether he can make it right at all. A week of quiet terror and debilitating distraction.

Enjolras hasn't slept for more than a few hours ever since Grantaire had left. Joly had told him he should rest, but he doesn't remember when that happened. Was it this morning? Or yesterday? He tries to bury himself in maps and books again, unable to read the words that once would have stirred in him exactly what he needed to say, to do. If only he had read them a week ago. He curses, and searches again for the line he had stopped reading on.

The barricade will be raised, it is only a matter of picking the exact right time. The people must rise too. A moment too soon, a moment too late, all courage will be lost. Enjolras mourned for may hours the fact that it has come to this. He never wanted to put anyone's lives at risk, but if it means freedom for the people of France, then he will lead them with uplifted fist, and heavy heart. Everything is building in a terrible crescendo, and it is unclear what will be more terrifying, the crash, or the following silence.

Enjolras buries his face in his hands, a shuddering sigh escaping him. There is so much to do. He rubs at his tired eyes with his palms, some vain part of him believing that would clear them of blurring tears. He finds it harder and harder to keep them at bay, and harder still to find a singular cause.

The night's meeting had ended nearly an hour ago, but Enjolras hasn't gotten anything done. Blank pages mock him from the tables and a pulsing ache pounds his heartbeat against his eyes. He groans tiredly, wishing, not for the first time, that he could just bury his sorrows in a bottle as Grantaire had so often.

"Enjolras!" A cry sounds from below, thundering footsteps immediately following on the stairs. Joly rushes into the room, every inch of him disheveled, panting hard, blood marking his sleeve cuffs.

"Joly?!" Enjolras rushes to him, searching him for any sign as to where the blood was coming from, "What's wrong? Are you injured?"

"No, no," Joly pants, waving his arms, "Not me. Grantaire. You need to come, we need your help."

"Grantaire- what? What's going on? What's happened?"

"His fever is back, much worse this time. He's delirious and we can't control him. If he doesn't get into an ice bath then we don't know what will happen. I need you, he listens to you."

"He listens to-? What?"

"Just come on!" Joly pulls him down the stairs and before he knows it, they're racing side by side toward Grantaire's apartment. The pavement against his feet pounds into him the reality of the situation. Grantaire is dying, really dying. This could be it. He never fixed anything. He's out of time. The thought alone makes him feel as though he's choking.

As they approach Enjolras can swear he hears distant yelling, though from what, he can't tell. He has to swerve around drunken pub patrons exiting near the entrance of Grantaire's building. He collides with an old man, causing him to spill his ale, but keeps going, ignoring the threats called after him. The yelling grows louder as he rises the stairs, fear seizes his heart as he realizes that it comes from Grantaire's apartment. The door is ajar, but Enjolras has nothing to prepare him for what lay beyond it.

Grantaire's apartment is sparsely furnished, only a few chairs, a table at one corner, crowded with painting supplies and loose pages covered in scratches of indiscernible sketches, most not more than a few scribbled lines. The floor is littered with sketches and canvases, Many torn or scratched. The ones closer to the easel appear to be still lifes or portraits, most unfinished and mangled. Farther into the room are strewn much stanger pieces. Haphazard lines of muddled paint spread across stark white canvases, each more wild and damaged than the last. Enjolras pauses to stare at the one below his feet. It has no form or reason, but it looks almost exactly like the sun when it sets through autumn leaves, seen through lazy, half lidded eyes. It strikes something in him he doesn't understand, as does the gash torn across the canvas, the paint still catches the light of a nearby candle, no doubt lit by joly, it's still wet.

"No!" the cry breaks Enjolras out of his trance. Against the far wall Bahorel, Feuilly, and Courfeyrac have Grantaire cornered. A clanging issues from the back room where Combeferre is breaking a block of ice with a pick and putting the pieces in a tub as per Joly's instruction. Grantaire looks at them with wild eyes, all reason or reality absent from him. Enjolras can see his panic from where he stands, watching his friend's chest heave with labored, panting, breaths. Feuilly tries to yell over Grantaire's unintelligible screams, begging him to calm down. Grantaire doesn't hear him.

"Fall! Fall! To the sea!" Grantaire rasps, swinging his arms out wildly, "And who is Hector? Who resides under this armor? Ah! It is not him! It is not him! Weep stars! Weep!"

Enjolras feels as though his stomach has become a stone. Sheer terror freezing him to the spot. Grantaire is completely mad.

Courfeyrac tries to calm him, stepping forward. Grantaire only gets more agitated.

"No! No! I know what- I know what's going on- I know-! No! Don't touch me! Don't touch me!" He stops, interrupted by a coughing fit, doubling over with the force, his sleeves getting fresh red stains over dried brown ones.

He rises again, gasping desperately, turning to the wall, "Back!" He screams at the paint, "Back away! Don't touch- don't touch me! Get back!-" He dissolves into some strange singing, seemingly forgetting whatever threat the wall posed. Tears run down his face as he shakes with gasping sobs, red speckling his chin.

Enjolras can stand by no longer, distantly aware of the tears that stream hotly down his own face. He shoves past Feuilly and Bahorel, grabbing grantaire by either side of his face, forcing the other man to look him in the eye. Grantaire's skin burns against his palms, hotter than enjolras thought humanly possible. He's utterly terrified.

Somehow, grantaire begins to calm, gazing back at Enjolras, a sudden clarity surfacing in his eyes, his face softening. He continues to mumble, singing some nonsense tune, his eyes closing in relief as he cups his hand over Enjolras', holding his cool hand against his burning skin. Tears still drop from his eyes, catching in Enjolras' fingers.

"It's alright Grantaire, it's alright." he can hear his voice shaking, but he continues, "It's all going to be okay, I'm going to help you."

Grantaire just nods, his grip on Enjolras' hands tightening. A shuddering sob wracks his body, still, he tries to sing, the syllables lost to his failing breath. Enjolras winces as he gasps again, his lungs rattling loudly.

He leads Grantaire toward the doorway to the next room, Combeferre rises to meet him. Enjolras feels the moment Grantaire's body finally gives out. He only just catches him before he pitches forward.

"Help!" He calls to the others, "Come on, get him in."

Grantaire doesn't react as he is lowered into the bath, unconsciousness swallowing him completely. They had lowered him in fully clothed, not daring to risk trying to undress him should he awaken.

Enjolras takes a step back, watching the nearly lifeless form, trying desperately to still the trembling of his hands. Joly puts a comforting hand on his shoulder, gazing at him with something too kind to be pity, and too sad to be reassurance. Enjolras can only stare blankly back. The horror of the last few minutes replaying loudly through his memory. He's nearly out of time ... but there is time yet.