Grantaire has been dressed and put to bed as per Joly's instruction. The man had fretted loudly the entire time Grantaire was in the ice bath, terrified of giving the man a cold over top of his illness. Combeferre had to remind him multiple times that he had done everything he could, but still, the man paces across the room, ducking into Grantaire's bedroom doorway every few minutes to check on him. He reports his findings aloud, but nobody responds.

"His fever is breaking." Joly comments, striding back into the room, "Hopefully for a while."

Feuilly shifts beside him, but Enjolras doesn't move. He sits, staring into the darkness leaking out of the sliver where Grantaire's door is not quite shut. He isn't sure what he thinks anymore, it's as if his mind has gone asleep while the rest of him is awake, numb and detached. The screams and shouts of only a few minutes ago seem like a distant nightmare in the current silence. A single question bounces around his skull.

"Joly," He says quietly, knowing it is all that is needed to catch the other man's attention, "How much time does he have?"

Joly freezes, seemingly surprised to be addressed.

"I've never seen the disease take anyone so quickly. There must be something causing him to degrade quicker."

"How much time, Joly?" Enjolras asks again, not wanting to know that Grantaire should have more time than he does.

I- Uhm-" Joly runs his hands together, searching for his words, "Weeks, maybe a couple months, if he's lucky. I don't know how long if a fever like this spikes again."

Enjolras nods, looking blankly at the floor. Weeks. He only has weeks. He rises silently, making his way to Grantaire's room. Joly makes a sound of protest, but doesn't move to stop him.

Grantaire's door squeaks as it opens, the hinges in need of oil. His pale skin is a stark contrast from the grey blankets, making him appear almost as though he is glowing, silvery-white like the moon. Enjolras tries not to make much noise as he approaches, silently cursing the loose floorboards. It is strange to see Grantaire so peaceful, quiet save for the steady rattling of his lungs. This is wrong, Enjolras decides. Grantaire should be busy arguing with him about the morality of a monarchy, not here. Anywhere but here.

His fingers gently trail down Grantaire's arm, the man's skin still much hotter than it should be. Or perhaps Enjolras' fingers are just cold. He weakly entwines their fingers for a moment, eyes trailed on Grantaire's sleeping face, not daring to look at the contrast between the skin of their hands. A wave of emotion sweeps over him and he tries to ignore the way his breath hitches. In a matter of days Grantaire could be gone. Enjolras doesn't understand his fondness for the man, but he cannot deny that it is there. A single tear escapes him, falling on their entwined hands, Enjolras quickly releases him and turns away.

He storms quickly past the others, hiding his face as best he can. They don't need to see him like this. He has to get out of here.

"Where are you going?" Feuilly calls after him, confusion evident in his voice.

"I-I'm sorry. I have to go. I have so much work to do." He doesn't turn, not trusting himself to stay calm any longer.

"Enjolras?" Joly asks, resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.

Enjolras shakes him off, shutting the door of Grantaire's apartment behind him. He rests his head against the cool wood, cursing every mockery of fate for allowing this to happen. The image of Grantaire, so entirely undone, haunts him. How could it have come to this?

He pushes off the door, making his way, quickly, out of the building. The streets are quiet now, the drunken ruckus from before having long passed. The skies are clear, stars glinting mockingly from their celestial perch. Enjolras wonders, distantly, what they all must look like from up there. Small, insignificant, specks of wretched survival? Perhaps, just dust on the winds of time. He sighs shakily, what right had any stars to decide for them all the fate they must follow? Grantaire didn't deserve to die. France doesn't deserve to be reduced to squalor. Everything feels as though it is slipping out of his grasp, and the feaster he runs to catch it, the farther from him it falls.

The stairs up to the top room of the cafe seem loud tonight, echoing his utter aloneness back at him. He wants to spit at them. Moonlight shines through the windows, all candles having extinguished themselves long before his return, silvery squares of light drawn over the floor. Rage bubbles up in him, how can the world go on sleeping? How dare the moon rise when it feels as though his soul is being torn from his being?

Enjolras throws a table on it's side, papers flying everywhere, bottles and candles and books crashing to the ground in a great cacophony, shattering the quiet of the night. He stands over the mess, breathing heavily as the silence tries again to settle. He doesn't want it to. He screams, frustration burning it's way up his throat as he overturns another table. He screams at the audacity of fate. He was prepared to lose everything, prepared to sacrifice it all for a better tomorrow, but not like this. Not torn from him before it's time. His world is becoming ruins, and he wants the rest of the world to reflect it. He screams again, ripping the pages out of some manifesto or another, sobs interrupting his cries.

This isn't how it's supposed to be.

Everything is wrong.

It's all so wrong.

Was Grantaire right when he said it would never matter what they did? That the world would be cruel and unfair, and that people like them simply weren't meant to mean anything at all. He had said that freedom is a myth, that belief is only a fool's delusion. Perhaps he was right all along. Perhaps the revolution will always be doomed to fail. Why waste their lives on a dream that may never come to pass.

He screams at that too. Grantaire's utter hopelessness crushes him. What does it take to make a man like that? There resides deep in him something beautiful, artlike, crushed and mangled by a cruel world, excavated only when the man can still his hands or stir his heart.

Among the pages lay the pamphlet that Grantaire had drawn on, Grantaire's Enjolras staring back at him, crowned in all the glory of the sun, so different from the man he is now, quaking in the darkness. Screaming sobs bubble out of him. How can it all dissolve so fast?

A pair of arms envelops him, shushing him and lowering him to the ground. He allows it, seeing no use in fighting. The blurry figure of Combeferre crouches before him, holding his face and speaking words he cannot hear. He stares through him, his sorrow crushing him, alienating him, even as Combeferre embraces him again, running a comforting hand over his back. He feels so small.

The final piece of him breaks as he realizes he is mourning not only The loss of Grantaire, but also their time left together. He mourns what never was, what may never be. He mourns his love for him. Sobs fall from his lips with renewed fervor, he clings to Combeferre like a scared child, and really, at this moment that is exactly what he is.

"Hush Enjolras, I know, I know. You're going to be alright." He knows he is lying, but continues anyway, Enjolras' mumbling confessions revealing that he really and truly wouldn't be alright, "Just breathe. Breathe."

It doesn't take long for Enjolras' body to give out from exhaustion. His sobs drift into hitched breathing, his ramblings going quiet. His form finally goes limp in his arms, only the drying tears on his face left to indicate the storm that he had been only moments ago.

Combeferre lays him down against the wall, Enjolras' head on his shoulder so he could calm him if he wakes. Fate has dealt his heart badly. Two of the best men, best friends, he had ever known, reduced to madness. He stares into the darkness, mourning them both, knowing the indifferent dawn comes no matter how dark the night, and no matter how desolate the world has become.