It is hot today, even for June. The stench of the streets lie stagnant, no breeze to reprieve the citizens from the blanket of oppressive heat. The tension in the air can be felt, the agitation of the people growing in a mounting wave of murmurs. It will break, it is only a question of when.

"So this is it then." Combeferre turns away from the window, clapping Enjolras on the shoulder, "The 'hour of fate' isn't that what you called it?"

"Yes." Enjolras answers absently, his gaze locked on some great unknown, something only he can see.

"The procession will start in an hour, then it is time. If we meet resistance, which we surely will, then the barricade will rise tonight. The people will follow suit, and our voice will ring in as the clear bells of morning, yes?"

"Precisely," Enjolras mutters, fiddling with the pistol in his hand, "Though I do wish our voices alone were enough."

"That may be where you and Bahorel differ." He gestures across the room where Bahorel sits in a rage, already fighting with the imaginary adversaries in his head. He mutters angrily, sharpening a saber.

Enjolras huffs a laugh at that, knowing that without the weight of all the souls he was carrying, he would be much the same.

"Do not worry about Bahorel, there is mighty reason underneath his passions. A greater mind and louder voice can scarcely be found." He says, checking that the barrel is clear

"Or louder clothes." Combeferre offers, nodding his head at the, frankly obnoxious, waistcoat Bahorel has donned.

Enjolras chuckles, finally looking up from the weapon in his hands. The A'mis are gathered in the upper room of the cafe, finalizing preparations for the storming of the funeral procession. Many of them sit, like Enjolras, quietly readying themselves for what lay ahead, somber, yet resolute. Others take a more chaotic route, shouting to each other excitedly, waving around their weapons and banners, their blood running hot with determination. There was, in Enjolras' humble opinion, too much wine present, given the amount of guns they had, but not much could be done about that.

Grantaire sits silently beside Courfeyrac, Joly having left to gather and distribute ammunition. He has been nodding in and out of consciousness throughout the day, not having left the cafe since Enjolras walked him there. Enjolras had tried to convince him to stay there while they stormed the procession, but Grantaire had refused, unwilling to leave his side. Guilt builds in Enjolras' throat at the thought that Grantaire is so willing to walk into this hell for his sake, but a part of him is thankful for it, knowing that Grantaire's presence may be exactly what he needs to ground himself. Besides, even as sick and frail as he is, Enjolras doubts he could stop Grantaire from following.

He rises, stepping calmly out into the room, clearing his throat for their attention, knowing all he must do is wait. A moment later the cafe is silent, a collective breath held.

"It is time. Go, join the crowds, await my signal, strike together, and do not fail us."

A cheer rises up, the students swarming to the door to follow their orders, far too eager to die, not yet knowing what it means.

The clatter of hooves cut through the murmur of the crowd, marking the arrival of the general's casket. Enjolras closes his eyes, taking a deep, shaking breath. This was it. They only await his signal. He could fail to give it, spare them all their trouble, their lives. The sounds of iron on cobblestones grow louder. He could give it all up. Live happily in some small town, tucked away from the world and it's cruelty.

No.

He doesn't live for himself. To fail his people, his country, now, would be to fail himself. It would be denying his very being.

His fist closes tightly around the broomstick, their bright red banner securely connected. He watches, as though from a distance, as it raises against the blue sky, catching harshly on the sun, flashing it's purpose for all to see.

"Vive La France!" The cry tears it's way up his throat, ringing clear as he advances on the procession. He need not look behind to know the A'mis follow, Grantaire at the head of them. The cry is echoed behind them, spreading through the crowd with shocking speed.

The scuffle only lasts a few moments, the students easily gaining control over the few guards and driver. Enjolras waives their banner high, leading them in their cries, scanning the crowds for guardsmen.

Their uniforms stand out easily amongst the people, and Enjolras watches from his perch as they converge on the procession. So, they had been expecting them. A sense of unease gathers heavily in Enjolras' stomach, but he does his best to ignore it, raising another cry from the people.

"Long live the republic!"

A tug on his sleeve catches his attention. Grantaire is by his side, swaying on his feet.

"R!" Enjolras sputters, shocked, "Sit down, you're going to faint!"

"No 'm not." Grantaire slurs back, his eyes fluttering as he steadies himself against Enjolras, "They're coming, what's our move?"

"Nothing yet, they haven't fired or tried to stop us yet." Enjolras glances back at the crowd, the guardsmen are now lining the path, awaiting orders, "You should get back into the crowd, we may have to run if they come in full force."

"You and I both know I'm not going anywhere."

Enjolras sighs, taking Grantaire's hand, knowing he does not possess words enough to convince him to leave his side.

"Yes. I know."

Grantaire smiles back at him, shaking with the effort it takes to stand for so long. He is where he belongs, for now.

A shout from below pulls their attention back to the crowd. The guardsmen have started their advance, guns drawn. Enjolras knows there are too many of them, far too many to fight without a defensible position. They need to get out of this alive so that they can raise the barricade. In a split-second, his decision is made.

"Scatter! All of You! The barricade rises tonight! The fight is not here!" He calls back to his men. They follow direction quickly, diving into the writhing crowds. More shouts come from the front where the guardsmen have already engaged them. Enjolras pulls Grantaire with him forcing a soldier back with a sweep of his saber. The fray thickens as he moves toward the edge of the procession. A crack sounds behind him and he turns, panicked.

Grantaire shoves the soldier off the edge with another blow, he falls, swallowed by the frenzied crowd. Enjolras stares, open-mouthed, it seems Grantaire is not as frail as he thought.

"Keep going!" Grantaire shouts at him, tightening his grip on Enjolras' hand.

Enjolras doesn't respond, pulling them down into the sea of people, fighting his way through them. Some recognize him from the procession, giving way or sneering. He ignores them, moving steadily toward the line of buildings ahead.

The crowd breaks suddenly and Enjolras collapses against the alley wall, pulling Grantaire down beside him.

"I never would have guessed-" Enjolras pants, laughing between breaths, "-That you still had so much fight in you."

"That bastard," Grantaire gasps, his lungs unable to fill, "He tried... to shoot you... from behind."

"Lucky I had you then."

"Luck has nothing to do with it."

"So it seems." Enjolras chuckles.

Grantaire dissolves into a coughing fit, gagging with the force of it, though he would have nothing to vomit. He doubles over, eyes watering as his body wracks itself to try and clear his lungs. Blood drips from his lips to the cobblestones, bright against the dull stone. Enjolras watches in horror, wishing there were something he could do, but knowing there is nothing.

"It's not too late you know." Enjolras nearly whispers, taking Grantaire's hand as his breathing returns to a mild rasp, "You don't have to come with me. You can go rest. It's alright."

"Oh," Grantaire nearly whispers, "It is far too late. It has been too late for many months. I was done for when I saw you."

Enjolras bows his head sadly, pressing Grantaire's hand to his lips.

"I have no where else I would rather be." Grantaire forces his chin up, as Enjolras had done with him not long ago, "Besides, someone has to make sure you don't get yourself into too much trouble."

"Oh, I'm the troublesome one, am I?"

"Hmm, yes, I would say so." Grantaire answers easily, a smile wrinkling his eyes.

Enjolras only laughs, helping him up and draping his arm around his shoulders.

"I say we go stir up some more."

"That sounds lovely."

Glass rains from the sky, a cacophony rising as they approach. Furniture falls from the upper windows, crashing onto the street where students gather it, stacking the piles from one side of the lane to the other, blocking it off.

"R!" A voice calls.

Enjolras turns to find Joly worriedly looking Grantaire over. He nods at him, letting Grantaire's hand go, trusting Joly to keep him safe for now. He is led away, and Enjolras is left amidst the chaos. He takes a deep breath, readying himself once more.

This is it.