I wrote this Oneshot after reading an E/R Oneshot. I liked the idea but thought it wasn't written well and rather out of character. Unfortunately I forgot the name. But anyway, it inspired me to write this. It's not very good and I think it's out of character too, but at least I tried... Please give me some feedback, I would love to improve my writing style. I know my English isn't perfect since it isn't my native language. This is mostly based on the book, but has also been influenced by the musical and the 2012 movie musical (everyone who hasn't seen it yet - go and see it, it's perfect!)

Disclaimer: The characters and places mentioned aren't mine, I am only borrowing them from Victor Hugo. I am not making any money with this story.

And then there was silence

.

There was silence, complete silence, a sort of silence that can only follow a loud noise, like the thunder of twelve guns being fired. Yet, in the uncomfortable silence, it was hard to believe that the explosion-like sound and the thump when one of the two bodies crashed to the floor had only occurred mere seconds ago. The silence hung like death in the air, and death, wanton death, there was.
The soldiers of the National Army looked at the two bodies - one leaning against the wall, motionless, head held high and proud, the other having fallen onto the ground before the first - for a short while, as if to make sure that there was no ounce of life left in them, then, apparently satisfied, abruptly turned around and left, their steps on the ground being the only audible sound.
The boys hadn't yet died, however. They would, and it wouldn't take long for them to stop breathing, but in that exact moment, their hearts were still beating, however slightly. Enjolras would have thought that Grantaire had already died, for he uttered no word, nor did he make any sound that would indicate him being in pain, but he could sense his body moving ever so slightly every time the drunkard breathed in and out. It was clear to Enjolras that there wasn't much life left in either him or Grantaire, and how could there be, when they had been hit with at least half a dozen bullets? The wounds, however, hadn't affected his spirit or his quick mind; and there was enough life left in him to feel confused.

Vive la République! I am one of them. What in the name of Patria had moved the drunkard to give up his position at the table? Enjolras had been, admittedly, a bit too tense at the prospect of dying shortly, but above all far too distracted by the soldiers pointing their guns at him and by the certain knowledge that the following would be his last moments on earth, to give Grantaire's actions much thought or to question his motivations, but now he came to think of it, it didn't make any sense.

Finish both of us with one blow. The winecask didn't even believe in their cause, why would he choose to give his life for it, if it could have so easily been saved?! And Enjolras, though he would never admit it to anyone but himself, would have wanted Grantaire's life to be saved, not because he particularly cared about Grantaire, but because he would have wanted for at least one of them, however little he was invested in the cause, to survive, to be able to tell the tales, to continue to fight for their cause – although Grantaire probably wouldn't have been the right man for that task anyway – and to prove that the destruction, the failure wasn't that complete, that irrevocable. Here was another thing that Enjolras would never admit to anyone – he felt guilty for leading his friends to a wanton, terrible, painful and – dare he even think it? – probably useless, soon-to-be-forgotten death. The guilt, he thought, might have been less strong had one of them survived.

Do you permit it? So why had Grantaire chosen not to survive? Had there been mockery in his voice when he asked Enjolras permission? Had he simply wanted to annoy Enjolras for the last time before his death, even if that meant that Grantaire himself would have to die as well? Had he wanted to take away the last chance for redemption from Enjolras? The last chance of being forgiven his sins and going to heaven? For there was no way Enjolras would go to heaven now, once he stopped breathing; not when he had not only killed others but also led all of his friends to death, not when not a single one of those innocent souls had survived. He had basically killed all those he cared about.

But that smile. Could the drunkard – had he even been drunk in the moment he joined Enjolras? Was his inebriation the reason for his foolish action? – have smiled at him like that if he was aiming for mockery? No, he decided, that smile was genuine. But he still didn't understand the man that had caused him so much annoyance. He felt vaguely impressed by Grantaire's action. Had he done it simply so that Enjolras wouldn't be alone in his last moments? If that were true, it was a brave thing to do, and surprisingly welcome, for Enjolras had been very much comforted by not having to face the bullets, the guns, the soldiers on his own. He hadn't been afraid, of course not. While he had never wished his friends' death, nor foreseen the fate he was leading them to, he had never counted on making it out of the battle alive. Had he thought about dying before building the barricade, he would have anticipated death, expected it – perhaps even welcomed it, for dying for his Patria, for the people, for his cause seemed to him to be the most noble and most rewarding death he could ask for. In fact though, he hadn't considered the possibility of dying before, but neither had he planned for any future. Of course he had always had plans for the people and his Patria – how they would change France once their battle was won, how they would help the people, how they would overthrow the regime – but these things could be done by others as well as by himself, others would come, though none of his companions who were all gone now, to realise these plans. For himself, for his personal future however, he had never had any plans. He hadn't thought about death, but he wouldn't have feared it, if he had. Others would complete his task, and he himself didn't leave anything behind, neither family nor any girl – his only mistress was Patria – nor any other private dreams or plans. And so, when he was cornered by the soldiers in the Café Musain moments ago, his upcoming death didn't bother him; on the contrary, he was set on dying unbroken and proud. What did bother him, however, was that he was to die alone. Had he ever imagined his death, he would never have imagined him to die alone. The prospect of dying alone had caused him to feel a slight unease. Grantaire standing by his side, holding his hand, had been a great comfort to him. But this could never have been Grantaire's motivation. Hadn't the drunkard devoted his life solely to the purpose of annoying him – and to his green fairey of course?!
Enjolras knew he would die soon, both of them would die soon, but before he died, he wanted to understand the winecask's motivation for dying with him – it was the least he could do, he felt he owed it to him – Grantaire had comforted him, helped him through the probably most terrifying and challenging moment of his life, in return he would try to understand the other.

It cost him quite a bit of effort to lower his head enough in order to find himself face-to-face with his companion who was staring up to him. Grantaire looked as if he was in a lot of pain. Enjolras, on the other hand, felt rather numb. He knew he should be experiencing excruciating pain, yet he didn't feel anything, he wasn't weak, physically. All he felt was purely emotional, sadness and anger over the deaths of his friends, guilt for being the one who led them to this, disappointment in himself and the people for their crushed revolution, pity for the man whom he watched dying right in front of him.
The physical pain that dying caused him was obvious on Grantaire's face. His eyebrows were knit, his facial expression tense. Enjolras tried bowing down to reach out to him to comfort him but found it surprisingly difficult to move his arm or his back. His whole body seemed numb, almost impossible to move. Grantaire seemed to have sensed the movement though, or perhaps it was purely coincidental that he lifted his gaze for a second and saw Enjolras.
It was a rather remarkable transformation that he went through. One could almost have thought his face was lit by an angel's presence, such was the peacefulness and joy that replaced the pained expression from a moment ago. A tear traced its way down his face and his gaze seemed to look at something far away. Enjolras wasn't quite sure if he was still alive or if he had finally found his peace, but then Grantaire opened his mouth and tried to speak, and Enjolras knew that although he wasn't dead yet, he was close to dying, closer than Enjolras himself, despite having been hit with far more bullets.
It cost Grantaire several tries to manage to get words out. "Apollo" he breathed finally. "You have… come… to take me… with you".
Enjolras sighed inwardly. Apollo. He had always hated it when Grantaire had called him that. Nor did he understand where that name came from. Yet, he currently found it difficult to be angry with the man in his last moments on earth. Grantaire was already halfway with the angels. He was half in delirium. Once again Grantaire opened his mouth to speak. It was clearly hard on him, and his breathing became slower and shallower.
"You were all… I ever … believed in… Apollo, do you… know … that? I… love…" A sharp hiss of pain; Grantaire was unable to continue, his eyes pained and glassy. Desperate.

Shock. Surprise. Disgust. Revulsion. Disbelief. Anger. And finally… understanding.
And a million of unsolved riddles about the winecask solved themselves inside Enjolras' head, the motivation for his action before suddenly crystal clear. Why he came, afternoon after afternoon, to the Café Musain, even though he didn't believe in, didn't see the new world that they were painting with their words. Why he continued to come, however drunk he was, no matter how sharp the words Enjolras directed at him, no matter how many times he sent him away. Why he believed in Enjolras. Why he had come out here moments ago and had asked to be shot together with him. How had he not seen it before?
New questions arose in Enjolras' head, questions that he wouldn't have the time of asking, for Grantaire had just drawn a sharp breath, and although he was still somewhere between dead and alive, half in delirium, half hallucinating, as Enjolras suspected, yet still able to sense and react to what was going on around him, it wouldn't take long until Grantaire walked among the dead.
Another sharp breath and Enjolras suddenly knew that mere moments were left for the dying man. Pain had returned to Grantaire's face. It wasn't right. Grantaire had been brave. He had comforted Enjolras in an hour of need, and suddenly it wasn't so unimaginable that Grantaire had known that company would make that moment easier for him. And Enjolras, marble or not, could not help but feeling a little touched by what Grantaire had said. Not so much by the confession of love, but rather by being told that he was the only person that gave one wretched soul hope, the only thing somebody like Grantaire would believe in. Grantaire had decided to die for what was right, in the end, or at least for what he believed in. Just like they all had. Enjolras didn't want pain to be the last thing Grantaire felt.
He looked at him intensely, they locked eyes and Enjolras whispered: "I love you too, R."
It was a lie, and generally, Enjolras didn't approve of lying. But the broad smile that spread across Grantaire's face, the relief and joy in his eyes, chasing every trace of pain away before finally his breathing stopped and his body became stiff, were so rewarding that Enjolras couldn't get himself to regret it. Grantaire was dead, but something made Enjolras feel satisfied that Grantaire should take a pleasant feeling as his last memory to wherever it was he was going.

He was alone amongst corpses now and Enjolras wasn't stupid enough to believe that he wouldn't soon join them. Suddenly the intensity of what had just come to pass hit him. Grantaire had been shot together with him. Grantaire truly believed in him. Grantaire loved him. Grantaire was dead.
A silent tear traced its path down Enjolras' cheek. It was the first time in his life – or at least the first time in a very long time – that he felt his emotions were almost too much for him to handle. All of his friends were dead, but he felt unable to concentrate on anyone but Grantaire. Perhaps it was because he had been so wrong about him, had underestimated the drunkard for a far too long time, had reduced him to no more than that – a drunkard. Perhaps it was because Grantaire had died with him although he could so easily have lived. It was a touching gesture and probably the bravest action he had ever encountered. Perhaps it was because Grantaire had said he loved him. Well, he hadn't finished, but it had been painfully obvious that that was what he wanted to say. It haunted Enjolras. He couldn't understand how he hadn't noticed it before. Looking back on many things Grantaire had said or done in the past it seemed so obvious now. Had the others known? Or at least some of them? And if they had – why hadn't they told him? Did they fear he would start to treat Grantaire even worse? Would he have done that, had he known earlier?
This was a question that also haunted Enjolras. How would he have reacted if he had known of the drunkard's feelings earlier?
He didn't know. What he knew was that he didn't return these feelings. He had never spared Grantaire much thought. He didn't even know much about him, apart from his cynicism, his addiction to alcohol and his disbelief in their cause. Who was Grantaire? What kind of person was he – had he been – beneath the surface that only revealed those three things?
Enjolras started wishing that he had spent more time with Grantaire, or that he had asked his friends about him. He wished to know him better, for they might have got along. Enjolras felt respect for the man of whom he previously had thought as a wretched, drunk and foolish insolence. He wished he had bothered or cared enough to put more effort into getting to know Grantaire better or at least helping him to get away from his drink. He didn't even know what had caused Grantaire to start drinking. And he wondered how many things hidden beneath the surface he had not seen or not acknowledged, simply because he had never bothered to look for them. He wondered if he might have liked Grantaire. He wondered if he might have liked him back if he had known him well enough. He wasn't in love with him, but he wished he were, or that he at least got to know Grantaire well enough to decide whether or not he could ever love him. He felt as if Grantaire would have deserved that, as if he would have owed him at least these feeble efforts. Enjolras had never approved of thinking about ifs and what-might-have-beens. But now, in his final moments, he couldn't stop himself. If-questions continued to torture him.
Then everything happened very fast. All the corporal pain he hadn't felt until now surged through him, he felt his whole body ache, he felt the bullets burning hot in his flesh. He realised that there was blood covering and streaming down his body, his head ached terribly. Breathing became painful, his lungs felt as if they had been torn to pieces and they probably had – he could feel that at least two bullets had hit him on the torso. One deep wound was in his left leg, he felt the raging pain and it took all his self-control to keep from crying out.

Then everything slowly went black. Enjolras accepted the dark, welcomed it. He had lived a life without regrets. His cause, his dream, his life's work – it would be picked up and continued by others, and they would succeed in doing what he had started years ago. He could feel it.
Yet, falling deeper into the black – but wasn't there a bright light on the other side? Was he going to heaven after all? – he knew that he had a regret after all. And it pained him. And he was sorry.
He had led his friends to death.

He was barely conscious. He no longer knew whether he was falling toward the dark or towards the light. He couldn't bring himself to care. Barely a second before his heart stopped beating he realised he had a second regret. He hadn't loved Grantaire in this life. But he might have. And that thought pained him more than the six bullets in his body did. He let out a final hiss of pain.
Then everything went black. Or perhaps it went white. And then there was silence.

...

Now if it went black, Enjolras may never open his eyes. Or if he does, they won't see, because in the darkness, they cannot recognise anything and if they could, there isn't anything there to recognise. And Enjolras will spend eternity asleep or alone, with the guilt and with desperation, with pain and torture, reliving the last few hours of his life again and again, and the memories will slowly drive him to madness. He won't be able to die and find his peace, for he is already dead. And he will never be happy again.

If, however, it went white, Enjolras will open his eyes at some point. And he will see his friends gathered around him, all of them, including Grantaire. And they will have eternity to forgive and forget. They will have forever to tell Enjolras that he is an idiot if he blames himself for their deaths. And Enjolras will have much time to talk to Grantaire about gratitude and courage and to get to know, and, who knows, maybe even to love him. They will have forever to figure out their feelings and their relationship and, love or not, all will be bliss. And all will be well.