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The light in their cafe was dim, but the spirit in the room was more than fiery enough to brighten the dark walls and the even darker, haunted looks hidden on each student’s face. No face was brighter than Enjolras’, alive with the idea of revolution. God, how Grantaire hated it. Enjolras spent his whole life planning how he would die, just so that others may live; he was wrong.
“Enjolras.” Grantaire called his friend over when he noticed a lull in the determined speeches of younger students and the encouraging shouts that spilled from Enjolras’ lips in return. Enjolras came over at once, his face alight with a grin that only ever accompanied the meetings that would serve as the foundation of this revolution.
“Yes, Grantaire, what is it?” Enjolras asked when Grantaire did not speak. A bottle was shifted from Grantaire’s hand to his friend's.
“Drink. Drink, with me, here, while we are still alive.” Grantaire instructed. When Enjolras did not move to drink, Grantaire reached out with one hand to touch the side of his friend’s face as gently as he could manage in his current state. “Enjolras, you plan your death. Why do you not choose to instead enjoy your life, as you ought?”
“Because my life ending will mean that many others shall begin. My life pales in comparison to the people of France, and I must do my duty to them.” Enjolras explained, as he had so many times before. Grantaire shook his head, got up and stretched across the table, and kissed Enjolras as hard as he could, almost angrily.
“Now, maybe, you will have something which you are willing to live for.” Grantaire told him firmly when he had backed off. Enjolras swallowed and met his eyes.
“No. Now, I have something which I am willing to die for.” Enjolras corrected, the passion muted and still ever-burning. Grantaire supposed he could live with that.