Chapter Text
He is thirty and Grantaire is gone.
It’s not a bad year, at first—news of Germany’s failure in Russia keeps spreading, and Enjolras lets himself believe that it will be over soon; that the death and slaughter will end and Grantaire will not have to hide anymore.
He tells Grantaire as much one night. It’s late, and Enjolras feels old down to his bones, but Grantaire is there and he is alive and the war may be over soon—it will be enough, for now.
“Maybe,” Grantaire says, playing with a stray blond curl at the nape of Enjolras’ neck. Enjolras is lying half on the bed and half on top of Grantaire, head pillowed on the other man’s chest as Grantaire plays idly with his hair. It strikes Enjolras as odd that even amidst all the death and destruction, this is the happiest he ever remembers being.
“Or maybe not,” Grantaire continues. “But it will end, eventually. All wars do.”
Enjolras can feel Grantaire’s heartbeat beneath him and Grantaire’s breath ruffling his hair when he tilts his head down to press a kiss to Enjolras’ temple. He feels loved and lighter than he has any right to be, cradled here in the safety of Grantaire’s arms. It’s the thought that makes him speak, makes him voice his own fears.
“And the innocent always die,” Enjolras pauses and bites his lip. “Some of them by my own hands. The things I’ve done, Grantaire-”
Grantaire shushes him, tilts Enjolras’ head up only to press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “One question, just answer yes or no. Do you want Germany to lose this war?”
“How can you even-”
“Yes or no, Enjolras.”
“Yes. Of course it’s yes. But I don’t-”
Grantaire shifts, rolls them over so that’s he’s lying on top of Enjolras, his hands on either side of Enjolras’ head supporting most of his weight. “Don’t,” he breathes out. “Don’t you dare do this to yourself, Enjolras. You’ve done what you had to do.”
Enjolras looks away. He cannot stare at Grantaire’s eyes and find himself reflected there.
“I’ve brought death to people who only deserved life, I’ve-”
Grantaire leans down, nuzzles Enjolras’ cheek with his nose. “Look at me,” he whispers.
Enjolras can’t bring himself to. “What am I supposed to do, Grantaire?” It’s half a question and half a sob and Enjolras hates that he is falling apart but does not know how to stop it. “If it’s you one day, if they catch you and I have to stand there, what do you expect me to do, I can’t just-”
“Yes, you can. And you must. If that happens, I will give you a reason and you will pull the trigger.” A wicked grin stretches its way across his face. “Maybe I’ll grope you. It’s really not a bad way to die, considering,” Grantaire says with a shrug, like it’s easy. Maybe it is—Enjolras has not spared him any detail of the things he’s seen and done. It will make Grantaire more careful and it might be enough to make him leave. Enjolras hopes it will be—Grantaire does not deserve to die here, like this. It is not fair to think this and he knows it - not when he knows none of the dead deserved it - but he cannot stop the thought from forming.
“You expect me to-”
“I expect you to give me a clean death, Enjolras,” he says simply. “And what you do is too important. I am not worth losing a war over. And I am certainly not worth your life.”
“But you are,” Enjolras whispers. He wants to scream it, shout it from rooftops and let the world know. He is in love with Grantaire and Grantaire is in love with him and they are in love and it’s brilliant. Even here, in Nazi Germany, it’s brilliant.
This is what he knows at this moment—he loves Grantaire and Grantaire is not safe. This is what forces him to turn his head, to finally look at Grantaire’s bright blue eyes and to speak once more. “Ask me,” he urges—begs, really. “Ask me and I’ll go away with you, leave all of this behind. You will be safe and you will be alive. There are places the war has not touched, we could be happy, we could be-”
“There is this poem,” Grantaire interrupts. “I don’t remember how it begins but I know how it ends. Would you like to hear it?”
Enjolras frowns—he doesn’t know what he’d been expecting from Grantaire but this wasn’t it. “I don’t-”
“I’ll take that as ‘yes, Grantaire, please tell me the nice poem’.” He takes a deep breath. “This inconstancy is such as thou too shalt adore.” Another pause, in the form of a kiss pressed to Enjolras’ lips. “I could not love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more.”
Enjolras lets a sob escape his lips before he can stop it. He is falling apart and he is failing and he does not know if one day he’ll be able to live without Grantaire there. “You could die, you could-”
“People die everyday. They deserve life just as much as me, Enjolras.” He wipes away a tear on Enjolras’ cheek. “Many people are alive because of you. And more will be once this war is over. We can move anywhere you want when that happens. I’ve always been rather partial to Australia, of course, but I’m open to other options.”
Enjolras smiles, reaching up to tug carefully at Grantaire’s hair. “Australia?”
“I’ve always had a fondness for kangaroos. They’re just so happy, bless their bouncy little souls. We could get one, dress it up in little butler outfits.”
Enjolras laughs, though it feels hollow to his own ears. “You say the stupidest things of anyone I have ever met.”
“You flatterer.” He pouts. “I bet you say that to all the boys.”
“Not really, just you.” When Grantaire pout turns into a smile, he adds, “So, we’re moving to Australia once it’s over?”
“Well, only after I’ve punched Hitler, of course,” Grantaire says with a chuckle.
“You want to punch Hitler?”
“Everyone needs a hobby,” Grantaire says sternly. “But yeah, Australia.” He frowns thoughtfully. “Or maybe New York. I’ve always wanted to see the Statue of Liberty.”
“We could always move to Australia and go to New York for your birthday,” Enjolras suggests.
Grantaire’s smile is all the answer he needs.
Once Grantaire has fallen asleep still using Enjolras as a human pillow, Enjolras finds himself praying silently to a God he can no longer believe in for the first time in many years.
Months later, Grantaire leaves because of Hitler. Enjolras supposes that anything that happens now is because of Hitler but this entire chain of events is set in motion because he has to meet Hitler. It’s funny, but Hitler isn’t anything like Enjolras was expecting—he remembers a man larger than life but Hitler is small and awkward and hunched and Enjolras would not look twice at him if he saw him on a street corner. For a moment, the tight leash he has always put on his emotions threatens to slip, along with the carefully constructed mask he puts on every time he leaves the house.
He could do it. It would be so easy, too easy, to just reach for his gun and shoot Hitler. Enjolras wants to do it, Enjolras aches to do it but what would it accomplish? Hitler would die, yes, but Enjolras does not fool himself into believing that the war would end along with him. Hitler would die and someone else would take over and Enjolras’ cover would be blown. They would search his house, arrest Éponine and find Grantaire. And Grantaire must not be found. Grantaire must stay alive and happy and safe in their bed.
It’s the thought of Grantaire that makes him drop the half-formed plan, it’s what prods him to move forward and take the Führer’s hand. He hopes Hitler can feel it, somehow; that this is the hand that Enjolras had used that morning to take Grantaire apart. But it’s more than that, and he hopes Hitler can feel that, too. It’s the way Grantaire has written himself into the bones beneath the skin of Enjolras’ body; it’s the way he is in Enjolras’ blood, flowing steady and strong through his veins; it’s the way Enjolras licks his lips and tastes only Grantaire; and it’s the way he breathes in and smells only his shampoo on Grantaire’s hair, even though they are miles apart. This is how he keeps his sanity, then.
It’s enough then but it is not enough later, when he scrubs his hand until it bleeds. This is how Grantaire finds him, clutching his bleeding hand as he sits helplessly on the bathroom floor, staring blankly at the empty wall.
It’s Grantaire who bandages his hand and carries him to bed, climbing in beside them. It’s Grantaire who listens as Enjolras’ whispers, mixed with his broken sobs, fill the night.
It’s Grantaire who tries to push him out of bed when they hear the sirens, signaling for air strikes.
It’s Grantaire who he clings to, refusing to go. Their basement is not deep enough to be used as a shelter, staying here is not safe. Enjolras does not care. He has lost so much already, he will not lose Grantaire too. This is what he tells him.
“Enjolras, you idiot,” Grantaire hisses. “What the fuck are you going to do against bombs? Go away.”
Enjolras will not budge. He cannot function without Grantaire; sometimes he wonders if he can even breathe without him there. If the bombs hit them, then it will be over and it will be over quickly. Hitler will never touch Grantaire and Enjolras will never have to witness it.
Grantaire curses him under his breath the entire night, but when the sirens stop they are alive and they are safe. Enjolras isn’t sure that’s a good thing, anymore.
He does not know it yet, but this the last night he spends with Grantaire.
He will leave in the morning, on assignment to Dachau as a reward for good service. He will think of nothing but Grantaire while he’s there—Grantaire who is safe and alive and who will put Enjolras back together once he gets back, no matter how broken he is.
He does not know yet that Grantaire will not be there.
But he will find out. He will come home, tired and broken and anything but okay and find no trace of Grantaire except for a piece of white paper left on top of his bed.
Out to punch Hitler.
Back in a few
- R
He will not have a chance to say goodbye, to once again press promises he hopes he will be able to keep once the war is over into the crook of Grantaire’s neck. .
There will be nothing left of Grantaire in that house—no clothes, no pictures, nothing that has been altered by his presence there. The memories he will leave behind, along with the gaping wound in Enjolras’ chest, are the only proof he was ever there at all.
---
He is thirty-one and he sees Grantaire one last time.
He has made it through the long months after Grantaire left, though he does not know how. He walks and talks and breathes and smiles as if through a dream or a haze, as if those are things happening to someone else and he cannot feel them at all.
He throws himself into his job harder than ever before—he is a mirror, reflecting every single bit of information back to the Allies, uncritically and and indiscriminately. It does not matter—Grantaire is out there and Grantaire is in danger and that is all he needs to know. They should have left when they had the chance—Grantaire would be angry but he would be alive and they would be safe. But they did not and all that is left is the bitter taste of regret in his mouth. There is talk of atomic bombs, carrying inside them the power to burn cities to the ground in a matter of seconds. He does not care about the innocent anymore—anything, everything that will stop the war and make sure Hitler loses is welcomed, embraced with open arms.
He is past grieving, past caring, past worrying—he does things that would’ve made his stomach turn months ago and feels nothing. This is what he must do, nothing matters but his cover. Years after the war is over, once his skins sags with old age and his golden hair turns to gray, he will wake up screaming and sobbing and Éponine will not be there to hold him through it like she does now. But for now, all that matters is stopping Hitler and stopping the war so Grantaire can be safe and Enjolras tells himself that his sins are justified.
He does not tell Éponine all that he’s done—he would have told Grantaire, of course, but there is no point in telling Éponine. She has enough nightmares of her own and does not need any more. She starts sleeping in Enjolras’ bed again, but her hair is wrong and her smell is wrong and her body is wrong and her breathing is wrong and Enjolras feels tired down to his bones.
He fears the moment he will look across a concentration camp and see Grantaire’s face staring back at him—it will be the last time he will ever see Grantaire. He also welcomes that moment, however—it will be the last time either of them will ever see anything.
And then he sees Grantaire, though not quite in the way he was expecting.
He is out in Berlin with Éponine when it happens. It’s the fact that it’s Berlin that gets to him later. Berlin is supposed to be safe. Maybe not from the bombs and not from the war - these are nothing but a welcomed distraction at this point - but from himself and the things he’s had to do. Most importantly, it’s supposed to be safe from the ghost of Grantaire’s death.
Éponine’s saying something about dinner when he hears it. The distant sound of shuffling feet. He’s heard that sound before but not here, not in Berlin, not where it’s supposed to be safe and he does not have to face his worst fears.
Yet, there it is. Hundreds, maybe thousands of prisoners, some being marched from one camp to another, others recently caught and having no idea of what awaits them once the journey is over, if they are still alive to see it. The Nazis have started to call them death marches, with wide grins plastered on their faces, and it is an appropriate name. They are weak and they are ill and they are starved—-most do not survive the trip. He grabs Éponine’s hand, hoping today is not be the day he sees Grantaire.
But it is.
He’s in the middle of the crowd, hidden between hundreds of starving faces but Enjolras would recognize the mop of dark hair on his head and the bright blue eyes hidden beneath it anywhere. He is so thin and his face is so bruised and he’s still the most beautiful thing Enjolras has ever seen.
Around them, the German crowds are silent. It’s a funny thing, to look at their faces. Enjolras will not look now, refusing to look away from Grantaire. But he knows what he would find if he were to face them. Some would be proud. Others would be embarrassed, shame and guilt mingling on their faces. Most would be silent, unwilling or unable to comprehend what is happening in front of them. This is their work too; if nothing else, this is their legacy. They have stood by and let this happen and Enjolras hopes there will be no forgiveness for them, either.
The crowds do not matter. The war does not matter. The world does not matter. Nothing else matters but the blue eyes the colour of the morning sky staring back at him. Grantaire is not afraid and Enjolras will always remember that.
A clean death, he had asked once upon a time and Enjolras can give him that, if he cannot give him life. He had never wanted it to end like this—all that he had ever wanted had been to keep Grantaire safe and happy, but that is not a choice now. There are too many guards, too many people watching and even if Enjolras were to kill them all they would never make it out of Berlin alive. He doubts they would even make it out of this street.
It does not matter—there is a gun against the small of his back and there is enough ammunition in it to get the job done. Already he knows how many bullets he will need.
The armband on his right arm will let him walk through the prisoners with no questions asked. The prisoners lives are not their own anymore—they are the Nazi’s now, and they can do whatever they want with it. The soldiers guarding them will stare at Enjolras with mirth in their eyes and laughter in their mouths waiting for a good show.
And he will give them one they will never forget. He will reach for Grantaire one last time, take Grantaire’s hands in one hand and tilt his chin up with the other. He will whisper “I love you,” one last time before bringing their lips together. And then, with their lips still pressed together and without opening his eyes, he will pull the trigger—he will pull the trigger twice.
Once for Grantaire.
Once for himself.
It will be easy, so easy. It will all be over so soon. And Enjolras is so tired.
Except Grantaire is mouthing something. Enjolras doesn’t know what it is at first—and then he does. The same damn poem, whispered in a dark room a lifetime ago, when Grantaire was still whole and safe.
How could I love thee, dear, so much, loved I not honour more.
He knows what Grantaire is silently saying, what Grantaire is asking. Enjolras would’ve cared, long ago, but it’s not enough, not anymore.
It’s enough to stop him in his tracks, though. Not too long, just for a second, but enough. Enough to notice that Éponine’s hand has slipped out of his. Enough to notice that she’s the one making her way through the ranks of dying prisoners. Enough that someone has seen what is happening, has put a steadying hand on Enjolras’ arm. He is an SS officer and his wife is diving into a sea of Jews. This is what they know. Another hand comes clamping down on his other arm, and Enjolras is trapped.
He does not remember fully what happens next—he supposes Éponine must have reached Grantaire, and he remembers a whip coming down five times for Grantaire and once straight for Éponine’s face, but the memories are jumbled together, seen as if through a haze and he cannot make any sense of it
He knows that after the first crack of the whip across Grantaire’s face the hands keeping him in place leave his arms. One wraps itself around his stomach. The other goes straight to his mouth. He must reach Grantaire and he cannot move, he must talk to him and he cannot speak.
Someone speaks for him, then. A man around Enjolras’ age, with dark hair almost messy enough to rival Grantaire’s and warm brown eyes. He is German and that should mean he is safe, but his words are too dangerous. “Monsters,” he shouts. “You are all monsters, all of you, with the whips and the guns and all of you too, standing there, how can you just stare and watch while-”
A gunshot, a flash of red and he falls to floor. On Hitler’s orders, German blood is not to be spilled, though Enjolras thinks this one will be easily forgiven.
He does not care about the man, now. His life does not matter, doesn’t even register. What matters is that someone’s grabbed Éponine and someone’s grabbing him and there is nothing he can do, apart from staring as Grantaire walks out of his life for the last time.
He does not get to say goodbye, or “I love you”, or kiss him, or hold him in his arms one last time. He does not have the comfort of Grantaire’s warm hand in his or of their breaths mingling together. This will be the last image he has of Grantaire—broken and dying and yet unafraid, walking slowly towards a fate worse than death, eyes never leaving Enjolras’.
A man with a soft face and sandy blond hair speaks later, once they are gone and all that’s left is a bloodied body on the ground. “Courfeyrac has always been too kind for his own good,” he says and there is no trace of tears in his voice, but it sounds just as hollow as Enjolras’ had the day Grantaire left.
Enjolras takes Éponine home and neither of them speak. There is no time for speech—the SS will come to the house and they must not find anything, no sign of what both of them have been doing.
They collapse on her bed later that night. It is the first time he ever sees her cry—and also the last. He forgets sometimes, that Grantaire had been her friend first, but he knows it now with a painful clarity. The SS have not come for her yet, but they will. Only Enjolras’ rank has stopped them so far, but he does not fool himself into believing it will stop them forever. She is the wife of an SS officer and she has hugged a Jew in front of half the city. Enjolras’ cover may be spared, with the right maneuvering, but hers is over and they both know it. She could run, but she would be caught and she deserves better than to be tortured for information she will never share.
“We both know there’s only one way, Enjolras,” she whispers and her voice sounds sure.
“You want me to kill you,” Enjolras says flatly.
“They can’t hurt me if I’m dead. You’ve seen what they do to traitors, Enjolras.” There is a moment, a pause where she might have added ‘you’ve done it too, for the sake of your cover’ but does not. Enjolras is thankful for it. “At best, they will be sure that I married you only to spy on you and I will be tortured. Even if they cannot prove it, you will lose all that you’ve worked to build on the SS. At worst, they will think we are both spies and we will both be tortured. Kill me,” she whispers, and for the first time in a very long time she sounds happy. “Kill me and you will have punished a traitor and proved your loyalty once and for all. Fake some documents, if you must, of information that I might have been passing. I would not mind dying a hero.”
“You will always die a hero,” he tells her. “Whether it’s today or a hundred years from now.”
“Just wait until I’m asleep.” She tucks her head in the crook of his neck and falls asleep so quickly.
Years later, once the war is over, he will always think this is his last real act of kindness.
After her funeral, he finds out that the man who’d stopped him from going to Grantaire that day had been working for Lamarque; a bodyguard hired just to make sure that Enjolras is safe and does not blow his cover. Lamarque must have known too much, because she always does, and right now Enjolras does not care.
He does not kill Lamarque, because she is too important for the Allies and Éponine will not die for nothing.
But he kills the man.
He tells Enjolras he has two daughters and his name is Bahorel. Enjolras does not care and pulls the trigger.
He feels nothing at all.
---
He is thirty-two and the war is over. He does not care.
He keeps his cover. He does what he must. It does not matter.
He finds out which concentration camp Grantaire was taken to. He isn’t there anymore. He thinks that’s a good thing, in the end. Grantaire did not have to suffer that much, then. He only wishes he could’ve seen him one last time, but there were too many watchful eyes on him, even after Éponine’s death.
He is told Allied troops are landing on Normandy and that he must leave Germany. Lamarque says it will not be safe for him, that the SS uniform he wears sets him apart from everyone else and they will not believe him if he says he is a spy. He does not care for his death, but they will need his help identifying Nazis, once the war is over.
He bows his head and moves to London, vows never to return to Germany again.
He sits in front of the radio, unmoving, as reports of Germany’s surrender spread fast through Europe. This is what he’s been fighting for, this has been his life’s work and this is the reason he’s lost Grantaire and put a gun to Éponine’s head while she slept beside him. It would not have happened without him, they tell him. And yet, there are whispers in the air, half-spoken truths hiding in everything that he hears, or maybe he’s just gotten good at hearing the things people will not say. They have opened the camps and that is a good thing but there has also been death. Thousands of children and old men slaughtered in their beds by the liberating armies and if half the rumours are true millions of women have been raped during their march upon Berlin.
It would not have happened without him.
They tell him Hitler is dead and he thinks it’s a pity that Grantaire never got to punch him.
He stares blankly as atomic bombs hit Japan. This is who and what he has been fighting for, this is his legacy. He has helped stop the Nazis but what else has he helped unleash upon the world?
It would not have happened without him.
Millions of people dead in concentration camps in Germany and millions of people dead across Japan in a matter of seconds. He wonders if there is a difference in the end, if these actions will be excused because the Allies won the war.
He finds he doesn’t much care, either way.
It would not have happened without him.
It’s over and everyone he’s ever cared for is gone and everything he’s fought for is a lie.
It would not have happened without him.
He does not speak after this day. There is no point anymore.
---
He is thirty-three and he is a murderer.
He has been one for a very long time, but this time it’s different somehow.
He does not speak and he does not attend the Nuremberg trials. People who should not walk free do so.
He breaks his own vow and returns to Germany. It’s easy to find them. It’s easier to kill them.
Some of them beg. Others bargain. Most are silent.
If someone sees him, no one says anything. It makes sense—the Germans spent over a decade perfecting the art of looking the other way; he did not expect them to abandon it now.
He moves to Australia once he’s done. He looks for Grantaire one last time on some delirious hope that he will have survived the camps and be somewhere in Sydney enjoying the sun as he waits for Enjolras to come to him
They tell him there is no one by that name. Enjolras did not expect otherwise. He abandons his own name and takes Grantaire’s instead. It makes him feel better, somehow.
---
He is thirty-six and he is in New York.
It has been five years since he last saw Grantaire, six since he last held him.
He’s always heard it gets easier with time, the grief of losing the person you loved. He’s not that surprised to find that it’s just another lie he’s been told.
He misses Grantaire with every breath he takes, with every sounds he hears, with every touch he feels, with every sight he sees, with every food he tastes. He did not know he could miss someone like this, with this neverending ache in his bones and his skin and his blood that makes him want to tear open his chest and rip out his heart so that it will stop hurting, if only for a while.
He is not okay, and he does not fool himself into thinking he will ever be. But maybe that is what being okay is, in its own way.
For now it doesn’t matter. Now, all that matters is that today would have been Grantaire’s birthday and he had wanted to spend it on New York, staring up the Statue of Liberty. Enjolras cannot give him that for he cannot give him life, but he can take his place, stand here for both of them. He wishes he still believed in God and in Heaven, so that he could let himself hope that wherever Grantaire is, he is watching and smiling down at him.
He has come every year, for Grantaire’s birthday, and he will continue to do so until the day he dies.
He had searched desperately for a dark mop of hair the first year he came, but found none. He gave up after that—it only made it harder, more painful, having to accept once again that Grantaire is dead.
He has not looked again since that day.
He will not look again after today.
Because there is something in the air, some crackling tension he does not understand and will not be able to explain later. He does not know what makes him move, what makes him turn around. All that he knows is that he does and that’s how he sees it, standing less than ten feet in front of him.
A mess of dark curls.
And it cannot be, it can’t, Grantaire is dead and gone forever and Enjolras has mourned him for six years and cannot do it all over again, cannot allow himself to hope only to be confronted by the cruel reality once more.
And yet.
There is something about his hair, something about his shoulders.
But it can’t be him, Enjolras can’t let himself believe it is him.
And yet.
Those curls. Those shoulders.
The man turns around.
A flash of bright blue eyes, the colour of the morning sky.
Enjolras falls to his knees.
Grantaire is on him immediately, hands absolutely everywhere; on Enjolras’ face, on Enjolras’ hair, on Enjolras’ back, on Enjolras’ chest, on Enjolras’ hands. It’s him and he’s alive and he’s whole and he’s safe and he’s here.
“Grantaire,” he tries to say and his voice breaks from disuse and it does not matter because Grantaire is here and Grantaire is alive and Enjolras will say his name as many times as he needs to until he gets it right. Will go on saying it after that, just because he can. “GrantaireGrantaireGrantaire.”
“You idiot,” Grantaire says and his voice is just as broken as Enjolras’. “I thought you were dead, I thought-”
“You thought I was dead?” Words are hard, but Enjolras makes himself speak. Grantaire deserves everything Enjolras can give him and his words are just the beginning. “You weren’t in Dachau, you weren’t in Australia-”
“Not Dachau.” Grantaire shakes his head slowly.“There were two different groups the last time we met. The other group was headed there, not mine.”
Grantaire’s hands are in his and they are so warm.
“And Australia?”
Grantaire pauses and leans his forehead against Enjolras’. There are tears in his eyes and Enjolras never wants him to cry again but right now it doesn’t matter because he’s alive. He’s alive, he is so so alive and it’s brilliant. “They told me you were dead. They told me you were dead. There was nothing in Australia for me, Enjolras.”
It makes sense, Enjolras supposes. Grantaire was a Jewish prisoner at a concentration camp and Enjolras was a spy masquerading as an SS officer. He did all that he had to do to keep his cover back then and rumours of his death have probably been spread for his own safety.
He should be mad, should be fuming that they’ve lost all these years.
And yet.
Grantaire is alive and he is here and he does not care one bit.
He doesn’t fool himself into believing that everything will be okay now just because Grantaire is alive. He is not okay and has not been for a very long time. The war broke something inside him that he knows will never be fixed and Grantaire has his own scars to deal with too.
But he also remembers a cold night in Berlin, about a lifetime ago, when he’d thought he would not mind dying for Grantaire’s eyes. Enjolras’ death will not be required or welcomed now and that is something he will always be grateful for. This is why it’s so easy, despite everything. He would not have minded dying for Grantaire’s eyes back then and he will not mind living for them now.