Fuck Yeah E/R Slash

Grantaire knew he was going to die that day, and his secret - at least a secret to who it concerned the most - would die with him. He fumbled for the neck of a green bottle of absinthe, in the hope he could drink himself into oblivion to not feel any pain when he would envitably be shot. He stood against the wall of the Café Musain, knees trembling. Blood trickled from a minor head wound on the left side of his face. He let out a small sob, once again wondering why he, a cynic amongst idealists, had willingly gone to his death.

“A-Apollo,” he sobbed under his breath, “it is for Apollo.” His belief had not been in the Cause, but in the Leader. His arm shaking, he raised the near empty green bottle of absinthe in salute.
“To my slab of marble. To Apollo! - My Apollo!” he cried defiantly, despite his tears. He no longer cared if the National Guard, who were most likely rounding up the other Amis of d’ABC, heard him. Grantaire the Cynic, however, hoped that the leader he idolized, venerated and loved would hear.

Grantaire downed the rest of the absinthe and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, weeping. He threw the bottle away from him and it shattered against one of the splintered counters in the café when they came into contact. A wretched sob escaped from him and he slumped against the wall, falling to the ground again. He was exhausted from crying, from fighting.

Fate intervened on that particular moment - he thought he would be dying alone. But Fate provided a stumbling shadow in the door way of the Musain. In the distance, there were explosions, gun shots, shouts from the students as they shouted “vive le République!”. Blurry eyed and through his tears, Grantaire looked up to recognise the figure in front of him. It was the wild Antinous that he loved. Enjolras, his marble statue. Yet Enjolras was not in his typical magnificent splendour. He was injured on his right upper arm, scarlet blood staining the once pure white shirt he wore. His lip - almost as plump as any grisette that Grantaire had had in the past - was split.
“It is…it is lost,” Enjolras said, clearly shaken. Yet underneath there was the regret of the Cause not being successful, Grantaire could hear the confidence beneath that - the confidence that people would one day overthrow the July Monarchy and the people would be free.
“A-Apollo…you’re wounded,” Grantaire choked out, trying to stand up. Enjolras looked away from Grantaire.
“It is only a scratch…”

Grantaire breathed deeply, it was now or never for him. He had to tell Enjolras or take the secret to the grave with him.
“E-Enjolras?” he asked, his tone frightened. Of course he was frightened. Frightened that Enjolras would not take it seriously, take it the same way the Pontmercy boy felt about the girl he was in love with - “who cares about your lonely soul?” he had said disapprovingly - or rebuff him like he always did. For sure, Enjolras would scorn him.
“Yes?” the golden student replied, his eyes meeting Grantaire’s for a moment.
“I…I l-love you…my Apollo.” It fell silent for a moment and the distressed cynic closed his eyes, knowing that he would willingly die now. Enjolras looked at Grantaire, studying the unattractive and cynical drunk’s face. His angelic features softened slightly.
“Is this true?” he asked. It felt almost like an interrogation to Grantaire.
”Oui, it is. I came to the meetings, because of you. I…I didn’t believe in the cause…I believed in you.” Shaken by the confession, the golden leader of the ABC, knelt beside him on the floor… he had no words. None at all.

“D-do you permit it?” Grantaire asked, his eyes once again welling up with tears. There was a flash of disapproval on Enjolras’ face, only a flash. But Grantaire thought that he had gone too far. As if he was dreaming, Enjolras, the handsome student of law who would lower his eyes chastely as a group of flirtatious women walk past, did something he had not expected.

He nodded mutely.

Grantaire took his beloved’s face in his hands, and with a single tear rolling down his cheek, placed a single kiss upon Enjolras’ lips. It was sweet and simple. A moment he would cherish forever, even in the afterlife - if there was one. Pulling away, Enjolras turned around to see some of the National Guard in the doorway. He stood up, offering his hand to the cynic.

Grantaire took it, was heaved up. And as they were about to be shot by the National Guard, he knew he could die happy. Because not only had Enjolras permitted it; he had also accepted it.