The whispers grow day by day, refusing to retreat as the nights lose their purchase, giving in to the summer sun, passing farther into the light. Enjolras has buried himself in his work, trying desperately to keep his mind occupied with the fast-approaching revolution. The futility of his actions creep up on him in the long hours after everyone else has left. Empty air giving way to his darker thoughts. What if the people don't rise? What if he is leading his friends to an early death for nothing? He shakes them off as best he can. There is so much work to be done.

The crescendo has nearly reached it's peak, and Enjolras cannot sleep for fear it will break when he looks away. Something is about to give. He can feel the anxiety settling in his bones, his muscles bunched and aching at all hours. They are so close.

He knows that time is running out, much quicker than he thought it would. Still, he cannot bring himself to see Grantaire again, not after his episode nearly a week ago. It feels wrong of him to take the time of a dying man, especially when he knows his presence would likely bring Grantaire more grief than peace. At least, that is what he reasons as to why he won't see him. From the top of the cafe he can see through the streets of Paris, glowing faintly in small pinpoints of life. He can pretend the drunken laughter down the row is Grantaire and Courfeyrac, Joly hurrying after them worriedly. He can pretend that in the darkened corners of the room, Grantaire sleeps off another bottle of wine, tired from their arguing. He can tell himself that Grantaire is alright, that everything is as it was, that he isn't sick. He doesn't know if he is strong enough to shatter that illusion.

Gentle footsteps on the stairs tear him from his thoughts, and he thanks the distraction. Joly peers around the corner, stepping in when he sees Enjolras at his desk. The man looks tired, worn down in much the same way an old man is worn down, weary beyond his years as though he has seen too much of life. Still, he smiles at Enjolras who rises to greet him.

"Joly, it is good to see you." He says, making his way around the desk to lean on the front.

"I can say the same, Enjolras, though you do look a little worn. How are you doing?" Joly pauses for a moment, shoulders drooping as the cordiality that had been holding him up dissolves, "How are you, really?"

Enjolras opens his mouth to respond, but can find no words to answer. Joly just nods.

"He's doing well you know, better for the last couple of days, though I don't know how long it will last."

Enjolras nods, thoughtfully, not having to ask who Joly is talking about. Joly gives him a sad, knowing, look.

"Here," He offers him a neat envelope, only his name marking the front in careful script, "It's for you. You should go and see him. He doesn't hate you, though you seem to think so for some absurd reason."

Enjolras takes it, not willing to look at it long while Joly is present. He turns and sets the letter on his desk, deciding, for now, to pretend he hadn't received it.

"And how are you Joly? You never seem to tell me." He asks, ignoring Joly's previous statement.

Joly sighs, his weariness more evident than before.

"I am well enough-"

"No you aren't."

"No," Joly concedes, "I am not."

He settles heavily into a chair. His eyes downcast.

"The guilt is eating me alive, Enjolras."

"Guilt? Joly, you've done nothing wrong."

"I can't stand to be around him, Enjolras. I can't stand it. Seeing him fall apart like that- I'm scared."

"Scared-?"

"Of the disease. Every time I'm near him I'm terrified he will infect me, that I'll dissolve as well. He needs me, I'm his friend, and I can hardly bear to be in the same room as him. I wish that, somehow, I could ease his burden. But I can't, I'm as helpless as he is. And I have no right to be scared when he's facing down his own mortality, but I can't stop."

"Joly, you've done everything anyone could ask of you. Don't tear yourself apart like this, it's only natural that you would be scared." Enjolras assures him, surprised that Joly was willing to tell him. The stress is probably getting to him.

"Perhaps." Joly agrees, dragging his hands over his face to try and clear his head, "You really should look at that." He points to the letter, sitting rather out of place on Enjolras' desk, "He refused to rest until I told him you would see it."

A sad sort of smile crosses Joly's face at this.

"Yes I'll-"Enjolras hesitates, reaching for the letter, "I'll do that now, then."

Joly nods, settling his head on top of his folded arms and closing his eyes. Enjolras is grateful for the privacy, unsure what he would find inside.

He breaks the seal gently, careful not to tear the envelope. He isn't sure why, but the act seems almost reverent. He unfolds the letter, Grantaire's shaky script staring back up at him.

Dearest Enjolras,

I pray this letter finds you well, and that you have been heeding Joly's requests that you rest, though I know you surely are not. To be entirely frank, though, neither am I. Paris and I have been restless these past few nights, as I'm sure you are aware, so I will try not to take much of your time.

I feel I must first apologize. I have not been entirely honest with you for nearly our entire acquaintanceship, or, dare I say, friendship. You must understand and forgive me for not telling you this in person, it is hard enough to write, I could not say it to your face, even in health. I have long harbored some affection for you that goes beyond that of a friend. I go so far as to say that I have loved you for a long while. I understand, fully and truly, that this is foolish of me. But with my time fast approaching I find that I can no longer stomach the idea that I have dared to deceive you for so long. This truth belongs to you as much as it belongs to me, and I now give it to you to do with as you wish.

With this letter sent, there remains very little that I have yet to do, and soon my little life will extinguish. I only hope that you know you have been the sun and light of my time here, and I can only ask that you treat my memory softly until it fades from you. I cannot thank you enough for the hope you have given me. You have made my existence fuller.

Sincerely and regrettably,

Grantaire

Enjolras reads it three times before he dares to look up. It feels as though he has been gutted. The fourth time he tries to read it his hands shake too much, and his eyes blur, concealing the words from him. He folds it quickly, tucking it in his coat and blinking to clear his eyes.

"I'm sorry, Joly, but I must go. Stay as long as you wish."

Joly gazes up at him, a knowing look passing over his face, as fleeting as it is clear. It occurs, suddenly, to Enjolras that Joly has known all this time. He resents him a little for having not told him, but respects his loyalty to Grantaire.

He rushes down the stairs and he's out beneath the Parisian stars before he knows it. His head feels as though it is spinning. It's rare for Enjolras to find himself speechless, but he truly has no idea what he plans to say when he arrives, or if he should even arrive this late, but he knows he must see Grantaire. His feet echo against the cobblestones, their pace increasing with his heartbeat, though he's not sure if it's from the exercise or something else altogether.

He slows on the stairs up to Grantaire's apartment. What is he doing? Is he really ready to see Grantaire again?

The grain of wood on Grantaire's door is slightly warped, likely due to the water damage from the leaking roof. The spring had been so wet this year that it had caused similar issues elsewhere. Enjolras stares at the wood, willing himself to knock.

His hand doesn't move, some strange choking fear holding him back. Should he come back later?

No. Enough time has been wasted and enough has been lost. Enjolras rapps against the wood sharply, holding his breath as the sound echoes throughout the hall.