imagine it was enjolras that lived
imagine his grief, how fierce and savage it would be, ripping him apart inside and destroying him, leaving him sobbing and shaking like a child
imagine ‘empty chairs at empty tables’ trailing into a scream of utter despair because he thinks he did this, this is his fault
imagine the choked whisper of ‘my friends, my friends, forgive me’
imagine the darkness eating away at him until he has nothing left, the nights he can’t breathe through the pain so he curls up in a ball and clutches an old shirt of grantaire’s, pretending he’s in bed beside him and all is well
imagine how he wakes up in the morning and it hits him again, like a flood.