The first thing that hit Enjolras when he stepped through the door was the silence. The Cafe Musain was a vibrant, lively place. When you opened the door, you'd be hit with a wave of chatter and laughter, voicing ringing, clinking glasses and bottles pouring, a real and metaphorical warmth. The silence was overwhelming. His footsteps echoed, and glass crunched underfoot.
He knew, roughly, who had bled out onto which spot. The military had obviously removed their bodies promptly, they had probably been drawing a fair bit of public attention, and the last thing that the state needed was a lot of abaisse gawking at what their country was actually willing to do to silence public protest.
There was something that Enjolras had felt compelled to do for his lost friends, and he had got to work right away. He had swept away as much glass and debris from the scene as possible, and then he had found himself a couple of large, wooden buckets. He'd carried them back through to the station to fill up with water and dishsoap in the food court. There was running water in the street outside the cafe, but he was trying not to draw too much attention. Plus, hot water would work better.
On his hands and knees, he scrubbed, wringing the blood soaked rags out. An hour or more had passed. This was the third time he'd returned to the food court, his arms shaking now as he lifted the buckets, and tipped the red liquid down the sink. He was filthy with dust, grime, and blood. He felt like he had their blood even right under his nails now. He'd always metaphorically had their blood on his hands, but this was rather on the nose.
He placed the first empty bucket under the hot tap, and turned it on, leaning over the sink and holding onto it to steady himself as it filled up once more.