Work Text:
Feuilly drew his brush over the fan before him in long, broad strokes, and smiled. The motion was soothing, and he was content. A winter storm raged outside, swirling bouts of snow sweeping unsuspecting hats off Parisians’ heads (Courfeyrac had already bemoaned the loss of one), but the back room of the Musain was warm, he had a full stomach, a task at hand, and was surrounded by friends.
Although, surrounded wasn’t quite an apt description any longer, as after that evening’s meeting had adjourned, Bahorel, Jehan, and Courfeyrac had taken off in one direction, seeking further companionship, and Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire in the other, seeking wine. But Feuilly still felt their presence in the room - light yet hearty smells of food and wine, an echo of laughter in his ears, a residual bit of warmth where a hand had grasped his shoulder, his arm.
He could’ve joined either party – was invited to join both – but Feuilly had a commission to finish, and he preferred the quiet, comforting din of the Musain to his own rooms, where the only sounds were the wind whistling through the cracks, and the chattering of his own teeth. Here, between brushstrokes, he allowed himself to rest and listen to the calming chatter of Enjolras and Combeferre in the corner, discussing the latest charter to take effect, or the latest pamphlet to be published. They had no work of their own – Enjolras had just submitted an essay defending constitutional liberties in Poland (with which Feuilly had assisted) to one of the city’s republican newspapers. They had another newspaper spread before them, though, and Enjolras was pointing to something, speaking rapidly, while Combeferre watched him and listened with rapt attention and fierce concentration.
Feuilly sat back in his chair and massaged his hand, which had begun to cramp. He turned his full focus to Enjolras and Combeferre, and watched them debate with a small smile playing at his lips. They seemed to always be at work. Feuilly knew it couldn’t be so; they shared rooms, and surely there was some time in which they sat together by the fire, reading in silence, or talked of nothing while they shared a meal. But Feuilly couldn’t help but notice, in the brief time he’d known these two men, that when together, their minds seemed to meld into one, their thoughts transferring without the necessity of spoken words. They were brilliant men apart, but together, they drove ideas forward with a velocity that crushed any opposition in their path. Surely they strived to rest, to set aside their work, but Feuilly could not imagine their brains ever idling. Perhaps even in sleep they worked, Feuilly thought whimsically, sharing images in dreams they would discuss the following morning.
Feuilly shook his head at the notion and grabbed for his brush again, ready to start the intricate work of detailing, when he heard Combeferre’s voice raise a notch above the muffled din from the next room: “You know I do not agree.”
Feuilly took his brush in hand but remained still, training his ears on the conversation in the corner. The tone was not angry, but serious. Not chastising or exasperated, but firm, simply stating a fact. Not yelling, only insisting to be heard. Feuilly tried to turn his attenion back to his work. He stroked his brush lightly along the edges of the fan, but continuined to listen.
“I know.” Enjolras’s voice carried a hint of amusement. “It is one of the things I know best about you, my friend.”
“We will forever be chasing each other around this issue, won’t we?” Combeferre also sounded amused, but the smile in his voice was tinged with exhaustion.
Enjolras laughed. “I certainly hope so. We chase because we long to understand the other’s point of view. The day I stop longing to understand you, Combeferre, will be the day I no longer wish to remain on this earth.”
“I hope you do not long too much or too often, that I am transparent to you in most matters, as I strive to be, and willingly offer explanations for the times I am not.”
“And I will always seek those explanations.”
The two fell into silence, prompting Feuilly to look up from his work. Enjolras and Combeferre were leaning toward one another across the table, one of Enjolras’s hands firmly clasped between two of Combeferre’s. Feuilly smiled, and began painting again.
“Do you really think an uprising will occur within the year?” Combeferre’s voice was softer, now, almost disbelieving.
“Undoubtedly,” Enjolras said evenly.
“I wish it did not have to be so.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Do you think this is a foolish wish?”
“Certainly not. It is never foolish to wish for peace. But it is not entirely practical, either. There will be barricades again, as there were in '30. It is only logical.”
“Violence is never logical.”
“But often necessary.”
Feuilly abandoned all pretense of working and lifted his head to watch the exchange, trying to place himself within the context of their argument. He found himself wishing to settle somewhere between Enjolras and Combeferre, but could not help sympathizing more with Enjolras's point of view. Of course he desired peace, just as Combeferre did, but when he looked into the future, he saw barricades, as well. When people suffered as deeply as the people of Paris did, when freedoms were stripped as violently as they were from the people of Poland, rebellion was necessary. Revolution was necessary. They had to take a stand.
“Again, my friend, I do not agree.” Combeferre seemed to squeeze Enjolras’s hand, which was still firmly cocooned between his own, and Feuilly felt Combeferre disagreeing with him, as well, though he was addressing Enjolras. “If you shoot a man, he will die. That death will serve as a message, it is true. But if you teach a man, if you share with him your opinions and show him a way of life that encourages freedom and love between all men, he will carry that message. Death will send a message to Louis-Philippe, but life will share that message with countless others.”
Enjolras pulled his hand from Combeferre’s, but only to rest it firmly, gently, against Combeferre’s arm. “But with things as they are, how far can you expect that message to travel? Education is necessary, of course, but sometimes the political climate discourages those teachings from spreading. What you are suggesting is a murmuring, passed along a thread. Sooner or later, the thread will be cut. But if the people yell loud enough, that sort of breach will be irrelevant. Our displeasure will echo from the chasm and ring through the Grand Trianon with an explosion of voices in unison.”
Feuilly nearly shivered with the thought. The gathering at the Hotel de Ville in '30 had been electrifying; what a grand thing it would be to see all of Paris on its feet, crying out, demanding rights, demanding freedom, speaking as one.
“You can form the powder trail and hold the fuse, Enjolras, but you cannot light the spark.”
Feuilly ruminated on the words, and thought, Are the people not the spark, Combeferre? Is their anger not enough of a fuel?
Enjolras flinched ever so slightly, but patted Combeferre’s arm, and slipped his hand down to intertwine their fingers once more. “General Lamarque is the spark.”
Feuilly felt a thrill of pride at the name. Lamarque had been an advocate for Polish support. He admired the man, and was elated that Enjolras had invoked him.
“Hmm,” Combeferre said, his eyes straying to the ceiling in thought. “He may be in the future, but not yet. Not now.”
“He called for France to aid the rebels in Poland.”
“And did he march upon the conquerors himself?”
“Did you expect him to do so?”
“Of course not. But to become the spark you seek, Lamarque must take a more dramatic action. He stands with us; but he must stand before us in order to coax the people from their stasis.”
Enjolras bowed his head, and Combeferre reached out and rested a comforting hand on the back of his neck. Feuilly had only seen Enjolras and Combeferre debate in this manner once or twice before, and the process was just as riveting, the easy back and forth between them, the elegance of it all, like a dance. Each voiced his opinion with confidence and clarity, but there was a tactile understanding between them, a reassurance with touches and gestures that, though they may disagree, they would not stray from the other’s side. There was compromise: Enjolras would run out into the streets at this very moment, if not for Combeferre’s steady mantra of patience, patience. Combeferre would continue to stubbornly forge a beaten path if Enjolras did not enlighten a path he hadn't considered, one he was uncomfortable with, but willing to travel.
“I see the inevitability of your barricades,” Combeferre said. “I will continue to seek other paths until the time comes, but when it does come, I will take my place at your side.”
“We will wait,” Enjolras said. “That time is not now. In the future, soon, perhaps, but not now.”
“Now we will lay the trail.”
“Now we will educate the people.”
The smile they shared was enough to warm Feuilly to his core.
“Shall we discuss further Lamarque’s comments on the attack of liberty in Poland?”
Feuilly took a breath. He could hold himself back no longer. "A relevant discussion might involve Lamarque's critics in addition to his supporters, their interpretation of his defense of Poland as simply a desire for France to go to war." He smiled. "And why they are wrong."
Enjolras beamed at Feuilly. "I am up for further debate."
Combeferre chuckled. "I might have a thing or two to say in this regard."
“You know far more about this than either Combeferre or I. Come, sit with us.” Enjolras’s smile was blinding.
"Oh, no,” Feuilly protested half-heartedly, “I certainly don’t…”
“Of course you do,” Combeferre said, nearly rolling his eyes. “Come.”
“I have much work to finish.” Feuilly was already standing.
“Bring your work here. Add your strong voice to our humble chorus.”
Feuilly blushed violently, but he took his paints, his brush, and his fan, and joined the pair at the table in the corner.