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Chapter Text

If Bossuet were asked to pinpoint when it all went wrong he would recount the following: Combeferre was to attend a meeting with a few sympathetic medical students but was then called to an urgent meeting elsewhere. The task was then passed on to Joly. Joly fell ill the evening of the meeting, and so the task was then passed on to Bossuet. Bossuet had indeed gone to meet with the students but, as luck would have it, he’d been caught distributing pamphlets by a couple of gendarmes just as it came to a close.

Chapter Text

Joly is not five minutes away from the Musain when he realises that he has forgotten his cane. Stopping abruptly in the middle of the street, he swats his hand against his forehead and swears. Beside him, Bossuet stumbles.

“I have forgotten my cane,” Joly says in explanation, already thinking ahead to when he will next be at the Musain, but oh- he is busy tomorrow and will not have a chance to retrieve it until Monday, at which point it may very well have been claimed by another young man who had mistaken it for his own misplaced cane- or worse, accidentally thrown in the fireplace whilst Joly was in class and- no, that will not do. “Apologise to Musichetta for me, I will catch you up!” 

Bossuet nods and turns away, his elbow sliding out from Joly’s as Joly runs off in the opposite direction. The urgency isn’t strictly necessary- he doubts his cane could have gone far in his five minute absence- but the running makes him feel giddy, like he has important matters to attend to (not that securing the whereabouts of his cane isn’t important, but. Nevertheless.) 

Joly runs, and as he runs he wonders how it is he came to leave his cane in the first place. He is sure he’d leant it against his chair, as always, so- ah, but of course. Joly laughs, remembering fondly how he’d challenged Courfeyrac to a duel over the other man’s atrocious pun, and how the two of them had played at exchanging blows on the tabletop until Louison had materialised and yelled at them to stop. He must’ve misplaced it afterwards in all the excitement.

There are voices still inside the backroom when Joly ascends the stairs, and he waits for a moment with his ear at the door. Just in case. 

“-must know that he’d never say anything-” a voice is saying and Joly quickly matches the tone and inflection to that of Feuilly. 

Joly smiles. Feuilly is kind and Feuilly will not have let any harm have come to his cane. He can only guess that the other voice belongs to Enjolras, for he is usually to be found at Feuilly’s side these days. It is sweet, Joly thinks, that they are becoming such good friends. 

Joly immediately rethinks that statement when he pushes the door open to reveal Enjolras and Feuilly- not engaged in political debate as he had expected, but in a passionate kiss instead. And that makes sense too, he supposes, for he did not- well, he did not know that the two of them were so inclined, but then again, why would he? He thinks of Bossuet, probably home to Musichetta at this point, and smiles. They are perhaps not as alone as it might seem, and if he weren’t quite so sure that he should keep this a secret, he would be rushing home to tell them at once. But no, it would be wrong to tell, just as it would be wrong even to dwell here when he knows that Enjolras and Feuilly aren’t aware of his presence, not when they haven’t-

Enjolras hums before breaking the kiss and Joly is at just the right angle to see the sweet smile on his face when he looks at Feuilly, and- no, he definitely shouldn’t be here. 

He is about to turn around and abandon the whole endeavor when Feuilly speaks, “Look,” comes his soft voice, “it appears Joly has left his cane.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, equally as quiet. “I could return it to him on my way home, I suppose.”

“Are you passing by that way?”

“I hadn’t planned to, but I do not mind.”

Joly takes a deep breath. He cannot let a friend go out of their way for him, not when he is right here and perfectly able to retrieve his cane himself. There is only one thing for it. He closes the door gently and takes a few light step backwards then makes a deliberate noise as he starts towards the door again. He pauses once he reaches it, just briefly, and then flings the door open. 

Had he not witnessed the scene of their embrace just a minute before, he might not have believed that it’d happened. They are now sat at the table they were previously standing near; Enjolras with paper in front of him and a pen in his hand, Feuilly beside him, reading over his shoulder and muttering quiet suggestions. 

Joly is impressed.

He clears his throat, officially announcing his presence and the two men turn at once. Feuilly smiles. 

“Joly! We were just talking about you. Back for your cane, I presume?”

“You presume right!” Joly says cheerfully, retrieving his cane from where it remains leant against the table. “Thank you for keeping it safe for me.”

“Thank you for returning for it,” Feuilly replies. “You spared Enjolras a trip across Paris.”

Enjolras shakes his head in protest. “Joly’s lodgings are hardly that far.”

“Still,” says Joly quickly, for it looked as though Feuilly was about to argue the point further. He reaches a hand out to grasp Enjolras’ shoulder. “I am grateful for the sacrifice, even if it needn't be carried through. You are both dear friends, and I treasure you dearly. Now, I really must be going, I have businesses to attend to. Goodnight!”

They echo his goodbyes; Joly takes off with a wave, cane firmly in hand. There is a skip in his step as he walks home, one that is matched by the smile on his lips. He imagines he must look quite ridiculous for being so happy, but he cannot find it in himself to care. He thinks of Bossuet and Musichetta and himself, and then he thinks of Enjolras and Feuilly- for it makes perfect sense now that he is over the initial shock. His friends are in love- or at least, they appear so- and so is he, and everything seems quite wonderful in the evening glow of the city.

Joly imagines the warm bed he’ll be able to fall into once he’s home, the two bodies that wait for him there, and thinks that he probably couldn't be happier if he tried. 

Chapter Text

Jehan fidgets where he's sat opposite from Bossuet and Joly in the back room of the Cafe Musain. He has an engagement in an hour's time- less of a party and more of a gathering, hosted by one of Bahorel's acquaintances. It will be Jehan's first time meeting them and he is nervous, as he always is when meeting new people, but it's the good kind of nervous- the type that brings with it an inspirational sort of energy.

He plans on being suitably early to this engagement, which is why it's rather distressing that Enjolras is still caught up in conversation with Feuilly and has yet to give Jehan the pamphlets he's been asked to look over.

After a few more minutes of listening in to the easy conversation of his friends, Jehan sighs. His need to be on his way outweighs any worry he feels over interrupting Enjolras and Feuilly's conversation and so he makes his way over, announcing his presence at their table with a soft greeting.

"Pardon, Enjolras, but did you still want me to look over those pamphlets? Only, I have to be going soon, you see..."

It only takes a second for recognition to flash on Enjolras' fine features and then he's hurriedly rooting around in his bag, mumbling to himself. 

"Here you are," he says, producing a thick stack of papers and handing them to Jehan. "My apologies."

"Thank you," Jehan says, "I'll return them to you next meeting."

Enjolras nods, and Jehan parts, quickly sparing a wave for Feuilly, who returns it with a smile.

Once home, Jehan deposits the pamphlets on his dresser and thinks no more of them until he returns home that evening.

The party had gone wonderfully, full of people whose conversation he'd found enthralling and whose laughter he'd chased. Bahorel had dressed in one of his most rowdy waistcoats and Jehan remembers his look of delight at the judgmental gazes it'd prompted in the street. (He also remembers the way Bahorel's mouth had felt upon his, secluded in a dark corner of their hosts living room. But that's a different matter.)

His mood is pleasant enough when he returns that he decides to tackle the pamphlets straight away. There appear a great deal more than usual and it would be good to make a start on them, even if he does not finish.

Jehan makes himself tea and settles into his task, high on the wine and the thrill of an evening spent in good company. The further into the pamphlet he gets, however, the more confused he becomes. It is not up to the usual standard of Enjolras' rhetoric- the formality is all but gone, and his thoughts spiral around the page as if he were recording them without thought to flow or structure. His argument is as meticulously constructed as ever, but without the clear focus that Jehan has come to expect.

He addresses the subject as tu- which isn't particularly unusual for an essay meant to display the merits of Republicanism- but together with the rest, the tone it conveys is rather different to his usual writings.

The papers are already dotted with Jehan's corrections and suggestions when he gets to the page that changes it all. About halfway through the essay, the rhetoric (what little there had been) stops, bleeding into something of a far more personal nature. Jehan pauses where his pen is hovered above the writing, because surely it can't be-

He skims the next few pages and comes to a halt. Thus dawns the realisation that these aren't the pamphlets Enjolras had asked him to look over at all, but a letter. He must have mixed them up in his haste and handed Jehan the wrong document. Jehan feels panic creep up his spine at the thought of how Enjolras will react to his having read- and edited- it. He obviously hadn't meant for Jehan to see, and whilst Jehan feels secure knowing he hadn't intentionally intruded upon Enjolras' privacy, the end result is the same.

Just when he is pondering what to do about the whole situation, there is a knock at his door. 

Jehan goes to open it at once, revealing none other than Enjolras himself on the other side. 

Enjolras looks as composed as ever, and he smiles at Jehan when Jehan steps aside to let him in. 

"I'm afraid I gave you the wrong papers earlier," Enjolras explains, placing another, thinner stack on Jehan's desk. "Apologies- I take it you haven't got around to looking through-"

He trails off, perhaps having spotted the mess of papers all over Jehan's floor.

"I didn't realise," Jehan begins cautiously, "that it was not a pamphlet I was editing until I was rather far into it. I apologise. I stopped reading as soon as it became clear that these words are of a more personal nature, but I'm afraid the first few pages weren't spared any mercy by my pen."

It's almost impossible to know what Enjolras is thinking behind his cool gaze. Jehan hurriedly sets to gathering up the loose papers of the letter, only stilling momentarily when his eye catches sight of a familiar name, penned in Enjolras' hand. 

Of course. 

Trepidation all but gone, Jehan smiles with sudden giddiness, barely managing to contain his grin as he turns back to Enjolras and hands the letter over. 

"I didn't know you were courting Feuilly."

Enjolras splutters; Jehan doesn't believe he's ever seen him do so before. For some reason, it makes his grin grow wider. "We're not courting." Enjolras says, quick to compose himself. 

"I could've helped you woo him," Jehan laments. "I'm very good at it, you know."

Enjolras ducks his head. "I'm sure you are." 

"I could look over the rest for you if you like," Jehan offers, growing bolder now that he knows nothing will be made sour between them. "There are some suggestions of a more... intimate nature, I could offer."

When he looks back up, Enjolras' face is stricken. "No, thank you."

Jehan takes pity on him. "I'm only teasing," he says, reaching out to touch their hands together. "I think it's wonderful."

Enjolras relaxes almost immediately; he clutches the letter less tightly to his chest and squeezes Jehan's hand where it rests in his own.

"Don't let me keep you any longer," Jehan says, "you have important mail to deliver, after all."

Enjolras nods with a small smile. He seems on the verge of leaving when he reaches out for Jehan's shoulder, and, with an air of sudden solemnity, speaks: "I would ask that you keep this between us."

"Of course," Jehan agrees readily. "But why? You know our friends are hardly best positioned to judge."

Enjolras shakes his head. "It's not that. We'd rather keep it quiet, you understand. For the time being."

Jehan nods his head once more, feeling the giddiness creep back up his spine; he is more than happy to assist in keeping a secret, especially when that secret includes a love affair between two of the people he holds most dear. 

Enjolras bids him farewell after that and Jehan lets the full force of his grin show once the door is closed behind him. He thinks of Enjolras' smile as it was a few moments ago, small and secretive. He thinks of the tender care Enjolras had shown the letter, the concern that had hung off of his frame when he came seeking it. 

Yes, Jehan thinks, Feuilly is one lucky man indeed.

Chapter Text

Bahorel is a man of many talents; certainly too many to name. Chief among them, however- and perhaps the one he prides himself on above all- is his ability to convince his friends into joining him for a drink in one of Paris' many winehouses, no matter the circumstance.

"One drink," Feuilly says warningly, following a long campaign of incisive arguments and persuasive rhetoric. "I have an engagement tonight."

"Of course," Bahorel grins, victorious. "Now come, let's celebrate a job well done!"

A week ago, Feuilly had invited Bahorel to come and help him talk to some of the workers in a neighbouring atelier, try and relieve the doubt that had been stirring following riots in the city last month. Bahorel had agreed readily, for their was nothing he enjoyed more than a good rousing. The crowd that had gathered had been an attentive one and Bahorel took great joy in addressing them- they weren't opposed to revolt, but the recent months of unrest had understandably shaken some of their number.

He and Feuilly had seen a renewed vigour and replenished spirit restored to the workers. They'd promised aid, when the time came, and vowed to help raise funds for the families of those who had been dismissed as a result of their suspected involvement in unrest. All in all, it had been a wicked success, matched only by Bahorel's own success in convincing Feuilly into a drink afterwards.

That success mutliplies when one drink turns into two, which turns into three, which turns into four. Bahorel hadn't pressured Feuilly into more than one drink, not exactly… he had simply engaged Feuilly on the topic of their Romanian comrades, knowing that the conversation would, in all likelihood, stretch past the remit of a single drink.

The two of them are jubilant and rowdy as they sit in the dimly lit cafe. It is nice to see Feuilly as such, animate and enraptured, gesticulating wildly as the conversation circles back round, as it is wont to do with Feuilly, to that fateful 1772 and all it encompassed; the sovereignty of the Polish people, their struggle for liberty, the ripples it sent across the revolutionary landscape thereafter.

"And it is-" Feuilly hiccups, "Bahorel, you must understand it is- it is an injustice indeed, for what right has another man- another country, for that matter- to make decisions on behalf of-" another hiccup "- on behalf of another, it is… it is-"

Bahorel catches one of Feuilly's arms where it's waving dangerously close to Bahorel's wine. "Steady," he says, amused. "Spilling my drink will not help the plight of the Polish."

Feuilly huffs. "You have had rather enough already."

"And you haven't? One drink, you said!" exclaims Bahorel.

Feuilly groans, lays his head on the table.

Bahorel pats his shoulder. "Do not worry, dear Feuilly. I'm sure your engagement can be rescheduled."

At once, Feuilly sits up, as if suddenly sober. "No," he says. "No, it cannot. I must-" he stops, taps his cheeks with both hands as if to hide the evidence of his inebriation. "I must compose myself, I-"

"What is this engagement? Surely you have no more political activities today?"

Feuilly shakes his head, still attempting to scrub the ruddiness from his cheeks.

Bahorel raises his eyebrows. "A mistress, maybe?"

It had been a joke, but Feuilly freezes. His red cheeks grow even redder as his hands drop back down to his sides.

"No," says Feuilly, but Bahorel is already grinning.

"It is! You have a lover?"

"No." He is growing yet redder and Bahorel is amazed that such a thing is even possible.

"Who is she?"

"There is no one."

"A grisette?"

"No."

"One of the women we spoke to today, perhaps?"

"No."

"Someone at your atelier?"

"Are you going to allow me any peace?"

Bahorel smiles. "No."

Feuilly glances around him as if searching for help. His eyes flicker back to Bahorel's and he sighs. "It is new," he says quietly. "And I shouldn't- shouldn't speak of it."

"A forbidden love?" A thought strikes him, and it's so unlikely that he laughs. "She's not a Royalist is she, Feuilly?"

"No!" Feuilly exclaims, outraged.

"Which one is it? A Legitimist? Or is she enamoured by le Roi Citoyen?"

"Bahorel!"

Bahorel grins. "A Buonapartiste, then?"

"The thought!"

Bahorel is laughing as Feuilly angrily swipes his wine away, out of his reach.

Scowling, Feuilly takes a large drink of Bahorel's wine. "You have had too much wine, my friend, for you seem to have lost your sense."

Bahorel raises his hands in surrender. He does not actually want to anger Feuilly, though, so he ceases the teasing. "She is a servant of the Republic, I take it?"

Feuilly takes another swig of Bahorel's wine. "You could say that," he says. The smallest hint of a smile teases his mouth.

Intriguing.

"Ah, in that case: are you going to introduce her to the society?"

Feuilly smiles before taking another drink. Bahorel raises his eyebrows; it is not like Feuilly to be so coy. Not that Bahorel has ever known him to court a woman, can't recall Feuilly ever taking an interest beyond a brief discussion of the practicalities of shared rooms. He wonders if it is not a romantic entanglement Feuilly is involved in, but a political one- or, perhaps, it is both. Bahorel's own mistress certainly has an involvement in politics, after all, even if they are both too careful in their association to outwardly speak on it. And then there is the question of Jean Prouvaire, who would chafe at the idea of being called mistress, yet is held firmly in Bahorel's heart nonetheless.

He lowers his voice. "She is involved in insurrection? Did she participate in the Three Glorious Days last summer?"

"Fear not, Bahorel, for we are well matched in our politics. This is all I shall say."

"She must be quite involved indeed, to have left such an impression on you. This is a serious entanglement?"

Feuilly nods.

"And are you happy?"

"Very much so."

"I confess; I am surprised. In matters of the heart and the flesh, I had thought you as uninterested as Enjolras."

At once, Feuilly starts choking on the mouthful of wine he'd just swallowed. Bahorel cries out in alarm before repeatedly slapping Feuilly's back.

"That is quite enough, thank you," Feuilly says between gasps once he's recovered.

Bahorel ceases his treatment, swiping the wine back from Feuilly, who he suspects has had rather enough for one night.

"Well, I'm happy for you." He drains the last of the wine in one long gulp. "To love!" he cries, raising the bottle above his head. Feuilly copies the movement clumsily, almost dropping the glass in the process. "To freedom!" he says, too loud for their small corner. Bahorel hushes him with a laugh.

"Well, I suppose that concludes our celebration! Can you stand without assistance?" he asks, for Feuilly is attempting to push his chair under the table with limited success.

"I'm fine," says Feuilly, wobbling.

Bahorel stands too, bracing himself for the dizziness; he is not a stranger to this state, and so it's with a welcome familiarity he embraces the slight wobble of his step, the sense that he no longer knows where the ground is in relation to his feet.

Helping Feuilly with an arm behind his back, the two of them make their way to the street. Bahorel tosses a coin to the barmaids as they pass; this may not be the nicest drinking establishment, but it always pays to treat the staff with kindness, lest they accidentally overhear something they shouldn't.

Feuilly adjusts to his new state of inebriation before long, and when he can walk mostly in a straight line, Bahorel deems it safe to let go.

"Let me walk you, see you there safely."

Feuilly shakes his head. "I am perfectly fit. Besides, Enjolras will see to my safety once I arrive."

Bahorel frowns. "Enjolras? I thought you were going to see your mistress?"

Feuilly almost trips on a loose paving stone. He blushes, red to his core. "Ah- I- well… I have since changed my mind, you see. I am going to see Enjolras. There's a… matter I need to discuss with him."

"It must be quite urgent, to interrupt this engagement you were so insistent upon."

"It is," says Feuilly, who is staring at the ground rather than at Bahorel. "It is of great urgency."

"She will not be jealous?" Bahorel jests. "One could easily grow jealous of Enjolras; I have heard more than one grisette weep over him."

"I think she will be just fine."

Bahorel shrugs. "So be it. I know the way to Enjolras'; all the more reason for me to accompany you!"

Feuilly grunts, but doesn't relent as Bahorel walks into step next to him, linking their arms together. The silence is companionable, and Bahorel is feeling quite cheerful- even though he knows he'll wake up with an awful headache come tomorrow.

They reach Enjolras' lodgings just as the dusk arrives, sunlight retreating behind the tall buildings. Bahorel knocks pleasantly and smiles when Enjolras' landlady- Madame Nadeau, a woman who always frowns at Bahorel like she can tell he's up to no good- opens the door.

"What?" she demands, complete with her perpetual scowl.

Before Bahorel can reply, Feuilly pushes his way to the front. Madame Nadeau's face transforms upon seeing him; she smiles, and all at once her sharp eyes turn soft. Bahorel wouldn't have believed it were he not here to witness the event.

"Ah, Monsieur Feuilly! Here to see Monsieur Enjolras? He's been walking down here every fifteen minutes in anticipation of your arrival! Go, go, don't keep him waiting any longer!"

Feuilly smiles, nodding to her in thanks before sliding round, up the stairs. Bahorel follows, more than a little impressed by how quickly the scowl reappears on Madame Nadeau's features when she looks at him.

It's not until they're at Enjolras' door that Bahorel realises something is off about the interaction.

"How is it Enjolras is expecting you, if you didn't have plans to visit him tonight?"

Feuilly doesn't have time to reply, for that's the moment Enjolras opens the door. He is smiling a sweet smile that Bahorel has never seen before as he greets Feuilly, immediately reaching for Feuilly's hands and laying a kiss against each of his cheeks. He lingers longer than Bahorel would have expected, longer than is strictly proper...

As sudden as a brick through a window, the pieces click together.

Bahorel clears his throat before the tender display can progress any further. Enjolras' eyes widen as he spots Bahorel, obscured by Feuilly's frame until that moment. His hands leave Feuilly's to hang awkwardly at his sides.

"Bahorel, hello. Is everything alright?"

"Most certainly not," says Bahorel, "Feuilly just allowed me to make a fool of myself for the better part of an hour! A mistress! Bah! Now the ruse is up; I am to understand we were talking about Enjolras all that time?"

Enjolras and Feuilly share a look indecipherable to Bahorel. It is the look of two people who have become so entangled that they need no words to communicate. Something must pass between them, for Feuilly turns to Bahorel with a grimace.

"In all fairness, I told you- repeatedly- that there was no mistress."

"Bah!" exclaims Bahorel.

"If we are to speak of this, we should do so inside," says Enjolras, ever the pragmatist.

"I would hate to intrude," counters Bahorel, for it is clear now that is what he would be doing, were he to stay. "I would simply have you know that I was surprised when I learnt Feuilly had a mistress. This, however-" he gestures between the two of them, ever careful of prying ears- "does not require the same exercise of the imagination. Had you told me from the start, I should not have pushed you so."

"Lies; you would have been ten times as insufferable," grumbles Feuilly.

Bahorel waves this away with a hand. "As is my right, as your friend and compatriot."

Enjolras purses his pretty lips. "And now?" he asks.

"And now," Bahorel says, "I bid you goodnight, and I will see you tomorrow. Don't look so troubled, Enjolras, what do you imagine I might do? Every man is entitled to his secrets. I find no fault with yours."

Enjolras nods slowly. His arm comes up to wrap around Feuilly once again. It's an acknowledgement and a confession all at once; upon seeing it, Bahorel's face splits into a grin.

"Goodnight, Bahorel," says Enjolras, and steers Feuilly towards the door. He pauses just before closing it shut. "Thank you."

Bahorel inclines his head in acknowledgement. "Take care of him, he's had rather a lot to drink."

Enjolras nods, once, and then the door is closed between them.

Bahorel whistles as he walks down the stairs. Subtlety may not be one of his many talents, but for tonight that turned out to be a good thing. He's in such good spirits that he meets Madame Nadeau's glare with a cheery smile on his way out, and has to fight the urge not to skip down the street.

The evening's revelations have been numerous indeed; he cannot wait to tell Jehan.

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac is in the middle of doing his hair in preparation for a night at the opera with Marius when a knock sounds at his door. He frowns, for he isn't expecting company, and Marius is seldom in the business of being early.

He crosses the room and cracks the door open. Enjolras stands on the other side, quite unlike Courfeyrac has ever seen him; his lips, usually uptight in the way they betray nothing of his emotions, are turned downwards unhappily, and his eyes are ringed red. He looks like an actress with too much rouge.

Never one to turn away a friend in their hour of need, Courfeyrac opens his door and ushers Enjolras inside. The opera can wait.

He tries to hide his shock as he takes Enjolras' hat, seating his friend in a chair by his desk whilst he sets to fetching some water. It will not do for him to act rashly or do anything which would cause Enjolras to retreat—he has shown up at Courfeyrac's door in quite visible distress and Courfeyrac must therefore handle this situation carefully, for although Enjolras isn't one to hide his emotions, nor has he ever been in the habit of broadcasting them.

Enjolras accepts the water with a croaky, "thank you," and sips at it whilst Courfeyrac takes a seat opposite him.

Neither of them move to speak. Courfeyrac, familiar with his friend's quirks, lets the silence linger; Enjolras will speak when he's ready. Though some may see Courfeyrac as impatient, impetuous, he knows how to wait when it really matters. Sure enough, it's only another minute before Enjolras sighs and discloses the reason for his distress:

"Me and Feuilly have had a disagreement. He is rather angry at me."

"Ah," says Courfeyrac. "And is there justice in his anger?"

"Of course. It's Feuilly."

Of course. "What did you do?"

Here, Enjolras pauses. He purses his lips and narrows his eyes. "You must not tease."

"I would never."

"You would," maintains Enjolras. He sighs and drops his eyes. When they meet Courfeyrac's once again, there's a determined set to them. "We were speaking of the social contract. The topic of children came up and I… I maintained that Rousseau was not to be blamed for his actions towards them."

"His actions? If I recall, he only had one, and that was to rid himself of them!"

Far from the glare Courfeyrac had expected to receive, Enjolras merely slumps further in his seat. This is how Courfeyrac knows the situation is dire; Enjolras does not slump.

Courfeyrac leans forward and places a tentative hand on Enjolras' knee. "Forgive me, I said I would not tease. I take it Feuilly did not agree?"

Enjolras shakes his head. "No. I admit, it was unwise of me to persist in my argument given the circumstances, but truthfully, I did not consider them until after the fact. A gross oversight on my part. Had I considered who I was speaking to, I might've…" Here, he trails off, runs a hand through his hair. The curls there have wilted, as if responding to Enjolras' dejection.

"I daresay Feuilly would not want you to moderate your opinions because of his background."

Enjolras pauses. "No," he agrees.

"And so?"

Enjolras takes a deep breath. "And so the fault must be with the opinions themselves, not merely how they were expressed. I find myself unsettled, in contention with my own principles and upset by my own words."

"How pleasant," Courfeyrac says. "But I was referring to how you plan on reconciling with Feuilly; from your appearance when you knocked on my door, I'm going to assume the two of you didn't leave on good terms."

A slight wobble in Enjolras' voice when he next speaks: "No."

"So? What are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know," says Enjolras. His tone is frustrated—more frustrated than Courfeyrac has ever heard. "What would you do?"

"I? Why does it matter what I would do?"

"I simply thought… well, you've had your share of… of romantic disputes, have you not?"

Courfeyrac laughs. "Well, yes I suppose I have—but what that has to do with you and Feuilly I can't—"

From the corner of his eye, Courfeyrac sees Enjolras wince. All at once, many things become clear to him. He hastens to backtrack. "That is—you are both very passionate when it comes to your politics; I merely meant to say that any dispute between you is a political one first and foremost." Courfeyrac's mind is spinning but he manages to lay a comforting hand on Enjolras' shoulder nevertheless. He gentles his voice. "I hardly think Feuilly holds any less affection for you because of it."

Some of the tension in Enjolras' shoulders lessens. Courfeyrac smiles and hopes he said the correct thing, for it feels as though Enjolras just trusted him with something very precious and it would be amiss if Courfeyrac were to handle it clumsily and break it. He barrels onwards, hoping to ease any lingering awkwardness, to alleviate any fear.

"If it's my treatise on resolution you seek, well, look no further! When winning back the favour of a mistr—ah, that is, a lover—one must only abide to these three notions: one, apologise; two, decry that your life shall never be the same without them in it; three, if the other two fail, you can always try again from your knees."

Enjolras doesn't react to the innuendo but a red flush appears on his cheeks; Courfeyrac smiles, delighted in having provoked it.

"In the case of Feuilly," Courfeyrac continues—he may love to tease, but he does not want to truly discomfort his friend—"I rather think that the first may be the only step you need to take. He knows your character, and, I suspect, already cherishes your presence." He squeezes Enjolras' shoulder once more. "It must seem bad right now, but I assure you; this is nothing that can't be fixed through a communion."

Enjolras nods. His eyes seem to have lost their troubled gaze.

"Yes: I shall find Feuilly and admit my faults. He must know that I revere him, and that I… that I would not want anyone to suffer as he has, and that is not what I meant from my ill-considered remarks."

Courfeyrac laughs. "And I shall find Feuilly and thank him for winning a battle long fought! To think; had I been born an orphan, we could have been done with this argument years ago!"

"That is not—"

"I know, I know. Still! All these years and he's able to convince you in an afternoon—where is the justice in that, I ask you?"

Enjolras scoffs. "I still maintain that Rousseau—"

"Ah, ah, ah; we haven't time to get into it now. Besides, I think I'll leave the philosophy to Feuilly from now on. He and Combeferre will function as a formidable team."

"I shall never win a debate again," Enjolras agrees. He still looks far too downtrodden, but Courfeyrac is glad to see some humour return.

"We'll make sure of it," Courfeyrac promises. "And in the meantime, I'm sure Feuilly will be glad to hear you sing his praises in apology."

Enjolras blushes. Courfeyrac can't believe he didn't see it earlier, for Enjolras has never been subtle in his admiration of Feuilly. The two of them formed an affinity very quickly, and the progression of their friendship had been sure and strong. They are usually to be found by each other's sides, Courfeyrac just hadn't thought…

Well, he hadn't thought that extended to what Enjolras is obviously implying it does. No matter—as far as Courfeyrac is concerned, the happiness of his friends is a good thing, no matter where that happiness comes from.

(It also, he admits to himself, later, sneaking sidelong glances at Marius during the opera, a relief to know that he is perhaps not as alone as he'd thought.)

"Do you think he'll forgive me?" Enjolras asks quietly.

"Do you think Blondeau will strike me off the register if I miss the call next semester?"

Enjolras laughs—quietly, but it is a delight to see him do so nevertheless.

There is a knock at the door. Courfeyrac jumps up; Marius, at last!

But it's not Marius on the other side; instead, Feuilly stands there, worry writ into the lines of his mouth. "Courfeyrac," he greets, taking his cap off. "Have you seen—"

"Enjolras!" calls Courfeyrac, opening the door, "visitor for you!"

Enjolras stands up at once. His eyes are wide as they look at Feuilly.

"Feuilly," he says, breathless. "I was about to set out and—"

"Enjolras," says Feuilly at the same time, "I'm glad I found you, I—"

"—apologise, I forgot myself, I should never have—"

"—simply overreacted, I know you would not—"

"—must know I love you dearly, and upon reflection, I rather think—"

"—know that was not your intention, though I take issue with—"

"—should, of course, and I will gladly accept anything you may—"

"—but it is something we can discuss at a later—"

"—and it goes without saying that I—"

"Citizens!" cries Courfeyrac, over the voices that cross over each other like gunfire. "Please! I have an opera to attend! Marius will be here any second!"

The two of them turn to look at him. "I apologise," says Enjolras, "we did not mean to—"

"Yes, yes, everyone's brimming with remorse—lovely, I am pleased you have settled your quarrel; now, out! Some of us have appointments to keep!"

Another knock at the door. "Ah!" exclaims Courfeyrac. "Marius!"

But it is not Marius at the door. It is Courfeyrac's terribly nosey, perpetually disgruntled portress, whose eyebrows angle downwards so severely Courfeyrac worries that they may fall off.

"Noisy," she chides, poking a finger in at the three of them. "Keep it down."

"Of course, Madame," Courfeyrac says pleasantly. She narrows her eyes at him. Courfeyrac makes a rude gesture once the door is closed behind her again.

Marius does not arrive until ten minutes later, once Enjolras and Feuilly have departed. He is flustered, as Marius often is, and his fashion is dreadful, as it always is, and yet Courfeyrac's traitorous heart speeds up at his presence. They walk to the opera arm in arm, and Courfeyrac cannot help but to think of Enjolras and Feuilly, the chaste embrace he'd glimpsed just before they left, their clasped hands in the dim light of his apartment. He sighs. Next to him, Marius remains oblivious.