Chapter Text
Enjolras closes the door behind him with even composure. His breath is a firm three beats in, three beats out through the removal of his shoes and the hanging up of his backpack, and when he fills a glass of water at the sink, his hands are perfectly steady.
He is not upset.
The rally may not have gone to plan, but such is the nature of rallies. People are unpredictable. They’re allowed to do what they want — that is the point, after all — and that places them well within their rights when they choose not to rise when called upon. Not to show up for events with weeks of planning behind them.
Enjolras is not upset.
He is, however, getting more than a little frustrated with his phone. When last he checked, Enjolras had twenty-one texts, seven missed calls, and three messages in his voicemail box, and that was before his final bus transfer. It continues vibrating away even as he goes into his bedroom and removes it from his pocket, putting on the stand beside his bed. Enjolras loves his friends, and he knows that they mean well, but there is nothing to be fussed about. The people didn’t show up, and that’s fine. He doesn’t need their pity.
Enjolras’s phone begins a fresh round of vibrations — another phonecall — and he can’t help but groan as he falls onto his bed. A nap: that’s what he needs. They’ve been working hard to plan today, and Enjolras needs a break. He deserves a break.
The sound of rubberized plastic against particleboard slowly fades to background noise as his eyes fall shut and his vision goes dark.
When Enjolras wakes, it feels like no time has passed at all. He doesn’t feel particularly well-rested, but he supposes that, given the deficit he’s been operating on, this shouldn’t be altogether unexpected.
What is unexpected is the man sitting at his desk.
“Oh, good, you’re awake.”
What’s more unexpected is that the man is Enjolras.
In a manner of speaking, anyway: he has Enjolras’s face and hair and voice, certainly, but the clothing is nothing Enjolras has ever seen worn outside of photos and museums, and there is a certain confidence emanating from him that is at once fierce and serene. Enjolras blinks as he pushes himself up to an upright position, frowning at the illusion.
“What’s happening?”
“Ah, yes, I suppose that was rather misleading.” Another person — the people who usually sit at Enjolras’s desk when he isn’t — might fidget with the assortment of objects he keeps there, but the lookalike remains almost jarringly composed. “You are asleep.”
This brings some relief. Of course, it all makes sense now. “I’m dreaming.”
“You are.”
“You’re me.”
The corner of the lookalike’s mouth quirks upward, amused. “In a manner of speaking.”
“You’re my subconscious.”
“You’re overthinking this.”
Enjolras is unfamiliar with how lucid dreaming works, and he tries to remember any of the questions Combeferre might be interested in having answered. “Will I remember this when I wake up?”
“Most likely.”
“Good.”
This intrigues the lookalike, who cocks a brow at him. “Oh?”
“I have some friends who would be devastated if I didn’t.”
The answer earns a smile. “Ah, yes, Combeferre will be fascinated by this, won’t she? I’ll try to leave some time at the end for experimentation.”
This makes Enjolras frown. It’s his own subconscious, of course figments of his own mind would know what he does, but — “‘At the end’?” he repeats.
“Yes,” says the lookalike, standing. “We have some events to process.”
It takes a beat to remember, but when Enjolras does he feels his jaw clench. “I’m quite all right, thank you.”
His lookalike gives him a look that Enjolras recognizes as being the one he gives people when he’s waiting for them to think about what they’ve just said and see how ridiculous they sound to their own ears.
Enjolras’s lips press into a firm line before he stands. “Fine then. Where are we going?” He’ll let his lookalike be proved wrong soon enough.
The lookalike’s mouth shifts to a small smile as he gestures for Enjolras to move beside him. Enjolras does, and when he turns to face the room again he blinks.
“What is Prouvaire doing here?”
“Ey’re writing,” the lookalike says unnecessarily, because that is clearly what Prouvaire is sprawled out in Enjolras’s bed doing. Ey’re not like his lookalike: Enjolras’s lookalike is clear, crisp around the edges. Prouvaire’s lighting and shadows seem all wrong, and Enjolras suspects that if he tried to touch em his hand might pass right through. “Specifically, ey’re processing today.”
Enjolras shakes his head. “There’s nothing to process. No one showed up, what more is there to process?”
A shrug. “Why don’t you check?”
Looking back down, Enjolras sees that Prouvaire has disappeared, leaving a page behind. He picks it up and reads. “This is …”
“You aren’t the only one who worked on this, Enjolras. You didn’t pull those long nights by yourself. Everyone was invested.”
Enjolras continues staring at the lines and lines of prose until the words blur, closing his eyes and exhaling deeply. “We all worked extremely hard on today,” he admits.
“You did,” his lookalike agrees patiently, almost comfortingly. “And the people did not match your enthusiasm.”
“Ey — we deserved better. Everyone deserved better.”
“You did.”
“We gave them the tools, why couldn’t they help themselves?” Enjolras’s eyes reopen as the frustration floods through him, checking his lookalike’s reaction.
Something about this must appease him, because he’s smiling like this is exactly what he’d expected. “Let’s go for a walk.”
Fighting the urge to huff, Enjolras is nearly out of his room when more of the odd discoloration from before catches the corner of his eye, and he leans back in. “Grantaire?”
“Hm?” his lookalike asks, pausing.
“Grantaire, he’s —” Enjolras looks back into his room. Grantaire has disappeared, but a bottle remains in his wake on Enjolras’s desk. “He was here.”
A sad smile crosses his lookalike’s face. “We all process these things in our own time and ways. Grantaire will come around when he is ready. Until then, there is little for us to do except to be patient.”
Enjolras grimaces: he can think of more than a few things that could be done in the time it takes Grantaire to come around to anything; his lookalike is already continuing down the hallway deeper into Enjolras’s flat, though, so he leaves his bedroom behind him to follow.
When he catches up, Enjolras’s lookalike is already facing him from the other side of the eating area, arms crossed expectantly. Another barely-there form sits between them at his kitchen table, hunched over and facing away from Enjolras. Walking up beside the figure, he pulls out an adjacent seat and sits.
Feuilly’s arms are crossed, brow furrowed angrily and fingers drumming the staccato they get when Feuilly is agitated for any reason. Enjolras is used to seeing it when they want a smoke, but now they’re glaring at something on the table. Wary of disturbing the apparition, Enjolras leans forward to see what has earned Feuilly’s ire.
“They’re notes,” his lookalike explains from beside the table.
“Yes, I can see that. They’re not for today’s event, though, what is this?”
“Your future ideas. Remember? Today was supposed to be a jumping-off point.”
Enjolras does remember, and suddenly he’s angry all over again. The consequences of today reach far beyond their hurt pride: the plans and ideas and hopes they’d all had for the future have been dashed. If they can’t count on the people to stand behind them, how are they supposed to plan anything for the future? They’ve been forced to a standstill by the one variable they cannot control, the one variable they need most.
Feuilly has disappeared, something Enjolras only realizes when an entirely new hand shoots out and removes the pile from his line of sight. He twists in his chair, searching for which specter has interrupted his thoughts.
Courfeyrac stands over the trash can, her thumb fiddling agitatedly at the roller of a lighter; at first Enjolras thinks this may be her dramatic way of removing the object of his scorn from him, but then he sees the frustrated tears gathering in the corners of her eyes as she struggles with the Bic. The loose stack of papers ignites, and by the time Enjolras is out of his seat, Courfeyrac is gone.
It’s a dream, so the trash can is empty when he opens it but for the singed scraps of their work. “There’s no use giving up everything over one setback.” Retrieving the pile, he flips through the sheets. They’re salvageable, he can copy over notes to a fresh tablet. “If we just —”
“Joly and Combeferre are already on it,” his lookalike informs him.
Enjolras frowns at the figure before looking back up at the kitchen. Sure enough, Joly is sitting up on the countertop, hands poised like they always are when he’s proposing an idea of questionable merit. Beside him and no doubt teetering on the very edge of her chair in the same way that she constantly chastises Enjolras for, Combeferre is listening with real enthusiasm, excitedly jotting something down as Joly speaks words Enjolras cannot hear.
Something warm fills his chest. Of course his friends are already handling this.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourself,” his lookalike warns. Enjolras only glances over a beat, but when he looks back at the kitchen, Combeferre and Joly are both already gone, a paper on the counter the only evidence that anyone was ever there.
He goes over to pick it up and frowns. “These aren’t actionable at all. Where are we meant to get the sponsors to provide ‘one thousand free milkshakes’? And a petting zoo? What does that have to do with our work?”
His lookalike shrugs. “Joly and Combeferre think it will improve attendance.”
“It’s absurdity.”
“It’s desperation.”
Enjolras looks up at the lookalike. “They’re still struggling.”
His lookalike’s expression softens, shoulders sagging fractionally in their billowing sleeves. “They don’t know what to do. No one wants to give up, but everyone already did their best today, and it wasn’t good enough. They’re not trying to be rational: they’re looking for a sense of control.”
Enjolras’s eyes fall back to the papers in his hands, and suddenly his limbs feel twice as heavy as a moment ago. “But we don’t have control.”
He walks back around to the trash can, dropping the list and the remains of the notes back in.
“I’m going back to bed.”
“You’re already asleep.”
“It would seem that ‘processing’ isn’t particularly restful.”
His lookalike’s expression turns sympathetic. “Would you at least consider resting on the lounge?”
It’s the opposite direction from his bedroom, but it’s no farther. Enjolras trudges to the sofa.
He doesn’t have the energy to be surprised at the bundle of blankets that appears next to him; he looks up, acknowledges the pile as Bahorel, and looks back to his hands.
“She’s still using she/her pronouns.”
“I assumed.”
He expects his lookalike to continue pushing the subject, or else for Bahorel to disappear, but neither happens.
“I don’t suppose Bahorel has a diary full of sad poetry lying around?”
“If she does, it’s not here.” Amusement tinges his lookalike’s tone. “Sometimes we need quiet to process things. Sometimes we have to allow ourselves to feel what happened and to embrace it.”
Enjolras wants to ask his lookalike what a figment of his subconscious could possibly have processed that gives him the authority to tell Enjolras what to do and how to feel, but right now his lookalike is right: he needs quiet.
He doesn’t know how much time has passed — minutes, hours, days — before he comes back to himself, blinking at the room around him as though seeing it for the first time.
“When did it get so dark?”
“Ah, so you’ve noticed.”
Enjolras huffs, biting back a smile. “I’ll get the light.”
The light turns on, but Bahorel’s figure is still there, totally unresponsive.
After a few more seconds’ observation, he turns to his lookalike. “Will she be all right? And the others … are they …”
This time his lookalike appears pleased. “You know, it’s still daytime.” He looks meaningfully toward the windows.
Picking up his lookalike’s meaning, Enjolras crosses the space to the shutters. He looks back over to Bahorel, seeing that someone has joined her under her blanket burrito and that both are smiling serenely, before pulling on the cord.
The room is suddenly flooded with light, and where Bahorel had once sat is now Laigle.
Laigle is lounging on Enjolras’s two-seater like he lives there — to be fair, he has established squatter’s rights in Enjolras’s living room on more than one occasion — and scribbling something in a notepad being held at an angle that makes Enjolras’s arm ache just to watch.
“I suppose you’re going to want me to read what he’s written when he’s done?”
A shrug. “It’s your subconscious.”
“I get the impression that that was sass.”
A wider smile. “It’s your subconscious.”
He looks down again to see the notepad lying on the sofa and picks it up. “This is utterly illegible.”
“Ah, yes, well, Laigle is left-handed.”
Enjolras squints at the paper. “Does he write with his left hand?”
“He does not.”
“Hm.” It’s difficult work, but the words are becoming more clear as he acclimates himself to the handwriting. “Good weather.’ ‘Adequate water and sunscreen supplies.’ ‘No broken bones.’ Things that went well?”
“Improvements from other events you’ve held.”
He shakes his head. “These are bare minimum —”
“You followed the weather weeks out and had a rain date planned.”
“Well, yes.”
“You collected materials and even had trash bags available for clean-up to minimize your environmental impact.”
“Of course.”
“You were very careful to choose a path with no obstructions and keep your materials contained and organized.”
This time Enjolras frowns. “That should never have happened in the first place, it was —”
“Addressed and fixed,” his lookalike interrupts. “You’ve been learning from your other events, and you will learn from this one. Look at the bottom.”
He tries. “Is this ideas for next time? Like what Combeferre and Joly were doing?”
“Similar,” the lookalike tells him, “but not quite. Read them.”
Huffing, Enjolras reapplies himself to making out the chicken scratch. “Cross-check local schedule for other events. Choose new, targeted locations for advertising. Do more in-person pre-events.” He looks back up. “These are actionable.”
“Laigle has a lot of experience with things not going his way.”
Enjolras's voice is soft as he completes the thought. “But he tries again.”
“He always tries again,” agrees the lookalike. “Sometimes we have to change our tactics or adjust our expectations, but the only way our efforts are worthless is if we do nothing to learn from them.”
“Is that what all of this was about, then?” Enjolras gestures around his flat. “Getting me to try again?”
The lookalike’s eyes twinkle mirthfully. “It’s your subconscious.”
Enjolras gives a soft laugh. “It’s my subconscious.”
“I think it’s time for you to be getting back to bed.”
After giving his lookalike what Enjolras hopes comes across as a very unimpressed look, he passes through his now-empty flat back into his bedroom.
“Wait,” Enjolras calls.
“Yes?”
“This bottle,” he says, pointing to where the item remains on his desk. “Everyone else’s things disappeared, why is this still here?”
The lookalike’s eyes turn downward as he smiles, sighing a little as he does. “We all process these things in our own time and ways.”
“Right, you said before, but you also said he'll come around in his own time. Does that mean he will come around?” Enjolras looks at his lookalike expectantly but receives only a cryptic smile; he sighs, guessing, “It’s my subconscious?”
The smile deepens. “Go to sleep.”
“You said I was already asleep.” Even so, Enjolras lays easily back into his bed.
“Ah, yes, I suppose that was rather misleading,” his lookalike tells him, settling back into Enjolras’s desk chair and picking up the bottle to examine it. “Wake up.”
When Enjolras wakes, it feels like no time has passed at all. He doesn’t feel particularly well-rested, but he supposes that, given the deficit he’s been operating on, this shouldn’t be altogether unexpected.
His eyes fly to his desk. No lookalike, no bottle.
What is there, though, is the return of his phone’s unceasing vibration. Enjolras doesn’t bother sitting up, instead reaching over and answering without checking the caller. “Hello?”
“Enjolras! Hi!”
Ah, of course. “Hey, Pontmercy. Can I help you with something?”
“Maybe? Courfeyrac said — well, first of all, I’m very sorry about today.”
His first instinct is to bat down the sympathy, but he reconsiders. “Thank you. It'll be a good benchmark for future events.”
“Yes! That’s what I was calling about! I wanted to come today, actually, but I was — well, I was a bit intimidated, and. And I'm sorry.”
Surprising even himself, Enjolras feels himself smile as he shakes his head. “It’s okay, you’re okay.”
“But! I’ve done some thinking, and I’ve decided I want to be more involved! I can’t promise I won't make missteps, and sometimes I’ll say the wrong thing, but if it’s okay with you, I think I’d really like to be a more active part of … well, everything.”
It’s such an unexpected turn of events that Enjolras needs a moment to process.
“I totally understand if you’re not interested, though, I can see how that isn’t exactly the most compelli —”
“We’d love to have you, Pontmercy.”
There’s a pause. “Really?”
“Of course.”
“You … you’re okay with me joining?”
Enjolras is fairly sure he hears the sound of a high-five in the background, and he makes a mental note to check Courfeyrac’s missed texts first. “I would be honored if you joined us.”
“Oh, okay, great.” There's a pause before Pontmercy continues. “Right, so I don’t know if now is a bad time or you want to be alone or anything, but I actually have some ideas about what happened today and what we might be able to do to address it in the future.” Another pause. “But I could also, uh, text you?”
The offer is tempting, but Enjolras knows that time alone with his thoughts isn’t what he needs right now. “Now sounds great. What did you have in mind?”