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The announcement arrives without much warning. Exam season is over, summer holidays are just around the corner, and the last official Amis meeting has just come to a close. The atmosphere is light as they settle around a couple of tables at the back of the Musain and start to unwind.
And then Feuilly asks The Question.
"So, Enjolras, now that you have your degree secure in your pocket, what are your plans for the next school year? You planning on doing a Master? Or are you joining us in the workforce like a good citizen Macron could be proud of?"
From where he’s sitting next to his friend, Combeferre feels Enjolras stiffen, and he puts a hand on his knee, a silent show of support. Out of all the Amis, only him and Courfeyrac know what he’s planning to do and how hard it is for him to admit it out loud.
"Neither, actually." Enjolras takes a deep breath and continues, his gaze steady as he looks into the curious faces of his friends. "You know the NGO I volunteer on my free time? Well, one of the activists we work with, on the Honduras branch, the one fighting for indigenous rights and environmental protection, has been getting death threats for a while. They’ve gotten serious enough that we fear for her immediate safety." He pauses for a moment, and Combeferre feels him take his hand and squeeze it strong enough to cut his blood circulation. "So I’ve decided to go be her human shield."
A deafening silence follows his words as the rest of the Amis process what has just been said. Feuilly blinks slowly, nodding in grim understanding; Bossuet seems torn between concern and interest; and in his usual corner, Grantaire looks like he's going to be sick. They all know what Enjolras' plan entails. There is always a danger in going against the established power, and they’ve all made peace with that risk a long time ago. But this is different. Here, they risk a fine, a beating, a prison sentence. There…
The silence is broken by Courfeyrac’s new protegé, Marius, who is looking confusedly from where he’s tucked into his friend’s side. "What do you mean, ‘be her human shield’? Aren’t human shields a war crime according to the Geneva Conventions?" He looks to Bahorel, clearly searching for the help of a fellow Law Student, but for once, the other doesn’t look in the mood for their usual jokes about how little they care about their studies.
Enjolras opens his mouth to answer the question, but a gruff, slightly slurred voice cuts him before he can. "Nah, not that kind of human shield. This is more of a… how would you say? An ideologically-assisted sympathy suicide." Combeferre turns his head to look at Grantaire, who takes a big gulp of his drink and waves a dismissive hand at a still frowning Marius. "Basically, he’s planning on following this person around like a lost puppy and hope against all odds that the murderers will be too moved by his pretty face to blow them both."
If Enjolras was tense before, that’s nothing compared to how wound up he’s now. Combeferre can feel him shaking beneath his hand, the kind of reaction he used to have when they were little and he hadn’t learned yet to hide his emotions under a tightly controlled fist.
"That’s not how it is and you know it," growls the blond man, glaring at Grantaire before he turns around to fix Marius with a stare and starts explaining . "We have a pretty good idea of who is behind those threats, and it’s a big oil company. Of course, organizing a murder is highly illegal, but, more importantly, it’s bad press. They can only get away with it because the attacks get buried and silenced, because nobody gives a fuck about an indigenous activist from a small third world country." His lip curls in contempt as he says that, and his scowl only gets deeper as he continues. "But a European citizen, a white French guy, getting killed by paramilitary? It would be on every newspaper in a matter of hours. So they back off for as long as the shield is there, which gives us the time to find a way to protect her on a longer-term basis."
Marius is nodding along, seemingly filing that information away somewhere in his brain, when they get distracted by Grantaire snorting loudly, bringing everyone’s attention back to him. "You sound so sure of yourself… Willing to bet your life on their ability to calculate risk and reward, Apollo? Put it all on the line? What if they don’t back off? Then what happens?"
Combeferre is starting to lose feeling on his fingers, but he wouldn’t take his hand back for anything. He feels proud of Enjolras when he answers, managing against all odds to keep his voice controlled through his clenched teeth.
"Then, at least my death will have a purpose. It’s a risk I’m willing to take, if I can help the cause. At some point down the line, our little lives don’t count much at all."
At that, Grantaire flinches a little, before quickly recomposing himself and sprawling even farther on his chair.
"Well, if you insist, go have your glorious death, you martyr. But don’t expect me to go to your funeral."
If the silence was deafening before, it has reached the levels of anti-sound now. His heart in his throat, Combeferre turns his head to see how his friend has taken the sentence. At his side, Enjolras looks even worse than he expected. He’s gone white as a sheet, the dark circles under his eyes standing in stark contrast to the rest of his face. When he doesn’t react after a few seconds, Combeferre crosses a look with Courfeyrac, who nods minutely, plasters a big smile on his face and asks loudly: "So! What are your plans for the summer, Jehan? Any travels in sight?"
The conversation moves on from there, steered forward valiantly by Courfeyrac, aided by Jehan and Feuilly. Enjolras’ future plans don’t get mentioned again, although they hang in the air like the spicy smell of tear gas after a demonstration, making everyone distracted as they keep stealing glances in his direction. As for the man himself, he stays quiet, gripping his drink tightly against his chest and staring into the middle distance. Combeferre’s heart breaks a little at the sight, and a soft, simmering anger starts to bubble in his chest at the careless words that did it.
Not much time has passed when Enjolras stands up abruptly, sending his chair clanking to the ground, says something about having work to do in the morning, and leaves without looking back. Trading a worried glance with his friend, Courfeyrac gathers Enjolras’ things and follows him. Combeferre stares at them as they go, and waits until the door has closed behind them before turning back to the table. An awkward silence has spread over the Amis, which only makes the screech of his chair all the louder when he stands up and strides to the corner where Grantaire is slumped against the wall. Their resident cynic looks up at him, a wary look on his face as he takes in his stormy expression.
"Do you ever fucking give a thought to the effect your words will have before you speak, or do you just blurt whatever shitty thing goes through your head?" he spits, venom dripping from every word. It isn’t often that he gets angry, really angry, but at this moment it takes all his self-control not to take Grantaire by his collar and shake him until his teeth rattle. Or punch him. Punching him feels like a good option right now.
Grantaire opens his mouth, hesitates, and closes it again. Good. He isn’t finished yet.
"Do you have any idea of how hard it was for him to make that decision? Independently of what you may think of it, this was not a rash choice, he has been considering it for a while. He’s not stupid, he knows it’s dangerous, probably better than you do. He’s terrified, R. You have no idea how much." In his head, images flash in quick succession. Enjolras, curled on the sofa at four in the morning, gaze fixed on the bottom of a cup, mumbling ‘I couldn’t sleep’. Enjolras, arriving behind Courfeyrac as the other man is making dinner and crushing him in a hug that seems one third affectionate and two thirds clinging for support. Enjolras, frantically researching survival rate statistics for human shields and slamming his computer shut with a guilty look the moment he notices one of them is in the room.
He brings himself back to the present with a lurch, and fixes the other man with a whithering look. "And on top of it all, he was so scared to tell you all, scared that you'd try to talk him out of it ..."
At that, Grantaire finally reacts. "Well, he should!" he argues, throwing his hands in the air , his expression torn between petulant defensiveness and genuine worry. "He’s going to get himself killed out there, Ferre. We can’t just let him go like that. Someone has to tell it like it is, to get him to reconsider."
"Oh, and you will be the one to tell it like it is, is that it?" Combeferre sneers, and he clenches his fists at his sides in a last ditch effort to keep himself in check. "So you are our new expert in this subject, then? Or are you talking out of your ass? Because as far as I'm aware, and as everyone here would have told you if you had decided to, you know, ask," he adds, gesturing at the rest of the Amis, his words heavy with sarcasm, "the main reason why human shields are still used in this kind of situations is because they work. These companies have too much to lose from a scandal, and they do back off." At least they do most of the time, a little voice in his head pipes unhelpfully, but he doesn't want to think about that, and in any case he's not going to give Grantaire any leeway for his argument. "And also, he is not just any human shield. He might be estranged from his family, but the Enjolras name still carries a lot of weight in it. He's still the only son of one of the biggest fortunes in France."
Grantaire opens his mouth again, probably gearing up for a counter-argument about the worthlessness of their endeavour and about how they should just pack and go home, or something along those lines, but Combeferre lifts a hand with a glare, effectively shutting him up.
"And in any case," he continues, because this was his main point to begin with, and he's damned if he's going to let Grantaire derail him into a philosophical discussion right now, "if your goal was to get him to reconsider... 'don't expect me to go to your funeral'? Seriously? In what universe is that sentence aiming to do anything but hurt him, you absolute dick?"
He’s breathing hard by the time he’s done, and Grantaire is looking at him as if he doesn’t recognize him. After a beat, Joly reaches over and puts a hand on his arm, careful, soothing.
"Don’t take it too hard, R. Combeferre is just angry right now, he didn’t mean it like that."
It is now Combeferre’s turn to scoff loudly and roll his eyes. Most of the time, Joly’s gentleness and the way he deeply cares about all his friends is endearing, but right now his tendency to treat Grantaire as if one bad word could break him is just annoying.
"Oh, shut up, Joly, I meant every word. I like you, R, I really do. You’re a good guy most of the time and I like having you around. But I won’t let you hurt my best friend. So I’m saying it now, and I mean it. Don’t come near Enjolras until you’ve decided to stop being an asshole."
And with those words, he takes his backpack from where it’s nestled under the table, gives a prefunctory nod to the table, and storms out of the Musain.
Time passes. Enjolras spends most of it getting ready for his departure, and Combeferre and Courfeyrac are with him every step of the way. To their relief, he seems to be settling into the idea of what he’s about to do, and their shared flat starts seeing less sleepless nights fueled by nightmares and more excited chatter about all the interesting people he’s going to meet. Only one detail mars what would otherwise be a pretty good time: since that fateful day, Grantaire hasn’t contacted any of them, and sometimes Combeferre catches Enjolras looking at the place at the Musain where Grantaire usually sits with a complicated look on his face. He’s starting to wonder whether he did right sending the cynic away so harshly, and whether he may have hurt his friend in the process. But no, he thinks. If Grantaire was going to continue saying the kind of thing he did that day, he’s better off away, where he can’t do more harm.
Before they know it, the day of Enjolras leaving is upon them. It is the night before the big trip, and all the Amis are at the Musain, where they’re throwing him a farewell party. Feuilly, Jehan and Musichetta, as the only ones with even one artistic bone in their bodies, have teamed up to make the decorations, which consist of a huge banner reading ‘Hasta la Vista, Camarada’, lots of fake flowers everywhere and a fair amount of fairy lights. On top of that, they have moved some of the tables to the side and filled them with food and drinks, with an emphasis on French delicacies that Enjolras might miss during his time abroad. All in all, it’s a good party.
Combeferre is leaning against a wall, watching his friends having fun with a soft smile, when a sudden movement from the corner of his vision attracts his attention. He turns around to see Grantaire entering the bar, a gym bag slung over his shoulder and a wary expression on his face as he scans the room.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Combeferre downs the rest of his drink and leaves it on a nearby table as he makes his way towards the new arrival. When he gets there, though, he finds that he’s not the only one who has had that idea.
"Oh, hi, Grantaire! Long time not see!" says Courfeyrac brightly. His tone is friendly enough, and his smile looks genuine, but Combeferre can’t help but notice how he has carefully angled his body as to completely shield the view of Enjolras happily discussing Eduardo Galeano's works with Feuilly. "What brings you here on this fine evening?"
Grantaire smiles back, a small, tight-lipped thing. "Well, I heard there was a party going on, and I couldn’t pass the opportunity, could I? You know how much I love a good party..." He hesitates a second, and his smile slips, leaving something bitter and weirdly defiant in its wake. "And I couldn’t let Enjolras leave without saying goodbye."
From his place by Courfeyrac’s side, Combeferre crosses his arms and fixes Grantaire with a flat look. "Really. How weird, I thought you wouldn’t even come to his funeral." He lifts an eyebrow at him as the artist flinches, and he’s being an asshole, he knows, but he can’t really bring himself to care much.
Grantaire runs a hand thorugh his dreads, getting caught in its knots and freeing it with a nervous movement. "Look," he starts, and stops, seemingly searching for the right words to say. Taking a deep breath, he seems to steel himself as he looks straight into the other man’s eyes and continues. "Look," he repeats, "you were right. I’ll admit it. I crossed the line that night, I jumped so far to the other side that the line was nothing but a point in the horizon. It’s not really an excuse, and I’m not trying to make it one, but… I was a bit drunk, and he caught me off-guard, and I guess I panicked. I mean, he can actually get killed out there. It’s maybe not as probable as my brain wants to tell me, but it’s a real possibility."
He looks at them again from where his gaze has wandered across the room, and there is such a deep pain in his eyes that Combeferre sucks in a breath. At his side, Courfeyrac makes a soft wounded noise and pulls Grantaire into a quick, tight hug. When he releases him, he keeps his hands on the other’s shoulders, forcing the cynic to look right at him right in the eye.
"Aw, sweetie, we know. And that’s why we need each other. We will count the days until he’s back, together, all of us." He squeezes his shoulders briefly, and gives him a serious look. "But sometimes big problems ask for big sacrifices, and he’s a big boy that makes his own decisions. If he wants to give it all to the fight , including his life, that’s his choice to make, and his alone."
"And it’s too late to change his mind anyway, so if you’ve come here to try and talk him out of it, I think it would be better if you just didn’t talk to him at all," adds Combeferre, feeling like he’s playing the bad cop to Courfeyrac’s good cop (and isn’t that a metaphor he feels dirty using). He’s a little softer now, touched by his friend’s obvious distress, but that doesn’t mean he’s not wary of what a confrontation right now could bring. "The last thing he needs is doubting his decision less than twenty-four hours before he's supposed to leave."
At that, the artist scoffs lightly, but nods anyway. "I know. I swear I won’t try to argue with him. I just want to give him a little something before he leaves." He turns his pleading eyes back to Courfeyrac, probably sensing that he’s the easiest target of the two. "Just trust me on this? Please?"
Courfeyrac hesitates, clearly torn, and he turns back to Combeferre, a questioning look in his face. Combeferre sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face as he steps aside.
"Okay", he agrees after a beat. "But we’ll be watching you."
Grantaire throws them a grateful smile and strides purposefully towards where Enjolras is standing. As he gets closer and closer, though, he slows down, as if he’s losing his courage all of the sudden. But before he can back off, Enjolras turns around and spots him. They just look at one another for a second, a couple of deers caught in the headlights, before the blonde’s face lights up in a tentative smile.
"You came," Enjolras says, soft and disbelieving, and okay, maybe Combeferre had made the wrong call trying to keep the other man away.
Grantaire stays silent for a second, playing with the strap of the gym bag he’s carrying to his side. "Well, yeah. I guess I did. I couldn’t very well miss your farewell party, could I?" he shoots the other a small smile and continues, emboldened by the way Enjolras smiles back. "You’re leaving for a faraway country, and I’m sure you’ve researched every single aspect of its international politics and its local power struggles and everything, but that you have forgotten to look up the weather."
With that, he opens his gym bag, rummaging inside for a moment and taking out a bundle of black cloth. "So I thought I’d give you this. It fits your style better than it does mine, anyway," he adds, handing it to his friend.
Taking it carefully, Enjolras unfolds it slowly to reveal a distressed cut-off t-shirt with a big red anarchy symbol printed on it. At his side, Combeferre hears Courfeyrac snicker a little.
"Isn’t that the t-shirt R put on to go do the Barrière de Maine speech?" he whispers, and Combeferre just nods, not willing to take his eyes off Enjolras’ face. His friend has an impossible to read expression, probably torn between gratefulness for the gift and confusion that he has decided to give him this precise piece of clothing, with all it represents.
When the silence becomes unbearable, Grantaire clears his throat awkwardly and reaches around his neck. "There is, ah, there is also this," he stammers, undoing a clasp and bringing it forward to where Enjolras reaches for it silently with careful hands. This time, Combeferre doesn’t need to hear Courfeyrac’s sharp intake of breath to tell him what this is. It’s a blue crystal in the form of an eye, and they all know it intimately. In all the years they’ve known each other, nobody has ever seen Grantaire without it. He even keeps it on when they go to the beach.
"Uh, my grandma gave it to me when I moved to France as a kid," he explains awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck, where the silver chain normally sits. "It’s supposed to ward against bad luck. Evil eye and all that stuff, you know? I think you need it more than me, now," he laughs, clearly self-conscious, but he trudges on in spite of the feeling, and Combeferre has to hand it to him, he’s impressed. "I’m very fond of it, though, so don’t think that one is a gift, huh? I expect you to give it back in perfect condition when you come back," he finishes, stressing the ‘when’; and finally that’s what snaps Enjolras out of his trance.
Lunging forward, the blond envelops Grantaire in a rib-crushing hug. The other man flounders for a moment, eyes wide as his hands flutter, clearly lost to what to do now. At last, he ends up patting him awkwardly on the back while he sends Combeferre and Courfeyrac a slightly panicked look. Combeferre just laughs and shrugs, sending him an apologetic smile. If he wants to give deeply meaningful gifts to his friend on a day like this, he’ll have to deal with the consequences. He doesn’t think Grantaire is having a real bad time anyway.
After a while, Enjolras finally releases the artist, drawing back slightly and rubbing discreetly his forearms over his eyes. With careful hands, he clasps the pendant around his neck and touches it reverently where it sits on his chest.
"Thank you, R. I promise I will take good care of it and bring it back as soon as I can", he says, his voice wavering ever so slightly, and Combeferre can definitely hear the unspoken promise in his voice. He hopes Grantaire can hear it too.
And apparently he can, because his shoulders relax with a rush of breath like a weight has been lifted off of him. "Well, I definitely hope so, I’m quite attatched to it and I would hate to lose it," he answers, his signature half-smile firmly in place. "So, Apollo, now that that’s out of the way, why don’t you tell me all about all those crazy idealistic fools you’re going to meet while we mortals await for your return?"
Charles de Gaulle airport is full of bustling people rushing back and forth, trying to get to their gates in time; a recorded voice kindly booms something about not announcing boarding calls on some hidden speakers; and the led screens showing the security protocols blink and thrum on the edges of their vision. But for the three friends stainding in front of the turning doors, nothing of that registers at this moment.
"Wear a lot of sunscreen, okay?" Combeferre is saying, fretting over Enjolras’ collar as if he’s a ten year-old child leaving for his first school trip. "And don’t forget to call the minute you land. We’ll be waiting up, neither of us has work in the morning, so don’t worry about waking us up even if you have a delay, alright?"
At his side, Courfeyrac laughs and pushes him away softly. "Let him breathe, Ferre, you’re going to suffocate him. He knows. You’ve told him five times already."
All of his friend’s nonchalance is undermined, though, when he immediately uses the space vacated by Combeferre to envelop Enjolras in the biggest hug he can manage. Enjolras returns it gladly, clutching tightly, and after a moment he looks over his friend’s shoulder straight at Combeferre, opening an arm in invitation. The other man laughs unsteadly and gladly falls into the embrace. Enjolras feels weird like this, his hair in a high bun, his sturdiest coat on, and the small cabin luggage he’s bringing with him on the flight digging into Combeferre’s legs, but he doesn’t want to let go anyway.
"Please come back in one piece," Courfeyrac whispers, too low to be heard if they weren’t all plastered against each other, as they finally let go. Enjolras shoots them a small smile and nods firmly. "I will do my best," he promises, as his hand goes to his throat, to where they all know Grantaire’s eye lays. "But now I have to go, if I don’t want to miss my flight..."
With one final quick hug for each of his friends, he finally takes his luggage, passport and plane ticket in hand, and crosses the gates of security. Combeferre and Courfeyrac wave at him, shouting farewell wishes, and then they just stand there, watching silently his blond head get lost in the mass of people until they can’t see it anymore. Then, at last, Courfeyrac takes his hand and tugs him away.
"Come on," he says, and all the gentleness of the world is wrapped around those words. "All that is left for us to do now is wait."