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Chapter Text

In Feuilly’s own defence, it wasn’t exactly a woman he had spotted. And even if it was, it would not have been any of his business to intrude upon the mysterious woman's identity.

The first surprise that had graced Feuilly's day was the fact that Enjolras had entered his store at all in the first place. It was the day after their last Les Amis de l'ABC meeting, and so the thought of bumping into any of the members was far from his mind, apart from the occasional glimpse on the streets or in the marketplace.

With Enjolras, the chance was even slimmer. Feuilly had been part of many conversations where Courferyac had teased about their golden-haired leader disappearing from society the minute meetings ended and only reappearing the second meetings started. Feuilly had not pondered too deeply into the reasons behind it; if Enjolras' only sin was to be a private man, Feuilly could not bring himself to fault him for it.

Still, it did not stop his eyes from widening when the door to his store opened to reveal the man in question, looking as regal as he did yesterday in the back room of the Musain. In fact, he almost looked like he had just emerged from the cafe if it weren't for the fact that he had changed out his burgundy waistcoat for a simple black one.

Enjolras himself didn't seem like he knew why he was there either, with a crease between his eyebrows as he took his hat off and dusted the snow, scanning the entirety of the cluttered shop before spotting Feuilly behind the counter.

"Feuilly!"

A warmth spread across Feuilly's chest at the sight of Enjolras breaking out into a surprised, but genuine grin.

"Fancy seeing you here, Enjolras," Feuilly replied with an equally friendly smile. "I had thought you lost to the world til the next meeting!"

"So did I," Enjolras said, drawing out a pamphlet with loose papers pressed between the pages. "I apologise for not knowing your store, I would have visited you earlier if I knew."

"You have no need for apologies, Enjolras. After all, I did not know you frequent fan shops either," Feuilly waved a hand. "So we are both even, in my eyes."

Enjolras dipped his head, conceding. "I am happy to have met you here, regardless. I had drafted something for our next meeting last night, and I've been stuck on a part all morning. It would be great to have your opinion on this…"

And so that was how the next hour passed, with Enjolras' papers spread across the countertop, both their heads bowed in casual, but passionate conversation. Feuilly enjoyed every minute of it– it was still the morning after all, and his customers were commonly the crowd of young ladies and their chaperones during their afternoon and/or evening stroll. Besides, a talk with Enjolras is always welcomed, who was able to make the simplest of conversations sound grandeur and important, allowing his talking partners to feel just as valued.

This was the reason why when Enjolras finally straightened up, satisfied with the edits, Feuilly felt a touch of melancholy at the thought of his friend leaving.

"Thank you for your time, Feuilly," Enjolras smiled, his white teeth glinting under the winter sunlight that filtered through the windows. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you outside of our meetings, and during your work hours as well."

"Nonsense," Feuilly snorted. "Do you see anyone in the store apart from you and I? It's barely noon, the ladies won't be here until after their tea times."

Enjolras had nodded along to Feuilly's words til the very end, when a frown appeared between his brows once more.

"Noon?" His words echoed Feuilly's, though his voice seemed a little more strained than before. "Has it reached noon?"

Feuilly leaned back, stretching his neck out to catch a glimpse at his clock set against the other side of the store, with multicoloured fans obstructing part of its face.

"Ten past, actually."

It was as if a thunderbolt struck Enjolras, who nearly bowled over a rack of fans on the counter in his attempt to scramble for his papers. The resulting papers flew down onto the floor as a result, as Feuilly leapt back in order to not ruin their hour-long hard work.

"I'm late," Enjolras hissed, his rare state of alarm sending Feuilly into a daze. The infallible leader was now scooping up the papers from the floor and stuffing them in his coat, though he was still careful to not crumple them too much.

After a moment more for Feuilly to collect his senses, he immediately began to grab at the papers too before Enjolras spoke again. This was the second surprise.

"Feuilly, what is the prettiest fan you sell?"

Another fraction of a second passed before Enjolras' words caught up with Feuilly's brain.

"Fan?"

"Yes, well," Enjolras looked up, his golden hair even more tousled than usual. "You do sell these, right?"

"Of course!"

"Then please sell me the prettiest one you have made."

The obvious question as to why – and more importantly, for whom – slipped Feuilly's mind at the moment, having been thoroughly distracted by Enjolras' frenzied behaviour.

Reaching for the first fan he thought of, Feuilly gently plucked it from its display at the far end of the counter to wrap it up. It was a pretty thing: springtime flowers bloomed between the panels as creeping vines shyly intertwined the tree trunks that peeked out from the folds of the fan. While Feuilly had privately felt it wasn't his best work (it wasn't the most unique of designs, after all), it was most certainly an eye-catcher, and thus he had still hung it up with pride. He had wistfully imagined that a bourgeois woman would purchase it for her young daughter entering society for the first time, or perhaps a husband looking to find a gift for his nature-loving wife.

Instead, he found himself tucking the pretty fan into its case and handing it to the stoic leader of the Les Amis de l'ABC. Enjolras had recovered considerably by then, his coin pouch ready in hand.

"I am so sorry for your troubles, Feuilly," he exclaimed, and Feuilly was taken aback by how genuinely upset he seemed. Enjolras then pressed a number of coins into his hands, which Feuilly could immediately feel were way too much for the fan's original price.

But before Feuilly could protest, Enjolras was already gently squeezing his hands.

"For your help earlier," Enjolras insisted, and despite the tension in his body that Feuilly could see was screaming to run off, Enjolras still gave him a smile warm enough to slacken his resolve, relinquishing his will to refuse the extra money.

"I hope the young lady likes it, then." Was all Feuilly could express and was equally dumbfounded when Enjolras nodded in agreement with him.

"She will."

Then the man was gone, the only trace left of him being the gap on the racks where a fan had once been, and the pinpricks of snowflakes left at the entrance of the store. For the next few seconds, Feuilly could only stare into space and confirm with his own memories that the past hour had indeed just happened. After settling the silent debate with himself (it was concluded a draw after he had pinched his own arm), Feuilly began laughing. This was certainly a tale he would have to regale at next week's meeting, he mused to himself, beginning to wipe his counter down for the afternoon crowd to swarm in.

Chapter Text

Joly was still half-convinced that it had been a hallucination from the cold, but testimonies from both Bossuet and Musichetta have said otherwise.

It had only been less than a month when the two men had begun taking their walks together with Musichetta between them, and contrary to most beliefs, it was much easier done than expected. A passing stranger would rather assume that one of the two men would be her chaperone than that the three of them have been tangled together just hours ago on the same bed. Even so, it hasn't been easy to convince Joly, nor has it been any easier to match his medicine school schedule with Bossuet and Musichetta.

Still, it had been done, and it has gone extremely well, to the trio's standard at least. Bossuet had only managed to twist an ankle twice in the few times they had walked and the unlucky man had considered it a cause for celebration. The celebration, as it seemed, included another walk through the streets of Paris.

"Bossuet," Musichetta sighed as he skidded across the same slick path for the umpteenth time that month. "Dear, perhaps a different scenic route might change your luck?"

"Luck!" Bossuet crowed, patting Joly on the arm for helping to catch his balance. "Am I not the luckiest man in the world right now, with a beautiful woman at my side, our dear Joly on my arm, and the snow generously stopping its descent for our walk? Whatever should I change it for!"

"Perhaps one that allows you to walk with two healthy feet?"

Bossuet roared with laughter then, choosing to just wrap his arm around Joly and dragging all three of them further down the path.

He was right though: the day was beautiful– the snow covering the pavements was pushed into small clumps that made it easy to navigate around as well as allow the young gamins to run around and play, much to the chagrin of many grown men and women. Nevertheless, it was the perfect day for a stroll, even when Bossuet skidded across the pavement for the second time that day.

"Oh!" Joly called out then, as he was helping Bossuet up to his feet. "Musichetta, love, look at the market!"

The usual marketplace that lined Paris seemed to have been transformed with the overnight fall of snow, giving it an ethereal, heavenly glow. It set an unusually happy mood amongst the sellers at the marketplace, as they traded and chatted with their customers. An item caught Musichetta's eye then, and the two men found themselves unceremoniously pulled along for the journey.

The item in question was a scarlet scarf that seemed to light up the street, its blood-red fabric standing out from all the other items in the stall. Musichetta immediately fussed over it, cooing at every stitch with Joly at her arm agreeing to every word.

It was Bossuet's eyes that first started wandering, trying to see if there was anything else for their lady – or even himself and Joly – that he might get. The usual items were spread out along the stalls: scarfs, mittens, the odd trinket one might get to entertain themselves for a day. Though, perhaps it was the wintery day that made Bossuet seriously consider buying the most random assortment of items, starting with an intricately-designed hand mirror he would have never glanced at on any other occasion.

Still, his gaze finally tore away from the mirror and went further down the line of stalls, until a familiar flash of red caught his attention. At first, Bossuet thought of the scarf Musichetta was looking at, but his sight quickly adjusted to recognise the red as a short coat. Then his eyes grew a little sharper and he finally recognised the man in the said coat.

"Say, Joly," Bossuet palmed his friend's arm in an almost automatic reaction, as though every thought he had ever produced must be transferred to Joly immediately. "Do my eyes deceive me or is that not our glorious leader further up at the stalls?"

Joly craned his neck, leaning into Bossuet's chest to see what he was looking at. And indeed, the man in the red coat was Enjolras: his blonde hair was a streak of paint across the snow-lined pavements and stalls, painting him a daffodil amongst a field of daisies. It seemed as though he was just as out of place as a daffodil as well, standing stock-still in the middle of two stalls and staring intently at something in his hands.

"It is!" Joly grinned at the sight, elated to see their beloved friend out and about. He knew from Courferyac's frequent teases that Enjolras was not a man that trifled with simple social affairs like house visits and garden strolls, so to see the man enjoying the winter day outdoors was a pleasant surprise. "But oh dear, his coat is a little thin, don't you think Muse?"

Musichetta, who had not seen Enjolras in person before, was still able to quickly spot who her boys were referring to. His good looks certainly were not exaggerated, she thought privately, appearing like a true statue of marble amongst a crowd of mere mortals.

"He looks warm enough to me," Musichetta replied, squeezing Joly's arm. "Now, shall you boys finally introduce me to your friend?"

Bossuet and Joly were all set to agree when Bossuet held up a hand, his eyes set intensely on Enjolras.

"Hold on," he announced, as though he were commentating on the movements of a wild beast. "There's something afoot with our majestic friend!"

The situation in question was a young lady stepping up to Enjolras, tapping him on the arm. Though her face was obstructed by her large bonnet, her pretty brown ringlets certainly drew the eyes of leering men and jealous coquettes. However, Enjolras merely glanced up and fixed her with his standard glare, which always seemed to be able to stop any woman on their way from flirting with him.

"Oh Bossuet," Joly chided gently, worry etched on his face. "Call him before he scares her away!"

"Scare her?" Musichetta echoed after Joly.

Bossuet turned to grin at their mistress. "Our dear Enjolras has the unfortunate habit of being rather…oblivious to advances." The growing smile on his face seemed to suggest that Bossuet found it amusing rather than worrisome, which was Joly's stance on the situation. "Why, I can hardly keep track of the number of times Enjolras walked straight past a lady, never seeming to notice them at all!"

"Well, it doesn't seem like he's having any trouble with this one, does it?"

Following Musichetta's words, the two men focused their attention back on Enjolras and more importantly, the girl next to him. He had – to Bossuet's shock and Joly's delight – been talking to her, his face impassive but not cruel. The lady then raised the item she had been holding higher, and without the crowd obstructing their view the trio could finally see that it had been a hat.

"Is she trying to get him to buy one?" Joly asked aloud.

As if to answer his question, Enjolras shook his head, his glare returning. But after what seemed to be a convincing argument from the mademoiselle, he finally relented, nodding and tiredly flicking his eyes upwards the same way he always did whenever Courferyac got him to join him for a meal at the Musain.

"Enjolras in a bonnet!" Cried Bossuet, whose mind was already beginning to piece together the image.

"Not for him, love," Musichetta giggled, swatting his arm. "The young lady is buying it."

Sure enough, the hat was currently being wrapped and boxed by an elderly woman at the stalls, with whom the young lady chatted politely as she pulled out her coin purse. In the meantime, Enjolras had placed back whatever he was holding and was now staring at the mademoiselle in the strangest fashion.

Before Bossuet could call out to him, Enjolras held out an arm. And for a final surprise that afternoon, the young lady took it, clinging onto him as if he were merely an extension of her. There was not much Bossuet could do then but stare together with an equally shocked Joly and a confused Musichetta as the dashing couple disappeared into the crowd of the market, the bonnet box bouncing merrily against the lady's hip.

A moment of stunned silence after, Bossuet leapt nearly three feet in the air with a burst of laughter.

"Has it happened?" He asked, to the emptiness of the air around him. "Has our glorious leader fallen victim to the vicious arrow of Cupid?"

Joly, infected immediately by Bossuet's happiness, let himself be pulled into his arms, a smile already surfacing on his own lips.

"Good on him! Our dear Courferyac can finally rest easy with Enjolras off the market."

"More upset, likely, that he can't marry his sister off to him now!"

The two men traded more laughs as their lady huffed beside them, clearly missing out on their months-long investment in the love life of their mysterious leader. Taking matters back into her own hands, Musichetta squeezed herself between the men and seized their arms in hers.

“Well, you can talk about your friend's marriage prospects all you want later, dears, but I do believe we were in the middle of something?”

“Oh Muse,” Joly pressed a kiss to her cheek, almost absent-mindedly. “I apologise. It’s just that- oh, do you think he would invite us to their ceremony, Bossuet, if he were to marry?"

“Why not! My luck surely won’t bar me from the church, will it?”

Musichetta scowled at the digression once more, electing to pinch their arms that drew out matching yelps of pain.

“Are you on a walk with Monsieur Enjolras now, my good Messrs?” She questioned hotly. "You can ask for your invites during your next meeting, I am sure.”

Before the two men could come up with their apologies, they were promptly dragged away by their mistress. Soon, Enjolras and his mysterious woman were nothing more but a speck in the white horizon, and Bossuet and Joly had no choice but to tuck the image away into their heads for the next meeting.

Chapter Text

Jehan swore up and down that she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen in his life.

Their meeting was towards the end of the afternoon when the sun was low enough to cast long shadows across the roads. Being winter, the sky was bound to grow dark fast, but Jehan could see that there was still an hour left before all light was extinguished.

That was enough time for him to tend to the wilting camellia bushes along the gardens. It was no Luxembourg, that is true, but a plant need not belong in a gated garden to be thoroughly looked after. And so Jehan has taken it upon himself to help refresh any bushes he sees along the streets of Paris.

Thus, equipped with his trusty clippers, Jehan spent the next few minutes meticulously trimming the bushes that had grown wild. Lost to nature, it took just another ten minutes for Jehan to start muttering under his breath, coaxing the flora to keep warm for winter.

So engrossed was he that he did not spot the stranger at the outskirts of his shadow until he turned around to pick up his watering can. Jehan nearly jumped at the silent figure before realising it was merely a woman, her all-black attire the only reason for his initial fright.

At a closer look though, the woman was nothing to be afraid of. In fact, the lady was much closer in age to a young girl than a fully grown woman, her dark bonnet and even darker clothes a meagre attempt to mask her youth. Jehan watched with curiosity as her wide-eyed gaze slowly slid away from the darkening horizon and refocused on the stone path that led down to the main street. Her face contorted slightly, a wrinkle between the brows the only indication that she was troubled with one thought or another.

Before he could stop himself, Jehan spoke:

“Good evening, Mademoiselle. Are you alright?"

To her credit, she did not flinch or yell. Instead, she turned to stare at him with such alarming speed and ferocity that all Jehan could do was gape at her. Her burning gaze seemed familiar for a second before it began to fade, a look of slight embarrassment smoothing out her features. Now looking directly at her, Jehan could see her immense beauty: dark curls framing a sharp, angular face and large eyes that reflected the evening sun back to him.

“My apologies Monsieur,” she spoke, dipping her head. “I didn’t see you behind me; your voice gave me a bit of a scare.”

“Ah, then that means I should give you an apology instead, should I not?” Jehan replied with a small bow himself. “I am sorry for frightening you, I had wanted to check if you were lost. You were staring down the street for some time.”

“I am fine, thank you.” At the mention of the street, the young woman’s eyes drifted away, checking the end of the road once more. “I am merely waiting for someone.”

“Ah, a noble activity indeed. But since you do not have a conversation partner for now, I do not mind being yours til your companion arrives.”

The lady blinked slowly, perhaps to take in his words, before gracing him with a smile. Jehan suddenly found himself eager to make her happy for the rest of his life, for it was an infectious grin, one that lit up the darkening streets.

“Thank you,” she said. “Truth be told, I have not been out alone for so long before. I am glad to have a companion.”

“As am I. Though, if you do not mind, I was tending to the flowers here so perhaps I could work as I chat with you?”

In an instant, the lady’s eyes lit up. She glanced at the camellia bushes, then down to the watering can and clippers, and back to Jehan again. And call him egotistical if you must, but Jehan couldn’t help but feel proud at the look of awe on her face.

“You grew this?”

“No no, these are public bushes. I merely tend to them as I see them, but I don’t do much at all. Just watering and pruning, really. These plants are quite hardy.”

“It is still very impressive monsieur,” she said, drawing nearer towards the bushes now. “And very kind, too. To take your time out to tend for plants that aren’t yours.”

“That may be true, but it is still a public garden, and are we not part of the public? Then, would it not be the responsibility of any individual to care for them, like how we care for those around us? Whether they be people or plants?”

There was a long pause, and just when Jehan thought he had perhaps been too eccentric, the lady nodded in understanding.

“I see. And I agree too, but it does not make the act less generous, for I still believe one must have a kind heart to even seek out extra time in their schedule to care for the flora around them.”

Jehan grinned in response. “Of course. And I thank you for the compliment.”

“Then I shall thank you as well for caring for these bushes.”

The lady seemed much more comfortable now, practically side-by-side with Jehan as she observed the blooming flowers with interest. It had not snowed today, but there were still some clumps that remained on the stems. Reaching out, the young lady brushed it off with a fingertip.

“I have been looking to plant some flowers in my garden. Do you have any advice on how to care for them?"

She turned to face Jehan, who found himself flushing at her prettiness. At this distance, he could see her long lashes casting shadows onto her high cheekbones, curving down to her lips that released puffs of breaths into the cold air. Jehan felt a sudden sense of familiarity wash over him, similar to when she had fixed her glare on him earlier. Her beauty was stunning, but it stunned in a way not unlike realising that the story you were reading was one you have heard before.

He had to look back at the flowers then, for fear of scaring her with his staring. How would he even begin to explain that she looked like someone he knew, if he did not even know who that someone was? Then he remembered that he had a question to answer.

"I suppose it depends on the garden you are making, Mademoiselle. What is the soil like? Does the area get enough sunlight?"

Time passed quickly then, with the lady replying with enthusiastic answers and Jehan providing the best advice he could give as he pruned the bushes. It was these very sorts of conversations that Jehan enjoyed, though it was halfway through this that he also realised that he had forgotten to ask for her name. He nearly reddened again from embarrassment but dismissed it to the back of his mind. It will be quickly resolved; he will simply introduce himself at the end of their conversation and make a better impression on her.

“Oh,” the lady suddenly interrupted their current topic on peonies versus roses. “Monsieur, this camellia seems to be wilting a little.”

Sure enough, the little flower she was gingerly touching was sagging a little, a little brown around its leaves and petals. Jehan reached over with his clippers and snipped it off.

“Good eye, Mademoiselle." He twirled the flower between his fingers. Before his courage could leave him, he held the flower out for the lady.

“It is a sorry little thing, but there is life left in it, enough to last til nightfall. Would you like to care for it til then?”

Her resulting smile was something Jehan would have uprooted twenty flower bushes for to see again. She plucked the flower from his hand, marvelling at its drooping petals.

“Thank you Monsieur, it’s beautiful. I do hope the rest of the bush flourishes though, I would be sad to see the other flowers fall.”

Jehan was about to reassure her of the unlikely chance of it happening when a call resounded; a voice of a man shouting something he could not decipher.

The lady moved faster than Jehan could blink. She stepped away from him and the bush, bounding back towards the pavement and looking out into the streets once more. This time, a figure was standing in the distance.

“Ah, I have to go!” She exclaimed, clutching the flower to her chest as she faced Jehan again, an apologetic smile on her face. “Thank you for all your advice. I hope to see you once more along the streets of Paris, Monsieur! Good evening, and goodbye!”

Jehan’s farewell found itself lodged in his throat, for when his gaze had gone to the figure at the end of the street, he was struck dumb by the sight of his glorious friend and leader, Enjolras. It was surprising already to see the elusive man out in the streets, but it was even more so to see him smiling at the sight of the young lady hurrying down the darkening path towards him. Jehan did not know Enjolras even knew how to smile at something that wasn’t the thought of a liberated France.

By the time Jehan had thought to call out for his friend, the lady had already latched onto his arm and dragged him into the darkness. Stepping out from behind the bush, Jehan was surprised to find himself feeling a touch of sadness. Both the conversation and the lady had been delightful, and he had genuinely looked forward to future meetings. He was also not opposed to any developing feelings either, but now, now he would rather shoot his own hand than deprive Enjolras of what seemed to be the first and only lady he enjoyed being with.

A sense of elation grew then. Enjolras, with a mistress! Or perhaps even married. Has he ever mentioned a marriage or an engagement? Jehan couldn’t help but muse about this as he packed his tools (it was certainly too dark to prune now), and vow to report the day’s happening to Bahorel and Feuilly (and Courferyac and Joly and…) the next time he saw them. It seems like the upcoming meeting would be quite an unforgettable one.

Chapter Text

Bahorel maintains that it was the most eventful time he has ever had going to class, and he had been in school for 11 years.

The day began with a strange urge to go to class. It was strange, for he had never had the desire to step foot on campus since the day he enrolled. However, Bahorel had checked his schedule and decided that the day was uneventful enough to sit in his lessons. One must never lose sight of their roots, after all.

Imagine his surprise, then, when he arrived for his class (late, of course) and found a familiar set of blond hair sitting at the only table that held an empty seat. Enjolras, despite his well-known dedication to their shared cause, could not muster the same passion for his law studies. He was not quite at the same level of absences as Bahorel was, but Bahorel knew better than anyone how many times Enjolras had skipped his classes to meet with suppliers and attend talks with other student groups (Bahorel knew, for he too skipped the same classes). It did not seem like Enjolras needed the lessons anyways, for the law was etched in his mind the way a commander would have the lands of his enemy memorised, but his absences still invited firm chiding from Combeferre every time he learnt of it.

Perhaps it was a recent scolding that had Enjolras here in class, sitting with his usual ramrod-straight posture. But as Bahorel drew nearer, he spotted a glazed look in his eyes; clearly the lesson today was not the most invigorating.

Sliding down next to him, Bahorel coughed. Enjolras’ eyes flitted over before widening considerably.

“Bahorel.” His voice was coloured with shock, which would have been insulting if not for Bahorel’s schooling history. “I did not know you take this class.”

“Indeed I should not be,” Bahorel grinned. “But it is a class that does not seem to like handing me the grade I need to get away from it.”

A ghost of a smile haunted Enjolras’ lips, the best attempt at a grin that Bahorel could ever pull out of him.

“Surely, Bahorel, you must graduate from school one day.”

“I should like to see this school try!”

Another appearance of a smiling spirit, before Enjolras turned back to the lesson at hand. He had brought writing supplies to jot his notes down on, and graciously lent them to Bahorel who had brought none. For the next three hours, Bahorel found Enjolas a dreary conversationalist, for Enjolras did not speak once during the entire class (not even during the professors’ pauses for breaths!). If it were not for the rise and fall of his breathing, and his hands that wrote down every word the professor spoke, Bahorel would have thought him dead.

Finally, when class was dismissed, Enjolras turned to face Bahorel again.

“It has been nice sitting in class with you. I do not get to meet many of the Friends outside of the Musain.”

Bahorel did not think sitting in silence for three hours could be anyone’s idea of nice, but he decided to withhold his comment on that.

"Well, let us not cut our time short then! Shall we take a look at the market outside? I hear they have amassed quite a number of stalls since autumn.”

A frown was already beginning to rise on Enjolras’ face, to which Bahorel quickly countered with a different plea:

“At the very least, accompany me to get my writing supplies. Yours are very good, but I cannot leech off of you forever. I doubt we will ever meet in class again."

Bahorel could see the argument Enjolras was having with himself, with one side clearly losing.

"Very well," Enjolras relented. "But I cannot stay long."

“That is perfectly fine!”

And so the unlikely duo set off to the marketplace. Bahorel wasn’t actually quite sure if there were writing supplies being sold, and was thus pleased when they stumbled across a stall boasting an impressive amount of pens, inks, and paper.

“Ah Enjolras,” Bahorel picked up a random inkwell. “What are your thoughts on this?”

“It is alright.”

“Well, what of this one, then? It has 4 other colours as well."

"It is pretty."

"This notepad?"

"It looks firm."

Bahorel was starting to worry that Enjolras genuinely had no opinions of life beyond the revolution, when a slender finger appeared from Enjolras's fist, pointing at a pen.

"I have that one. It works well."

"Great! I shall get it."

This process continued, with Enjolras pointing at items he himself used and Bahorel snatching them up. Even though Bahorel encouraged his friend to get some for himself, the ever-frugal man refused politely. Looking back, Bahorel wondered if he had ever purchased anything for himself that Courferyac or Combeferre hadn't forced upon him.

At least Enjolras was socially conscious enough to quietly suggest to Bahorel that perhaps 2 notepads, 3 pens and 4 inkwells were more than sufficient.

As Bahorel turned away from the stall with his goods in hand, a cacophony of cheers drew both of their attention. There was a multitude of flower stalls cropped at the end of the lane, with the main attraction being the young couple standing at the front. Bahorel gushed as he watched the red-faced man pass a bouquet to his lady, who clutched it to her chest, equally pink in the cheeks.

"Ah, romance! The weather sure calls for it; we must have enough passion to warm our souls for the winter nights! And just in time for the day of love as well."

"Day of love?”

Bahorel faced Enjolras, who predictably did not look as impressed as he was at the romantic act. Instead, he had on a slight frown, confusion marring his porcelain-white face.

"Valentines' Day, of course! Where you gift gifts to your lovers, wives, husbands, and loved ones. Flowers are a favourite, as you can see."

Enjolras' gaze went back to the couple. He did not seem to fully understand, continuing to stare at them as they made their way down the street with their bouquet in hand.

“What’s the significance of gifting flowers? Do they not die quickly, even if you place them in a vase? I would much prefer seeds of my own to plant, if one wants to gift me flowers.”

Bahorel felt it was good then, that he had never mentioned to Enjolras the number of bouquets he had to snatch from under his very nose, gifted by adoring women he never seemed to notice. Still, Bahorel felt the need to defend the harmless holiday.

“Well, my friend, sometimes the frailty of life is what makes it beautiful! You of all people would know that just because an act may not have longevity, does not mean its significance dies as well. Lovers give each other gifts that the other will enjoy simply because they love them, and they understand that their partner may love seemingly temporal things.”

That explanation seemed to get through to Enjolras, who nodded in mild interest and gravitated towards the flower stalls himself. Bahorel was glad; he had wanted to take a look at some of the flowers for his own laughing mistress, who he knew adored pansies. The weather was still a little chilly but surely it was the right time for them…

As Bahorel fussed over the stalks of flowers, trying to remember which ones were pansies, Enjolras bumped him gently at the elbow.

“Who are you buying the flowers for?”

“My wondrous lady, of course! Though– look there: those are hellebores. My mother adores them, thinks they’re the hardiest of flowers!”

“Is that so?”

“Indeed, it stays green all year round, and only blooms in winter. To tolerate the cold and still be able to uphold such beauty, it certainly is quite the plant! I might get those too for her.”

Enjolras nodded, gave his thanks, and fell back into his usual silence once more. Bahorel went back to contemplating the many different flowers to choose from, before ultimately settling on a handful of pansies and classic red roses to wrap in a bouquet. After another few minutes of haggling the price down, Bahorel finally remembered to tend to his silent friend.

"Apologies, Enjolras! Thank you for waiting so patiently.”

“It’s no problem, my friend.” Enjolras had on his slight smile once more, and Bahorel cheered internally at that achievement. “The walk has been enlightening and I’m glad you have made valuable purchases.”

“With much of your help as well!”

Enjolras dipped his head, before turning it to the sight of the sun on the horizon. Not quite evening yet, but with the way winter has been working, it would be no time at all before dinner.
Bahorel knew what was coming, then, when Enjolras faced him with an apologetic expression.

“I have to head off now, Bahorel. But I am grateful for your accompaniment today.”

“Same goes to you, my friend!”

“Monsieurs! Your bouquets.”

Both men turned to the stall owner, who was a joyous middle-aged woman with two beautiful bouquets in hand. One was chock-full of pansies of red roses, which Bahorel gleefully took as his own, passing over his coins.

“Thank you, Madame! Though, I had only ordered one.”

She gave him a strange look, only for Bahorel to pull the exact same expression when Enjolras’ hand reached out to take the second bouquet.

“Thank you, Madame,” he said, directing his ghostly smile onto the lady, who waved him off with a shy smile of her own, his charm seemingly able to work with any age. “Here is your payment.”

Bahorel tried to speak- tease Enjolras, haggle for information, anything- but couldn’t help getting distracted by the flowers in his bouquet. Deep black tulips adorned the small bouquet, peppered with the same hellebores he had pointed out just minutes ago. The flower bunch wasn’t as bright and colourful as his own: instead, they were dark and romantic. Was Enjolras going to gift them to a woman? But surely it was too sultry for a courting gift? Did he have a wife?

The overwhelming number of questions ironically shut Bahorel up, who could only stare as Enjolras handed her his coins, stepped back from the stalls, and waved him goodbye. Only basic courtesy got him to raise his own hand in farewell.

As Bahorel watched the blond man walk away with the bouquet in his hands, he vowed to sear that image into his mind forever.

“Um, Monsieur?” The woman piped up from behind him. “Are you alright?”

“Yes. No.” He turned to stare at her, his own flowers clutched to his chest in astonishment.

“I think I just created a Romantic.”

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac was only upset that he now owes Combeferre ten francs.

Other than that, he practically wept with joy.

The triumvirate had arranged to meet for lunch at the Café Corinthe the day before their next meeting to consolidate notes, a meeting they would have every other week or so. And, in Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s cases at least, it was the time when they would exchange news on their personal lives as well. Enjolras never partook in those conversations and would, at the very most, merely confirm that he “did attend class this week, thank you very much Combeferre”.

Today was a little different, however. After Courfeyrac’s usual debriefing of his exploits of the week, Enjolras mentioned that he had bumped into Feuilly and Bahorel in the streets of Paris. He was naturally excited over his meeting with Feuilly, given his reverence of the man, while expressing amusement at Bahorel’s appearance in his class.

“Well!” Courfeyrac piped up after Enjolras was done. “That was surely your social quota of the month filled then. I shall not expect to see you out in the streets until the snow thaws.”

“If you wish to encourage Enjolras to go out more,” Combeferre chided, nudging Courfeyrac in the side gently, “then you must not berate him for doing exactly so.”

“I agree,” said Enjolras.

Courfeyrac snorted in response.

“Anyways,” Combeferre cut in. “Enjolras, you said you consulted with Feuilly about the pamphlet. Is it ready for printing yet, do you think?”

Enjolras straightened, reaching into his coat for the papers almost immediately. It was as though the whole man had changed; he was now the regal chief of the Les Amis de l'ABC ready to brief his comrades, a far cry from the quiet, anti-social man he was moments before.

“I believe so,” he answered. “And Feuilly has signed off on it as well. Both of you can have a read to confirm everything is well written.”

Combeferre took the copy with a nod, wincing a little at the handwriting that could be improved upon. One would never be able to tell that the neat law notes in Enjolras’ textbooks belonged to the same person who wrote this scribbled pamphlet. But perhaps that was the point.

Suddenly, Enjolras perked up, leaning nearer to the cafe window. Their seats were right beside the largest glass panel, which faced the streets of Paris and the stores that lined them. Enjolras’ gaze, as Courfeyrac tracked, was aligned directly with the printing shop. Well, it was either that or the gaggle of prostitutes at the corner of the street and Courfeyrac was sure it was not the latter.

“I saw a group of men bring in a new shipment of papers,” Enjolras explained, his eyes still fixed on the store. “Remember the previous meeting; Feuilly mentioned that the next shipment to this shop would be of a lesser quality, discarded remains from cutting up folios. They may be cheaper as a result, while still retaining a relatively clean print.

Combeferre was looking up from the pamphlet now, following Enjolras’ line of sight as well.

“You’ll like them to print this batch of pamphlets from those papers, then?” He asked.

Enjolras nodded. A second later, he stood up.

"I want to ask them for their quantity. It will– no Courfeyrac it's fine, it will only take a minute or so. I have finished my meal anyways, but I will come back and let you know what I’ve learned. After that, I’m afraid I must leave soon. My father is expecting me.”

“Your father,” Courfeyrac leaned back in his chair, “ruins all fun.”

Enjolras pretended not to hear him as he pushed his chair in and walked out of the cafe briskly. Courfeyrac sighed as his gaze followed Enjolras’ movements.

“The man is nineteen and is still wrapped around his father’s finger. If I were to have a child – God forbid –, I would very much like to have an Enjolras.”

“If I recall,” Combeferre exclaimed, back to reading the pamphlet and not bothered enough to raise his eyes to look at Courfeyrac. "This was the same man whom you’ve argued with for an hour because he could not fathom how his cravat was clashing with his waistcoat. You would hate to have Enjolras as a son.”

“That is true as well. Ah, what an enigma our Enjolras is; such a glorious leader and speaker in our dingy cafes, and then he scuttles back home before nightfall and is never seen until the sun rises once more. Have the three of us not been friends for over a year, Combeferre? Yet not a single dinner or luncheon invite to his home, to meet this father he seems to adore so much. The absolute gall of the man!”

Combeferre peered over the top of the pamphlet, smiling slightly at Courfeyrac’s theatrics. Despite his loud complaints, he knew Courfeyrac was never serious in any of them. Enjolras had made it clear long ago that while he was dedicated wholly to their cause, he has yet to fully part from his home. He will move out once he graduates or when the revolution happens – whichever comes first – but for now, he was stuck with an overly doting father.

“A private man is not a bad man,” Combeferre said. “For all we know, he may have other hobbies he seeks out when he’s at home. You always tell him to have passions outside of the ABC, after all.”

“Hobbies? Enjolras? It would be far more believable if you had told me he occasionally turns into a bat.”

Seeing that the conversation was going nowhere, Combeferre returned his gaze to the pamphlet. But before he could read another word, Courfeyrac started.

“Say, Combeferre, look out the window and at the bakery. That lady, by all the bread rolls, is that our Mademoiselle Lanoire?”

The familiar name piqued Combeferre’s interest and he glanced over to take a look. Sure enough, the black damask dress and the equally dark hat were the trademark accessories of the young Mademoiselle Lanoire from the Luxembourg Gardens nearly a year back. But something had changed vastly: instead of the plain-looking girl they had grown accustomed to in the Gardens, Combeferre and Courfeyrac both stared at a beautiful woman perusing the stands for the perfect bread loaf. Her beauty had expanded tenfold, casting a nearly ethereal light on all that was around her. Somehow, she reminded them of Enjolras.

"It sure is," Combeferre said, feeling a little quizzical. "But surely it hasn't been that long since we saw her last. I swore she was only a girl."

"And now she's a woman. Well, Combeferre, five francs and I shall go up to her and introduce myself."

Combeferre turned away from the window to fix an incredulous glare at his friend.

"Why shall I pay you for something you would most certainly do for free?"

“You could add to the amount, along with any other words you wish me to say. But I assure you, nothing will be too scandalous to prevent my conversation with her.”

Unfortunately, it was neither money nor an embarrassing statement that stopped Courfeyrac in his tracks but rather, the re-entry of Enjolras with his newfound information.

“There should be enough papers for a moderately sized print run,” Enjolras stated, standing over his friends, feeling no need to sit when he was leaving again so soon. “The price for printing them is indeed cheaper as well, I shall calculate the total and bring the information to the meeting tomorrow.”

“That is great,” Combeferre answered.

“Courfeyrac?” Enjolras glanced down at his other confidante, who was still staring out the window.

“Apologies, Enjolras, I heard your information. We were just distracted; you missed out on seeing the lovely Mademoiselle Lanoire, she just disappeared into the store.”

“Alas; I am saddened.”

Coufyerac turned to see Enjolras, looking perfectly non-saddened.

“Do not jest, Enjolras! You may have never seen the mademoiselle before, but she has truly blossomed from her time in the Luxembourg. If you are leaving soon, perhaps you can bump into her and drop my name.”

“I shall do no such thing,” Enjolras clapped both men on the shoulder. “But I will indeed take my leave. Thank you for the meal, and remember to bring the pamphlet tomorrow after you have finished with it.”

Both men said their goodbyes, with Combeferre chuckling softly once the door closed behind Enjolras.

"Here is a wager then, Courfeyrac. Ten francs to have Enjolras introduce himself to Mademoiselle Lanoire instead."

Courfeyrac scoffed, rolling his eyes to face the ceiling. "You need not waste ten francs on this, simply buy us a round of drinks tomorrow.”

When Combeferre didn’t retort with an argument, Courfeyrac glanced back down. Now Combeferre was the one staring out of the window in silence, mouth slightly agape.

Courfeyrac wasted no time in following his line of sight. Across the street stood Enjolras, right in front of the bakery they had been looking at moments ago. And Courfeyrac swore he must be hallucinating because their glorious leader was face to face with Mademoiselle Lanoire, who was clutching a brown paper bag to her chest and chatting merrily with him. With Enjolras.

“Combeferre-”

“No, you’re not hallucinating, Courfeyrac.”

“Dreaming, then.”

“We cannot both be dreaming.”

“Well, then, what on earth is going on?!”

Neither got a definitive answer, for they watched Enjolras smile a rather strange smile before holding out an arm for Mademoiselle Lanoire, who grabbed onto it as naturally as though it had been made for her. Together, the duo walked off, but not before Enjolras turned to face the café, raising a hand in farewell as the two of them disappeared around the corner.

For a while, neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac could find their voices. They were silent so long in fact, that when Madame Hucheloup came around to collect their plates, she asked if they were alright.

Combeferre could barely nod, while Courfeyrac merely sank into his chair with such a stunned expression that one would think he had learned the existence of ghosts seconds prior. Only when Madame Hucheloup had sniffed and asked them to order something or leave the cafe then, did the two men fumble for their coats and stagger out of the building. It was then that Combeferre finally laughed, his head thrown back in unbridled joy at the sheer absurdity of it all.

“Well Courfeyrac,” he said between chuckles. “I suppose those ten francs will be coming from your pocket now then.”

After a second of silence, Combeferre stopped laughing and faced the silent Courfeyrac in worry.

“Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac stayed mute for another minute. Then, a great cry erupted from him, which was sustained for many minutes as Combeferre attempted to hush him, to no avail.

“Enjolras, with a mistress! Good god, the world has turned upside down! Combeferre, you must remedy my hallucination because there is no other explanation for what I have just seen!”

And that was what he continued to ramble on about, for many many minutes, as the two men - one raving mad and the other exasperated - headed down the street, towards their homes to await the fateful meeting the next day.

Chapter Text

A regular Les Amis de l’ABC meeting would see the arrival of Enjolras first, who came to the Café Corinthe as early as possible to make up for his equally early departure. Only Combeferre or Feuilly might be earlier than him; or perhaps Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire, if they decided to start their drinking early.

Today’s meeting, however, was an outlier. As though their minds had converged into one, all members of the Les Amis save for Enjolras and Grantaire arrived early, still dazed by their individual experiences during the week.

"Well," Combeferre sniffed, seeing the backroom of the Corinthe filled with his friends. "Enjolras would most certainly be happy about today’s attendance if he were here."

“Thankfully he isn’t” piped up Bahorel, who had his feet on the table and a bottle in hand already. His eyes and smile were wild. “For I have news about him that I wish to share out of his earshot."

"Oh? What about?"

Bahorel grinned like a feral cat.

“I had a class with him yesterday– yes yes, do not look so shocked, my friends, I do go to school every once in a while– and the both of us went to the market afterwards. I bought a bouquet for my dear mistress and Enjolras bought one as well.”

“A bouquet? Of flowers?” Joly exclaimed in surprise.

“No, of guns. Yes, of flowers you fool,” Bahorel leaned back to shoot Joly a teasing smile. “His was full of black tulips and hellebores; quite the romantic pairing, isn’t it Prouvaire? I daresay he was buying it for his own mistress as well!”

The resident botany expert nodded slowly, sitting at the table with a thoughtful expression on his face.

“A very dark bouquet; I wouldn’t make that particular arrangement myself, but it is all up to the recipient’s desires. Though, I would have thought the mademoiselle prefer camellias.”

Courfeyrac, who had been by Combeferre’s side and hanging onto Bahorel’s every word, suddenly dropped to Jehan’s table.

“Why? Did you see his mistress too?”

“Yes,” Jehan sighed wistfully, a hand cupping his chin. “She liked camellias and orchids; we had met along the street when I was pruning a bush. I had thought it weird she was alone, but then Enjolras came and pick her up.”

“Did he introduce her to you?”

Jehan shook his head. “She ran off to greet him, and the both of them went off so fast I could barely wave or shout. And, well, I was stunned of course! You guys would be too if you saw Enjolras arm-in-arm with a woman!”

“Oh, but we did!” yelled Bossuet from the back of the room, not beside Joly for once but instead, playing cards with Feuilly. “Joly and I, on our lovely walk with Musichetta, saw our beloved Enjolras out and about with a lovely mademoiselle. Gave Joly the fright of his life!”

“Though, we are all talking of the same mademoiselle, right?” Bahorel took a swig of his bottle. “For after hearing your stories, I would not be surprised if Enjolras has had a ring of women around him.”

“Has he not always had a ring of women chasing after him?”

A ripple of laughter travelled around the room at Jehan’s words before Bossuet waved a hand to capture their attention again.

“Dark hair and eyes, as pale as Enjolras himself, and around his age?” Bossuet confirmed the lady’s looks with everyone. Seeing Jehan and Courfeyrac nodding, he gave his own solemn nod.

“It is the same mistress then. Young, bourgeois, and happy as anything when Enjolras bought her a bonnet. Paid out of his own wallet, even!”

“Yes, that is how one pays for things, Bossuet.”

As Bossuet reached over to cuff Bahorel’s ear, Courfeyrac leaned over to align himself in front of Feuilly’s line of sight. The fan-maker had been staring off at the distance in mild contemplation.

“What is it, Feuilly?” Courfeyrac asked, his voice tinged with faux innocence, though any one of the men in the room would have recognised him fishing for information.

“Nothing,” Feuilly said almost instantly, as one was wont to do when Courfeyrac had on that tone, but he relented almost immediately, for he too was beginning to feed off the curious energy of the room.

“It’s just…Enjolras bought a fan from me, earlier in the week. I had thought it odd– for he never expressed any fondness for fans, you see– and he did mention he was purchasing it for a lady, so I think it was indeed for the same woman all of you have been conversing about. I’m happy to hear he has been courting her during the week as well.”

“Courting her!” Courfeyrac exclaimed, and one could not fail to spot the grin that was on his face, growing ever since he had sat down. “What, buying fans and flowers and hats all in the span of a week, this is not mere courtship. I believe our poor friend has fallen too deep into his well of love, and is now unable to close his wallet off to her! Soon, we shall be printing our pamphlets on rags.”

Combeferre laid a hand on the excitable man’s shoulder, an inquisitorial eyebrow raised.

“You of all people can not possibly be upset, Courfeyrac. Shall I remind you of the wedding suits you have already laid out on your bed the moment you returned from spotting the couple?”

“Ah, so the both of you have spotted them as well!” Bahorel raised a bottle of solidarity to the two men. “I guessed so; otherwise you would not be as excited.”

Courfeyrac reached up to pat Combeferre’s hand, nearly unconscious of his own actions as he mulled over what he has seen the day before and the information that was shared around the room.

“Indeed, Combeferre and I had lunch with him and watched as he escaped our table into the arms of his lady!"

Courfeyrac’s smile suddenly sharpened as he looked each of the Amis in the eye, as if he were about to reveal the secrets of the universe.

"And his noble lady, I might add," he announced triumphantly, spreading his arms like a king inviting his subjects to feast. “Is none other than our wonderfully dark Mademoiselle Lanoire!”

At that, the Amis erupted into a cacophony of shouts and questions. Laughing heartily, Bahorel– who had been leaning back in his chair the entire time– toppled backwards into Bossuet. Feuilly found himself smacked in the face with Bossuet’s flung cards as both men grasped blindly for balance, the unfortunate victims being Joly and Jehan, who were dragged onto the floor with them. In the manner of seconds, half the room found themselves tangled in a pile of limbs.

That was the state of the Amis that Enjolras found himself greeting when he finally entered. He stood stock still at the front of the room, a rare look of confusion on his face as he watched four men try to stand up from the floor at the same time, all while the others laughed.

“Citizens,” he announced, silencing the room as all eyes turned to him. “I’m…happy everyone is here on time.”

The pause that followed was unnerving. Enjolras had never known his friends to stay quiet for more than a couple of seconds and yet, with each passing moment, they were breaking their own record.

Joly was the first to speak, still lying on the floor.

"Grantaire cannot make it today. His family is visiting."

Relieved at a familiar conversation topic, Enjolras nodded briskly.

"Thank you, Joly. We shall start the meeting then, if everyone available is present. I—"

The rest of the room moved in tandem. The men on the floor managed to get up in one stroke of movement (which would have been impressive, if Enjolras hadn't been so startled) and fell into their chairs. At the same time, Courfeyrac cleared his throat.

“How was your day yesterday?”

Enjolras stared at his friend.

“...Good. But you were with me yesterday, were you not?”

“Yes, well, you did leave rather hurriedly, so I thought we should check. On you.”

“We can discuss my day after this meeting. Now—”

“Is there anything we should know?” Bahorel spoke up now, excitement gleaming in his eyes. “About yesterday? Or the entire week, in fact.”

Enjolras, however, narrowed his own. “Yes, I was about to share that. Feuilly and I edited the pamphlet last week—"

"—anything of your life, I mean. Important, ah, developments?"

Bahorel's second interruption invited quiet laughter between Bossuet and Joly, which abruptly ended the moment Enjolras' gaze landed on them.

"Nothing at all," Enjolras said coldly. "Though if there was, is it truly something that I must share during a meeting such as this? When I have made it clear many times before I don’t enjoy questions that pertain to my private affairs? I don’t understand the need to swap such purposeless gossip of myself and of others when there is far more important work to be done.”

The rest of the men had the decency to look mortified. However, Courfeyrac still held onto his gaze, albeit with a touch of chagrin.

“Apologies, Enjolras,” he said, reaching over to brush his fingers against the cuff of Enjolras’ sleeve like a child seeking the forgiveness of a parent. “We're simply happy for you. Love is a gift, my friend! And we are glad you have found it.”

The look Enjolras gave in reply was indecipherable. Courfeyrac had not even thought it possible that a human could make a face like that.

“What?” Enjolras said dumbly.

Courfeyrac looked over to Combeferre for help, who– the traitor!– pointedly did not make eye contact with him.

“The reason for all this, Enjolras,” Bossuet jumped in, spotting an opportunity to bring the conversation back to Enjolras’ love life with a bit more tact. “Is that some of us spotted you with your lovely mistress in the over the week, and wanted to extend our congratulations and…um, well wishes.”

Bossuet clumsily stopped his speech at the sight of Enjolras’s face, which grew more and more bewildered with every word. Confusion was not a good look on him, Bossuet decided.

“I don’t understand what any of you are talking about,” Enjolras stated bluntly. “What mistress?”

“A wife then!” Bahorel exclaimed with glee, though he quickly glanced away at Enjolras’ questioning glare.

“That mademoiselle whom you bought the bonnet for at the market?” Bossuet supplied helpfully.

“And whom you bought Feuilly’s fan for,” Joly added, much to Feuilly’s embarrassment.

“And the bouquet!”

“The one you met late in the evening, when she was alone in the gardens?” Jehan said.

Combeferre finally spoke, clearing his throat to draw the clearly-stunned Enjolras to his attention.

“That lady whom you met yesterday at the bakery– that is the mademoiselle we have been speaking of. You both walked off together arm in arm; was that your partner?”

The storm that had plagued Enjolras’ face finally cleared, leaving him blinking in astonishment.

“Oh, that citizeness? She is my sister.”

A pregnant pause filled the room, with no man but Enjolras drawing breath.

“Ah,” Feuilly said. “A sister of the cause?”

“That, yes,” Enjolras nodded. “And of blood.”

The room dipped back into silence again, before Courfeyrac leapt up from his chair like he had been scalded.

“A sister?!” He yelled, grabbing onto the leader’s arm like a lifeline. “A true, honest-to-God sister, like the one I have and the two that Combeferre has?”

“Yes—”

“What– Enjolras!”

The rest of the room now erupted into its earlier state of chaos, voices and questions overlapping one another as they rose from their chairs, heading towards the frazzled leader in red.

“Everybody!” Enjolras shouted over the din, the magnitude of his voice crashing over the rest like an ocean wave drowning a beach. His hand was raised in near-automatic defence, stopping his friends in their tracks.

“What has happened to all of you? Have you lost your senses? My sister is of no concern to our meeting today—”

“But,” Joly pressed. “It is of concern to us as your friends, your fellow brothers! How have we not known of a sister amongst us?”

Enjolras glared him down.

“She is a private person, as am I. And as I’ve said, I do not like sharing my affairs—”

“Enjolras, ‘private affairs’ are for things like mistresses and vices,” Bahorel guffawed. “Not family members! What, have we not been good enough friends to you that you would not entrust us with such basic details?”

At Bahorel’s words, the group quietened for two reasons. The first: one's human weakness of occasionally doubting another's friendship. It was not entirely the Amis' fault; Enjolras– as one would know– was not one to express his affections in conspicuous ways. A regular individual may say aloud their love for their friends, smile and laugh at their jokes, and spend as much time with them as possible. All these, however, were not traits that have been exhibited by Enjolras and thus, the momentary doubt shared in his friends.

The second reason for their silence came immediately afterwards. The friends felt guilt clamping their throats shut, for regardless of Enjolras' lack of affection, it was still unfair to spring that onto him in front of a crowd. Furthermore, Enjolras had acknowledged such a flaw in himself before, admitting to his friends that he was never a forthcoming person, and that he valued his privacy highly. How, then, can one fault him for being defensive?

The flash of hurt across the blonde man's face at Bahorel's words confirmed their feelings. Before Bahorel or the others could apologise, Enjolras spoke.

"I do trust you," he said, sounding so young and sincere that one couldn't help but believe him instantly. "I trust all of you. The reason I don't talk about my family is because I have no reason to. We convene to discuss matters related to the affairs of our country, not about my own. Any concerns for my family stays outside. In here, you become my brothers; the Republic, my mother. That is all I need. That is what I care about, between us.”

The shame no longer being able to be contained, Bahorel gripped Enjolras’ shoulders tightly, his face a rare expression of sorrow.

“I’m sorry then, my friend, for accusing you of hiding yourself from us. We know you are a private man; we should have respected that.”

Enjolras dipped his head, a hand reaching up to grasp at Bahorel’s.

“I forgive you.” Enjolras smiled. “And I have to apologise myself. Hearing your concerns, I can see how I might have come off as distrusting. I promise that wasn’t my intention, and I’ll be sure to be more open about myself in the future.’”

“You do not have to, if you’re uncomfortable,” Feuilly offered.

Enjolras shook his head. “I want to. It would be easier to get through the day as well, if we know what is going on in each other’s lives. And I cannot be sheltered forever.”

“Well!” Courfeyrac, much more comfortable with the tension now eased, leaned his elbow on his friend’s shoulder. “That much is true. It would be far better if we can have lunches that last more than an hour, from now on.”

“Thank you, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras replied with a sigh. “I’m glad we have come to an understandiing about each other, my friends. However, if we have no further questions about the existence of my sister, I believe we have some pressing matters to attend to…”

The conversation slowly slipped back into familiar topics; of pamphlets and printing presses and the Republic. If one were to slip into the room and join the discussions, there would be no jarring differences to see: Enjolras remained ever passionate, his lieutenants ever attentive.

But at a closer look, one may be able to feel a sense of ease surrounding the golden leader, who was once as rigid as marble. Now, he smiles with every other word, and his hands brush against the shoulders of his friends. The wall that had unintentionally been built between him and the rest of the Amis had now fallen, and the effects of that clearly showed itself in Enjolras, as well as in the many years to come.

Perhaps it is this change of heart within Enjolras that one friend raised a hand towards the end of their meeting, asking Enjolras if he could very kindly arrange a dinner party soon to commemorate their rekindled friendship, and to introduce his lovely sister to the rest of the men, but especially to a certain de Courfeyrac.

Enjolras decided to not dignify the suggestion with a response.