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“Don’t tell anyone,” Bahorel says gruffly.
Feuilly blinks, lowering his hands from where he’s surreptitiously trying to pass off turning on his hearings aids as fixing his hair. He switches them off here at the university more than he ever did back in the city. The university apparently took “green” more seriously than anyone back when it was built, and the sprawling campus dissolves into gardens unexpectedly and has paths leading straight into the forest if people don’t pay attention.
The cicadas, man. They’re everywhere, and they want blood.
“I…wouldn’t?” Feuilly says. He thinks he knows what this conversation is about, though frankly it stings a little that Bahorel would ever assume that he’d do something as callous as casually outing him.
“Be cautious, is all I’m saying.” There’s a forlorn look on Bahorel’s face, and he keeps staring soulfully into the thicket of trees.
Shit. It must have really been weighing on him, to have dragged Feuilly down one of the forest trails. What kind of horribly subpar friend has Feuilly been recently for this to have worried Bahorel so much?
“Of course,” Feuilly says, earnest. “You know though, don’t you? That I would never even hint, however passingly, at it? Never. I swear it.”
There is still a gloomy look on Bahorel’s face.
Feuilly falters. He thinks his mouth goes a little wobbly. “You don’t believe me?”
Heaving a sigh, Bahorel says, “We’ll be found out eventually—inevitably, you might say. People here have a knowledge too vast and suspicious for it to end otherwise. For now, they believe you are my partner.” Feuilly splutters. Bahorel sighs again. The cicadas are screaming. “Very well, let them believe this; it keeps you safe.”
Wait. It keeps Feuilly safe?
Partners?!
Bahorel starts down the slope, briefly stopping to lay a hand on Feuilly’s frozen form. “Watch your back. There’s something going on—I just haven’t figured out what.”
After Bahorel is gone, Feuilly spends time in the company of cicadas, vicariously screaming like an eldritch terror through them. Then, coming to the conclusion that that conversation had nothing to do with Bahorel being trans, resolves to stop turning his hearing aids off.
If he has to hear the cicadas all the damn time, at least they reflect his inner self.
Before he heads back to campus, he walks to where Bahorel had been standing to see what had been so mesmerizing about a thicket of trees.
A dead squirrel scampers along a branch, looking for nuts. It’s missing an ear.
“Ah,” he says.
Their conversation makes much more sense in this context.
See, if asked by someone he trusts, Feuilly might quietly hint at possibly sort of being a maybe-necromancer.
Really, he’s more like a reanimator of—things. Animals. Small animals, big animals, medium-sized animals whose resurrection is always slightly less impressive. Potentially people.
No big deal.
Really.
###
They met as children, which was fortunate since only children would have taken the raising-the-dead thing in stride without contemplating the moral and ethical consequences. Everything had been easier back then. The necromancy wasn’t a source of fevered paranoia, but a source of fascination. Now, Feuilly walks with his shoulders hunched and fists clenched in the pockets of his jacket, stoutly ignoring one-footed crows hopping after him, auguries in their lopsided beaks.
It’s easier to breathe when Bahorel’s around him. His very own paladin, they used to joke, swept up by comics and video games where holy light shrouded a figure in silver armor.
The joking stopped sometime in high school—maybe even before then, but high school is the most memorable shift. There are plenty of dead things in the city—Feuilly should consider himself lucky that his powers acted up with dead things and not dead spirits—but Feuilly has only ever raised a dead person once.
It was an accident in every way. A car crash at a street corner, Feuilly holding his breath to walk past as quickly as possible. A gawking crowd had gathered, refusing to give way to a teenager trying to push through. Out of the corner of his eye, the paramedics lifted the stretcher, a white sheet covering the dead body. And then, and then—a bloodied hand pulling away the sheet, panicked gasps, the crowd surging forward.
Feuilly had made a run for it then, only stopping once he retched in an alleyway.
Afterwards, the jokes staled. He couldn’t stomach them. The half-mangled animals that tapped at his windows became grotesque, deformed abominations. Bahorel acted his shadow for a year, an arm slung over his shoulders. A light to chase away the undead.
“Won’t you listen to them?” Bahorel had asked once, immediately wincing in regret.
Shuddering, Feuilly had shaken his head. The words hadn’t come then, but Feuilly knows now what he’d answer: Why should I? What good will it do?
###
“I need a favor,” Bahorel says, dropping his lunch tray onto the table with a clatter.
The conversation stops. Feuilly has a spoonful of mashed potatoes lifted halfway to his mouth. “Um?” he says, putting the spoon back down on his plate.
“A favor,” Courfeyrac croons, delighted. He winks. The entirety of Courfeyrac’s personality could be condensed to “wink wink, nudge nudge.” Feuilly loves his roommate, he really does, but Courfeyrac has a winking and nudging problem.
Bahorel narrows his eyes at Courfeyrac, who only smiles serenely before turning back to Combeferre and talking about—the best day to have a stargazing party? Feuilly hasn’t been paying attention to anything other than his food, that’s how hungry he is.
Shrugging, Feuilly says, “What do you need?”
“Your hair tie, if you’re willing,” Bahorel replies instantly.
“My hair tie?” Feuilly looks dubiously at Bahorel’s hair, which isn’t anywhere near long enough to warrant a hair tie.
Bahorel nods, holding his hand out expectantly. “The one you’re currently using, to be specific.”
The conversation hasn’t stopped exactly, but it’s very obvious that the others are paying close attention to them. Jehan has stopped fiddling with their braid; Joly and Bossuet cut sly, unsubtle glances in their direction in between debating which mountain is the best; Marius has switched languages completely while murmuring to Cosette, who nods along and pretends to understand. The latter, Feuilly will admit, is actually quite a common sight.
Still. There’s something strange going on.
Slowly, Feuilly slips a finger under his hair tie and tugs it free. His hair tumbles down, and he has to shake the tie a little to get the last strands of hair loose. He places the hair tie in Bahorel’s waiting hand, and Bahorel immediately slips it on his wrist.
“Thank you,” Bahorel says before digging into his food.
“You’re…welcome?” Feuilly frowns in confusion. When he looks back at the others, they’re all openly staring—except Marius, who is still babbling in another language.
###
The Cult, as Feuilly has taken to calling them, feel more like they’re his friends by extension. They’re really Courfeyrac’s friends, and Courfeyrac is his roommate. Bahorel doesn’t have the same problem despite being Combeferre’s roommate because the whole world is his friend. Socializing has always been easy for him. He’s probably the only one that can have such a large network of contracts despite not having a phone or any clue how to navigate the internet.
(Most electronics becomes barren in Bahorel’s hands—smoking corpses, dead before their time.)
Feuilly calls them The Cult because they—whisper. Frequently. Heads bowed together, trading low, secretive murmurs. When people approach, they break apart and cast away the shadows on their faces, replacing them with smiles. They have strange rules and rituals that they try to be subtle about, behavioral quirks that are just slightly misaligned.
Jehan stares at nothing, talking to empty air but pretending to read out loud. Bossuet walks away from near-death accidents and laughs. Joly handles his cane like it’s a staff. Courfeyrac and Combeferre sometimes say “the three of us,” but there are only two of them.
Most of the time, Feuilly doesn’t think about these things. But today, walking into his dorm and seeing both Courfeyrac and Combeferre staring at him, their postures matching, he’s getting some vibes.
“Is something wrong?” he asks, setting his backpack down by the doorway. He still has one hand on the doorknob.
Courfeyrac smiles—the instant, blinding kind that compels other people to smile too. It’s disarming and effective against people who are stirring trouble, which is why Feuilly takes a step back.
He remembers Bahorel saying: “There’s something going on—I just haven’t figured out what.” Remembers also the warning—that people will discover the truth. Thinks about The Cult, their secretive whisperings, the way they look at him.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Combeferre says. He is very obviously not looking at Feuilly’s death grip on the doorknob. “We wanted to ask you something.”
The thing about Combeferre is that he’s practically the essence of reasonableness. Even when he says something completely absurd—and Combeferre says plenty of absurd things about aliens and conspiracy theories—the first instinct is always to nod along and believe him. He and Courfeyrac are a devastating tag team, to say the least.
“Okay,” Feuilly says, “go ahead.”
They share a Look. Gold glitter on Courfeyrac’s cheekbones sparkle as he turns his head—Feuilly’s not looking forward to finding out where else the glitter has gotten to in their dorm.
Courfeyrac bounces on his feet. “Can I do it?” He’s clutching Combeferre’s hand in both of his, and there’s a fond slant to Combeferre’s smile when he nods. It’d be cute if Feuilly’s head wasn’t chanting The Cult The Cult The Cult on repeat.
“Enjolras,” Coufeyrac says explosively, and for a split second Feuilly freezes up because he recognizes that name from their shady murmurings, “is our best friend, and he’s really lovely and not at all intimidating, and we were wondering if you would be willing to meet him.” There’s an eager look on Courfeyrac’s face.
“Um,” Feuilly says, trying to reorder the facts. “You want me to meet your—best friend?” He doesn’t add: And he’s definitely just your best friend, not a shadowy cult leader?
Courfeyrac nods so hard it looks like his head might fall off.
Feuilly feels his face go hot, embarrassed by the thought that this might have been a matchmaking mission the entire time. “Right now?” he asks, looking down at this shoes.
“Next week,” Combeferre says decisively. “We checked the charts, and that’s when it’ll be easiest. I’ll see you tomorrow in class, Feuilly.” He’s gone as soon as he exchanges good-byes and a few whispers with Courfeyrac.
“You are going to love Enjolras,” Courfeyrac tells him.
That sounds kind of ominous, if he’s being honest.
###
The East Library is Feuilly’s favorite place on campus. It has floor-to-ceiling windows that look out on the rock garden and ancient oak bookcases. Being the smallest of the four libraries, it only houses old records and out-of-date books no one ever really reads.
Knee-deep in research with his hearing aids turned off, he doesn’t notice Jehan until they tap his shoulder. He spins around, startled.
“Sorry,” Jehan signs.
Feuilly turns his hearing aids back on. “No, it’s fine. How long were you standing there?”
Jehan smiles sweetly, their gaze briefly flickering to look somewhere behind Feuilly. There’s a cracked leather tome in their arms. “Just arrived,” they answer, walking around the table and setting their things down. “Do you mind?”
Shaking his head, Feuilly gestures for Jehan to go ahead.
“It’s only,” Jehan starts, biting their lip, “sometimes it feels as though you don’t—like us.” They finish quietly, not meeting his eyes.
Guilt plucks at Feuilly. “That’s not,” he says, trying to find the words. “I do like you guys,” Feuilly settles on. “It’s just that it feels like there are things going over my head.”
Jehan looks at him, surprised. “But you’re meeting Enjolras,” they exclaim. Then, frowning, they add, “We’ve been respecting your privacy, and Bahorel’s stake.”
###
The conversation with Jehan ends because Feuilly’s phone flashed to remind him that he has to make his way across campus and meet with his academic advisor—a man whom Feuilly genuinely wants to like, but can’t quite bring himself to.
Grantaire walks around like a bloodless zombie. “Not enough sunlight to give me my natural glow,” he had joked once. There is always ink in the crevices of his skin, staining his nail beds so permanently that it looks like it’s just his skin rotting. He told Feuilly outright that there are few things in this world that he believes in. “Not grace or zeal,” he had said, and smiled like he expected Feuilly to be in on the joke. He wasn’t. He still isn’t.
Grantaire also laughs raucously and, while prone to bouts of what he had called “the spleen,” gives Feuilly the best advice on how professors grade. It must be said: Grantaire is an awesome guy, he really is.
The only problem is that there is something clinging to Grantaire that sets Feuilly on edge. Grantaire reminds him of the dead animals—of bad omens and cold, still air. The trailing shadow and the specter.
The first thing Grantaire says during their meeting is this: “So, I hear you’re meeting Enjolras.”
It takes every ounce of self-control to stop himself from blurting out, “But you’re not even part of The Cult.” Feuilly swallows the words down and stares at Grantaire, wide-eyed.
“Bossuet told me by way of Joly by way of the triumvirate,” Grantaire explains easily.
This time, Feuilly can’t stop himself. “But you’re not even part of The Cult!” He slaps a hand over his mouth.
Grantaire snorts. “That is disturbingly accurate, I should have thought of that.” He uncaps a pen and writes THE CULT on his arm. “I don’t hang around the triumvirate for—reasons. I’m mostly avoiding Enjolras, but it’s kind of impossible to separate them,” he explains. With a self-deprecating smile, he adds, “Everyone else finds other ways to get their fill of me.”
“I’ve never seen Enjolras,” Feuilly says, lowering his hand. “In fact, I see Combeferre and Courfeyrac all the time, but I still haven’t seen Enjolras.”
Grantaire sketches a vague gesture. “Yeah, but Enjolras is always—you know.” He repeats the gesture more emphatically.
“No,” Feuilly says slowly. “I don’t know.”
“He’s always around because he’s—you know.”
“I have idea what you’re trying to say.”
Time seems to freeze. The mahogany desk and gilt frames of the borrowed office suddenly become a chasm that separate them. Grantaire gives Feuilly a long look before he gapes and sits back in his chair.
“Holy shit,” he says. “Holy shit, you really—you really don’t know.” He sits back up, squinting. “How do you not know? You’re Bahorel’s partner.”
The word “partner” is weighed differently in Grantaire’s mouth, like it means something significant.
Feuilly stands up abruptly and flees.
###
Sitting in the dirt in the middle of the forest trail, Feuilly thinks that something much more dramatic should accompany his paradigm shift. Everything is getting reshuffled in his head—he just doesn’t know what it all means.
The Cult is much bigger than he thought. The mysterious Enjolras is apparently a key figure. He and Bahorel are partners—and, reflecting, he hasn’t actually seen Bahorel much lately. He’s been so caught up with assignments that he hasn’t paid it any attention, but the way Bahorel is never in the same space as him suddenly seems extremely suspicious.
The cicadas scream. Feuilly contemplates the cathartic value of screaming with them.
A shadow is cast over him. Feuilly looks up and sees—wow.
The man has dark skin and an even darker dusting of freckles. His hair is literally the color of gold, but Feuilly can see the roots that suggest it’s purposefully unnatural. Back in high school, Feuilly would have tried to draw him—the sharp lines of cheekbones, the tousled curls, the septum ring.
“Do you want company?” he asks.
Feuilly licks his lips. “Sure,” he says.
Beaming, the man sits crosslegged next to him. Feuilly notices the mehndi on his hands, endless complex patterns that seem to shift and turn back on itself.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Feuilly gives him a startled look.
The man shrugs. “You look like you’re troubled.”
“It’s—” Feuilly starts. “It’ll sound absurd.”
The trees rustle; clouds part to give them a slow breath of sunlight.
“I wouldn’t know how to explain it anyway,” Feuilly says, flicking at pebbles.
“Okay,” the man says, shifting. “You can think about how to explain it. Pretend I’m not here, think out loud.”
Feuilly laughs. “I don’t even know you, man.”
Something passes over them—a shadow from a bird’s wing, or a burst of wind. It makes Feuilly stop breathing during the two seconds it takes for the man to look into his eyes intently and say, “We are all citizens of this earth.”
“I’ve spent all my life ignoring things,” Feuilly says before he can help himself. “It just feels like everything’s catching up to me—all the omens, the auguries.” An uncomfortable truth lodges itself in Feuilly’s throat. He makes it rise. “I’ve been turning away from the signs for so long, I can’t even read them anymore.”
The man touches his arm—his hand is cold. “I don’t think it’s too late to start learning to read them again. You haven’t lost anything, not if we’re able to talk.” He smiles, and sunlight washes over them. “Besides, I think you’ve known who I am from the beginning.”
Feuilly swallows. “It’s nice to meet you, Enjolras.”
Beaming, Enjolras replies, “Likewise.”
###
“Explain it to me,” Feuilly says, barging into Bahorel’s dorm room. Just as Enjolras said, Combeferre isn’t there. “Because all these years, I’ve been so focused on ignoring my problem that I think I’ve missed some really obvious signs.”
“Give yourself some credit,” Bahorel says. “It’s not like your head was completely up your ass. You only missed the,” he makes the same vague gesture Grantaire made earlier, “stuff. Anyway,” he continues, shrugging, “it’s not like I made any efforts to fill you in.”
“Didn’t you?” Feuilly insists. “All those times, the cryptic phrases—”
“Exactly,” Bahorel cuts in. “I could have been direct, spoken straightforwardly, but I chose otherwise.”
They’re at an impasse.
“So explain it to me now,” Feuilly pleads. “Because I’m ready—I want to know.”
Bahorel gets out of his chair only to get down on one knee.
Well. That’s certainly—more extreme than Feuilly had been expecting. Honestly, they should start with a kiss, or dramatic confessions, or something sweet. A marriage proposal right off the bat? Surely they’re not ready for that.
And then Bahorel crosses his arm over his chest and he starts to—
“Holy shit,” Feuilly says. “What the fuck?” In the distance, the cicadas scream for him.
Bahorel’s armor clamors as gets to his feet in a way that’s suspiciously graceful for someone wearing that much steel. There’s even a sword to complete the ensemble, and Feuilly desperately hopes that it’s fake or blunt. But that’s a pretty minor detail considering that Bahorel has just conjured a full suit of armor out of thin air.
“We just had a conversation about this,” Bahorel says, removing his helmet.
Feuilly stifles an embarrassing noise. Medieval knight is a good look on Bahorel. A really, really good look.
“I don’t think we were talking about the same thing.” His voice is hoarse.
Frowning, Bahorel asks, “What did you think we were talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Feuilly says, shaking his head. “Well, it does. But this is more—explain. Please. What are you?”
“Come on, you know this,” Bahorel says. “I’m a knight in shining armor. Literally,” he adds, tapping at his breastplate. The armor does look especially shiny.
“That doesn’t explain the instant transformation,” Feuilly insists. “Dude, your armor came out of nowhere.”
Bahorel scrunches up his eyebrows, an expression that usually means someone’s acting completely out of whack. “Feuilly,” he starts slowly, “you do know that you’re a necromancer, do you not?”
“Well, only kind of,” Feuilly says.
Bahorel stares.
“Okay, yes. I’m a necromancer,” Feuilly corrects himself. “But that doesn’t explain—”
“And you do remember the oaths we made as children, do you not?” Bahorel raises his voice. At Feuilly’s stunned expression, he continues, “I swore my allegiance to you as your shield.”
The small part of Feuilly’s brain that’s still working recognizes that saying he thought it had all been a joke to cheer him up is a terrible, terrible idea. Instead, he says, “Alright. I can handle this. You’re a magic knight. I’m a necromancer. This is all information I can live with. I just,” he trails off, but shores himself back up. “I really thought this conversation was going to be about something else.”
“Something that doesn’t involve me wearing my fanciest armor?” Bahorel asks, amused. There’s an edge of worry in his voice.
“Partners,” Feuilly says. It comes out sounding a little braver than he actually feels.
Bahorel’s face turns soft. He takes off his gauntlet to reveal Feuilly’s black hair tie. “I asked for your favor, remember?” he says quietly.
Feeling his entire body go hot, Feuilly covers his face and takes several deep, slow breaths. That’s so fucking cute. Voice muffled by his hands, he says, “I need you to either kiss me or tell me to get out now.”
They kiss.
Feuilly will replay the memory later: the sound of Bahorel’s gauntlets clambering to the floor, clammy hands gently circling his wrists and pulling them away from his face, Bahorel’s stubble. He’ll keep the headbutt to himself—the strangely serious look in Bahorel’s face right before he knocked his forehead against Feuilly’s and called him a dork. Feuilly barely managing to say, “I thought you swore an oath to protect me from harm,” before their lips met. Bahorel’s armor, cold even against his clothes, the filigree patterns creating paths for him to explore with his fingers.
###
Afterwards:
“I may owe Courfeyrac an apology,” Feuilly says.
“For what?”
“For the whole winking and nudging thing. Though, to be fair, how was I supposed to know that he knew? Does the whole Cult know?”
“Of course they know.”
“Wait,” Feuilly starts, turning over to face Bahorel, “why did they all know first?”
The hand that has been playing with Feuilly’s hair withdraws. Bahorel sits up. “Are you aware that our friends are all,” he finishes by gesturing vaguely. Feuilly is starting to hate that gesture for how apt it describes everything.
“All of them?” Feuilly asks. He pauses. “Actually. That makes sense—for Jehan at least.” He pauses, then amends, “And Joly. Possibly Bossuet, but definitely not the others.”
“You met Enjolras,” Bahorel says in disbelief.
“He was nice,” Feuilly says immediately.
“He’s dead,” Bahorel returns. Then, while Feuilly is imitating a fish, he says, “Courfeyrac and Combeferre can summon him together, but there are a bunch of rules that they follow to make sure his spirit remains uncorrupted since he either absorbed or was absorbed by a god—it’s complicated. All I know is that he’s the reason they don’t room together.”
Feuilly shifts to lie on his back. “Wow. That’s just—wow.”
There are still so many more questions that are swirling around in head, and he suspects that by tomorrow he won't be as calm about everyone being—vague hand gestures. But for right now, he's just going to roll with it.