Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Paris, October 21, 1828

Enjolras was a man of many things, but cowardice was not one of them. His courage, in fact, was the reason he asked himself what he was thinking as he walked the decaying, dimly-lit halls of the state prison. It smelled fetid, of death and despondency. The walls were damp and rotting, the air difficult to breathe. Every slight step Enjolras took echoed along the squalid, cobbled ground, up to the peak of the domed rooftop.

Any other man of his stature would be quivering in his boots, but Enjolras was determined. Interrupted by a door slamming in the distance, a startled rat scampered out of the candlelight in the student's periphery. This was not a place in which a man of high society was likely to find himself. He made a promise, and he intended to keep it, no matter how doubtful he was of himself. There was no going back; he knew his once squeaky-clean reputation was already ruined, and he knew he might not even succeed in anything at all. The people of France were notoriously judgmental: Of course they would be hesitant to defend a twenty-two-year-old law student, no matter how competent he was. Enjolras sneered at them all. He knew he was inexperienced, and intimidating, harsh in his body language, but he was also bold, studious, and passionate. Filled to the brim with righteous fury and a need to prove himself in this new life, he carried himself like a champion, a golden Achilles. He had all the characteristics of a leader, and he wouldn’t throw any of that away if it meant the world.

But forget that. He wasn't doing this for himself. He was doing what he knew was right. He was doing this to teach society a lesson. He was doing this for Jean Valjean. And most importantly, he was doing this for Cosette. 

At this moment, Enjolras couldn’t afford to rethink his confidence, even if it was as misplaced as people said. He shook his head as if it would scatter the thoughts from his head, and his wet, heavy footsteps came to a halt. Enjolras had arrived. The prison guard accompanying him fiddled loudly with his keyring and glanced nervously at Enjolras. There was something different about the way he looked, but Enjolras couldn’t quite place it. He had trouble with human emotions like that. The guard hesitated: “He won’t talk. He's a lost cause, if you ask me.”

“Thank you, Monsieur, but I can handle it from here," said Enjolras.

“Why bother? You’re an educated man, young and fresh-minded, I’d hope. You have potential.” The guard, more than twice Enjolras' size, intimidated the young man, but it seemed as though he were afraid for Enjolras, rather than angered by him. “You could go on to do incredible things with your life, and assisting this man will end you, nail in the coffin, before you’ve even had a chance to make something of yourself.”

Enjolras took a moment to think. He knew the risks already, and he knew he had what it took to push through. He didn't care if his image was tarnished, or what a bunch of loudmouth gossips thought of him.

“If people can’t die for what they believe in, they might as well not bother with life at all,” Enjolras stiffened and straightened his cravat. “I believe that Jean Valjean is innocent, and I will stand by that to the grave.”

“What a waste of time! You think you’re playing the hero, but all you’re doing is helping a dangerous man. Honorable men have been killed for less.” 

“I look for no quarrel with you, Monsieur. I simply wish to visit the gentleman, and you hold the very key keeping me from him,” said Enjolras with contempt. "Open the door. I command it."

The guard looked at Enjolras like he had lost his mind, but when Enjolras had at last reached forward to snatch the keys from him, he conceded. Enjolras drew his lips into a tight line and fit the proper key into the lock.

Looking back at the disapproving look that still plagued the guard's face, he had no doubt in his mind that he was doing what needed to be done. The people of France were utter cowards, and Enjolras would be the one to show them. 

Saving an innocent man was just the beginning.

When the door slid open with a haunting shriek, Enjolras almost didn’t see him. He had been much too distracted by the disturbingly shabby conditions of the cell: The expired, rotting smell choked him; He was glad he hadn’t eaten anything all day, or surely, he would’ve vomited. Mildew dotted the brick walls, and the lawyer had initially mistaken it for a horde of insects. How anyone could spend days— weeks, even— in conditions like this was beyond him. No one should be forced to waste away in such filth, he thought, especially for a crime they hadn't committed. 

Jean Valjean looked a mess, but by choice; his white hair was unevenly chopped at the shoulder as if he had done it himself. His pale was covered in filth, and inky flowers bloomed under his eyes, a sort of miserable, jarring stare born out of negligence. He had not been loved, so he had not loved. Recoiled on a moldy, stained excuse for a bed, he looked capable, but not dangerous. Considering the rough conditions of the prison, it wasn’t the man that Enjolras was afraid of. 

Although a troublesome sight, there was a sort of lost kindness in the man's appearance. Anyone who knew him personally would have said that Valjean was the kindest and most generous man they had ever met. He mostly kept to himself, however, spending most of his time with his young daughter, whom he had sent away once the allegations began to spread and life began to get dangerous for the old man.

All he was was lonely.

Valjean lifted his sunken eyes to meet Enjolras' horrified ones, and it didn't take much to get the message across. 

"I am going to get you out of here, Jean Valjean," Enjolras said. "I promise." 

Chapter Text

“Monsieur Valjean,” Enjolras swallowed. His gaze shifted upon him; Or rather, through him. “My name is Enjolras, and I’m here to take this mess off your hands. I’ve heard the things the townsfolk say of you and think it’s most unfair. No one deserves to rot away because of a few intolerant pigs. I—” 

The man cut him off with a simple glare, enough to get the message across. He already didn’t trust him: That, Enjolras could tell, and he couldn’t blame him. Perhaps he had been talking too much, but he knew he meant well. 

“Deepest apologies, Monsieur,” the lawyer said, bowing his head. “I didn’t mean to overwhelm you. I can have that effect on people. Would you like to tell me a bit about yourself? Don’t think of me as just a lawyer, but as a friend.” 

He didn’t respond. It was clear that he had registered him by now; Though softened, his continuous silence was a choice. 

“Mademoiselle Valjean,” said Enjolras, slightly irritated. “I’m on your side. I would be very grateful if you could respond with anything.” 

Enjolras had begun to think back to what the jailman had told him: Perhaps this man was useless, and he was devoting himself to a cause that would never work out in his favor. He cast his eyes towards the floor when he heard a meek voice, dry with disuse: “No,” it said. 

“No?” Enjolras cocked an eyebrow in disbelief. 

“I’m afraid I don’t understand, is all,” Valjean said airily. He still looked at Enjolras in a way he found unsettling: Up and down, studying him warily. He observed: “You look young. Sixteen, perhaps?” 

“I’m twenty-two,” Enjolras said crisply; He knew he had the face of the child, and it peeved him. “I graduated from university at twenty and took an apprenticeship under M. Aurelién Mabeuf. I assure you I have the necessary qualifications.”

Valjean hesitated. “It’s not your certifications I’m concerned about; I would rather not place my life in the hands of a child. Children are… unpredictable.” 

“Then you’d rather wither away, all alone?” Enjolras asked, astonished more than he was annoyed. “I’m giving you a chance, Monsieur. I want to help.” 

“I don’t need your pity,” the man sniffed haughtily, as though he was above Enjolras.

Enjolras bit his lip in consideration and said: “Did you do it? Did you murder all those men?” 

Jean Valjean scowled. “No.” 

“Then you need me,” Enjolras persisted, “I’m not offering my pity, I’m offering my support. We both know that the accusations of witchcraft are nonsense. There’s no way you could have done it! Murder over two-hundred men without a trace? Why, it’s ridiculous!”

“You want to prove something,” Valjean deduced, shaking his head. He balled the fabric of his tattered dress pants in his hands. Enjolras couldn’t decipher his tone. “And you’re just using me to do that. Hubris is a dangerous attribute, child.” 

“I do want to prove something,” he admitted, flushed with mild embarrassment.. “But I also want to free an innocent man. I’m a man of careful thought and many motives, Monsieur.”

“I haven’t any money to pay you,” said the man, the edge of suspicion still sprinkled upon his voice.

“I ask you for no payment. This is an act of charity.” 

Monsieur Valjean thought for a moment. “Valjean,” he settled upon.

“I’m sorry?” 

“I prefer to be called Valjean,” the man continued. “You want to be a friend? My name is Jean Valjean. No monsieur.” 

Enjolras stood in silence, carefully selecting his next words: “Does that mean you accept?” He tried not to look too giddy.

“It means I’ll consider.” 

Enjolras was a man half-satisfied. In his mind, he had made progress, and that was a good start. He would be back to visit Valjean in a short while for more information, and he was overflowing with a rabid enthusiasm. 

The lawyer spent many sleepless nights drafting a statement for the court, struggling to concisely describe how absurd the accusations against his client were. His brain was stuffed to the brim with possible openings and details to add to his argument; although he knew what he wanted to say, he couldn’t figure out how to, and to him, that was much worse. Admittedly, he did not know the man as well as he would like to, but he seemed willing to talk things through, or at least, was not entirely opposed to the idea. Enjolras had been dwelling over their meeting in the long days since it happened, and he needed a distraction. 

Sauntering down the streets of Paris with a mere forty francs in his pocket, Enjolras was focused on treating himself. The market was a brief walk from his apartment, and the weather was rather pleasant. The people, however, were not. Notoriously, word traveled quickly in Paris, and in a very short time, many of the gossip-minded men and women knew of the lawyer’s plans to defend Valjean. Enjolras felt the silent, judgemental glares of passerby boring into him as he walked along the cobbled streets, and though he nevertheless held his head high, he was nervous, hastening his pace slightly. After all, he still had work to do.

One woman in particular stood out among the rest. Enjolras had seen— and certainly heard— her before, and knew her to be Helena Thénardier, the wife of a successful entrepreneur. One who did not know Mme. Thénardier would call her decent-looking: She had long, spiky red hair with equally spiky eyelashes, a small, upturned nose, and fox-like eyes. Like Enjolras, she had an elegant mole on the curve of her left cheek and a face that wore an expression of constant judgment; however, she presented as more youthful than she actually was. Admittedly, on the surface, she was pretty enough, but beneath that perfect exterior, even angels had their secrets.

The Thénardiers were a family who couldn’t resist inserting themselves into business that was not theirs; Mme. Thénardier, with her sharp features, seemed to be unaware of the concept of minding one’s own business, and fabricated all that she heard to a great extent. 

It was at times like this that Enjolras considered himself the only rational man in Paris: Reasonably, Mme. Thénardier’s dishonest habits annoyed him. However, she was wealthy and charming— her husband well-respected— so if by some miracle, practically every townsperson took her word with great pleasure. 

Enjolras had been closely observing a shelf of sweet jams when he caught a nearing glimpse of gold in his periphery. His stomach dropped; Though he was able to ignore the cold glares and passive-aggressive dismissal from certain people, he had not mentally prepared himself to deal with Mme. Thénardier, and in public of all places. 

Her sickeningly cordial smile churned the lawyer’s stomach, and he fought back a sneer as she greeted him: “Oh, Enjolras, dear, it’s been so long! You’re all grown up now! I heard you’ve gone into law; now, that can’t be true of the sweet little boy I knew, can it? That’s not a profession for honest boys.” 

Enjolras smiled, but couldn’t bring himself to the same level of false excitement as Mme. Thénardier; Though, he wanted to keep things concise to avoid conflict. “I assure you, it can, Madame.” He didn’t correct her to say that he was Monsieur Enjolras to her, expecting that level of formality and distance.

“I can’t imagine what your father would say of that! Don’t you think he’d want you to carry on the family legacy?” 

“Well, seeing as he’s dead, I doubt he minds.”

This stunned Mme. Thénardier into temporary, embarrassed silence that Enjolras hoped would last forever. Frankly, he was rather surprised she hadn’t known; His father’s death was long ago, and he followed in the same crowd of people Mme. Thénardier was desperate to be a part of. She liked to talk like she knew everyone, and Enjolras was thrilled to be reminded that she didn’t. 

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that,” Mme. Thénardier sniffed, whipping a handkerchief out of her dust-blue coat and pressing it to the center of her chest. Enjolras resisted the urge to scoff. “I bet he looks down on you with pride.”  

“I’m sure he does,” Enjolras drawled. He meticulously examined the jar of jam he had picked up. “He was a man of good morals. I believe he’d want me to help people.”

“Even those with… unsavory hobbies?” Mme. Thénardier asked cattily, and Enjolras immediately realized his mistake. He swallowed. “Be careful. People might start demanding your head, too; And that would be such a shame.”

“Madame, are you threatening me?”

“We wouldn’t want that, would we?” Mme. Thénardier sweetly plucked a jar of the jam Enjolras had been inspecting. She patted him on the shoulder in a way he found condescending. He seethed with rage, barely managing to hold his composure, when she added: “It was wonderful seeing you, cherié.” 

Enjolras thought of Mme. Thénardier’s threat for three days afterwards. She had expected him to surrender, but he took her words as encouragement: A challenge, almost. He would surprise her and all the fools out there who didn’t believe in his cause. 

In spite of her, he had arranged a meeting with Valjean for a very near date, and he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t feeling apprehensive, although determined. For a fleeting moment, he thought about how inexperienced he was, and though he knew he had the spirit, he wasn’t sure if he was going about it all right. 

And so here he was, at sunset, on the doorstep of his old mentor, Aurelién Mabeuf. Enjolras rested his hand on the smooth wood of the door, bringing it back to land two hesitant knocks. He had not sent Mabeuf notice that he would be visiting and hoped that his former employer would appreciate his presence. 

A slight, older man with unruly graying hair, brown eyes, and tan skin opened the door almost instantly after Enjolras took back his fist, and the lawyer leaped back in surprise. There stood Mabeuf, an eager grin on his face and a notebook splayed open on his free hand. 

Hardly a breath was spared in between Mabeuf's sentences as he rambled: “Enjolras, my old friend! I sensed you were coming. Oh, it’s so cold out here; I hope I hadn't kept you too long. Please, come in, come in.” 

Before Enjolras even had the chance to greet him back, he was being ushered inside the building, one of the most abstract the lawyer had ever seen, somehow disorganized in an organized manner. There were a lot of things here, what would normally be considered clutter, but Mabeuf had expertly tucked them away in intricate patterns and displays, giving his apartment a rare sort of mismatched charm. Any stranger would be most overwhelmed by Mabeuf, but Enjolras had, surprisingly, taken more of a liking to him.

“How kind of you to offer your hospitality, Monsieur,” Enjolras settled on, after grasping for a proper greeting. “I came seeking your advice.” 

“Oh, I would love to help,” Mabeuf excitedly clapped his hands together. 

“I’m sure you’ve heard of the Valjean case,” Enjolras swallowed. “And how I’m representing him.” 

“Yes, yes, I have.” His mentor took on a solemn expression for a split second, but quickly replaced it with a smile, planting a supportive pat on one of Enjolras’s shoulders, leading him over to the sofa. “I think it sounds like a fantastic opportunity for you.”

“I met with him,” Enjolras continued, drawing his face into a grimace. “At first, he was cold— abrasive. I didn’t know what to make of him. But then he seemed reluctantly open to talking again, so I can’t make any mistakes, Monsieur.” 

“That’s your first mistake,” Mabeuf pointed out. “Thinking you can’t mess up. You’re a person, for crying out loud! People make mistakes. Let yourself fail and learn to forgive yourself for it.” 

“But if I let him down…” 

“You’ll pick him back up. I’m sure you’ll find a way to. Without you, he'd already be headed for the guillotine,” Mabeuf sighed, but it wasn’t out of exasperation or dismissal. Enjolras was unfamiliar with this tone. “I know you, Enjolras. I know you’re going to overwork yourself on this case, and I can’t blame you! It’s a big one. However, you can’t exhaust yourself; You’ll only regret that later.” 

“You think?” 

Mabeuf offered him a warm smile. "You're a fine, intelligent young man with a bright future. My faith in you is without doubt."

"I appreciate your flattery, Monsieur Mabeuf," Enjolras said. He let out a shaky breath. “I hope it is not misplaced.”

"I know you're still apprehensive," Mabeuf cocked an eyebrow, "So, listen, Enjolras, would you prefer if I accompanied you? I could provide assistance throughout the next interview, perhaps a shoulder to lean on, in case things go awry." 

Enjolras thought for a moment. "Actually, I think I would prefer that. You'd really be willing to?" 

"Of course." Mabeuf got up from the sofa and stood, silent, in front of Enjolras, appearing pensive. "I'm going to brew some tea. I feel like a bit of earl gray, don't you?"

Enjolras nodded, and for the first time in a week, he felt comfortable. Although Mme. Thénardier was seeking it out for him, it was a stronger feeling knowing someone was on his side.

The night before his next meeting with Jean Valjean, Enjolras was feeling restless. He couldn’t think, couldn’t work, couldn’t read. He wasn’t sure what the cause of his unease was, but it was present and it was overwhelming. He let his long, blond hair fall free from his red ribbon and took a deep breath, hunched over the clutter on his desk. 

Come to think of it, his entire office was disorganized: Scattered books and loose papers littering the floor, jars of ink, lids haphazardly sitting atop them. There was barely an empty spot on the floor, scarcely a neatly put-away thing. Enjolras thought it was an environment that would induce feelings of stress to the average person. He tossed open a window, but it wasn’t enough. His apartment was closing in on him, suffocating him in a mess of papers that needed writing and books that needed reading. Later, he decided. 

He thought of Mabeuf’s words: He was overworking himself, and his brain had enough. 

Enjolras threw open his apartment door and surrounded himself with the natural things in life; They were few, but beautiful, and he lavished in them. 

He didn’t care how dark it was outside, how cold the autumn air was on his skin, how the pouring rain matted down his golden hair, causing it to stick to his forehead and neck in the most uncomfortable way. Enjolras didn’t care. He was cleansing himself, starting over from the beginning, letting the stress wash off his skin like filth, down into the depths of the Parisian sewers. 

When he was done, he went back to work. 

For once, Enjolras awoke well-rested. Not rested enough to fade the dark circles under his eyes, but enough that he felt ready to take on the world. Always one to make a good second impression, he pulled on one of his finest vests, a bright red cravat, and a trench coat to match, tucking his father's old pocket watch inside for confidence. 

At the last moment, Enjolras pinned a tricolor cockade to the lapel of his coat. Though out of fashion now, he still appreciated the historical significance of it. Maybe one day it would come back into style.

Taking the first step outside his apartment, Enjolras lined out today's plans. He would meet Mabeuf at the Café Musain, a small but pleasant place on the way to the courthouse, where his client would be awaiting him. Together, they would exchange pleasantries with Valjean in order to make him feel comfortable before asking the hard-hitting questions; In fear of provoking him, they had to be cautious.  Enjolras smiled to himself: Having agreed on a step-by-step system was oddly reassuring.

On his way to the café, shivering in the cold, Enjolras overthought every line in his imaginary script to the point where he ended up scrapping it altogether. He had to be genuine, for he had a feeling Valjean would be able to detect falsity, and Enjolras wasn't best known for his acting, either. He let out a breath, a cloud of frost accompanying it, as he noticed Mabeuf sitting at a round table outside the Musain.

"Ah, Enjolras!" Mabeuf raised his hand, beckoning over Enjolras. "I've ordered you a cup of coffee, but be quick. I have one as a friendship offering for Monsieur Valjean, and would rather it not go cold." 

"Thank you, Mabeuf," said Enjolras, taking a seat across from his former teacher. "However, I don't think you can take these mugs from the café."

"The Musain is run by a good friend of mine; I assure you I'll return it to her," Mabeuf said with a wink. "Eventually." 

In response, Enjolras let out a breathy laugh and took a long sip of the coffee Mabeuf had handed him, chugging the entire thing in a mere few seconds; in autumn's cold, the warmth of coffee brought a nice balance. 

"I think I'm ready to go," uttered Enjolras. Mabeuf nodded and let Enjolras go inside the café to return his mug.

The walk to the courthouse was brief; barely even a few blocks, and they were there. Enjolras would've taken a moment to admire the intricately elegant architecture if he weren't too shackled by nerves, and so he simply followed Mabeuf through the massive double doors beyond marble pillars. 

Enjolras tried to carry himself with confidence, not to appear aloof, but to make himself believe he could win Valjean over and be the savior he needed, perhaps even a rabid upstart success among the people. Mabeuf's demeanor, by contrast, was more natural, less stiff than his former apprentice's. Though Enjolras admired him endlessly, he felt smaller than ever by his side, though he was, ironically, much taller than Mabeuf. 

The courthouse was cavernous on the inside, though just as elegant as the outside. Of course, both Mabeuf and Enjolras had been there many times, though Enjolras had only sat in on trials; ultimately, it would hold Valjean's trial. For now, they had arranged to meet in a private office off of the courtroom, and surprisingly, Valjean was already there, accompanied by an escort, which was really just a friendly term for a guard to make sure he didn't escape. 

Valjean looked, without a doubt, much more pulled together than he had when Enjolras had last seen him. His hair, though still unevenly cut, was slicked back neatly from his oval face, which, to Enjolras's excitement, was washed and powdered, dirt-free. He sat with poor posture, hands folded in his lap over a charming, navy-blue suit. He looked by no means perfect, but perfect was far from what Enjolras expected. Valjean was presentable, and that was good enough.

There was one desk in the room, but three chairs. Enjolras and Mabeuf took a seat across from Valjean and his guard, standing beside him. Mabeuf slid him the mug of coffee he had been holding onto and Valjean accepted it graciously. 

"Monsieur," began Mabeuf to the guard. "If we may have some privacy with the client." 

The guard gave Mabeuf a stubborn grunt, to which he replied sternly: "I assure you, we can handle it from here. You can wait outside." 

The guard conceded and Mabeuf waited for him to exit the room before resuming his joyous persona, speaking again. "You must be Monsieur Jean Valjean," Mabeuf extended a hand to him, and he hesitantly took it. "I've heard much about you, and I must say I'm intrigued by what I've been told."

Valjean looked at him blankly, raking his fingers through the hair pulled tightly from his scalp. "Ah, I forgot to introduce myself," Mabeuf amended with an elegant smile; Enjolras had the feeling he was quite flirtatious before he settled down. "Aurelién Mabeuf, defense attorney and former mentor of Little Enjolras, here." 

Valjean nodded slowly. "I see." His voice was hoarse from disuse. Enjolras guessed he hadn't spoken since they last met. He turned to Enjolras "Hello again, Monsieur Enjolras. I suppose you haven't given up yet." 

"Don't count on it, Monsieur," Enjolras mustered a half-smile; To his surprise, he returned it before glancing back at Mabeuf.

"So, what are you men here to ask about? I'd prefer to get things over with so I can go back to sulking in solitary. I'm having the time of my life there," Valjean deadpanned. 

"Well, um, admittedly, I didn't anticipate such bluntness from you," said Enjolras. "Right now, I'm still in the investigatory phase; Research and all that. I'm looking for potential witnesses to call to testify, and was wondering if there was anyone to vouch for your personality." 

"Sorry?" 

"Friends, family, anything," Enjolras linked his fingers together on the desk. "It would be fantastic if we could bring someone in to say that your temperament is passive and you have never displayed any tendencies towards witchcraft." 

"I apologize, Monsieur Enjolras,” Valjean paused, "But I am what they call a recluse. That means I don't have the privilege of forming personal connections."

"I didn't mean to offend you, Monsieur." 

"I was being honest; Nothing offends me much anymore," Valjean waved a hand dismissively. "In fact, I now take pleasure in offending others." 

Mabeuf and Enjolras exchanged a look, and the latter struggled with what to say next. Fortunately, Mabeuf swooped in with a "Why is that, Monsieur Valjean? Would you mind telling us about your past?" 

"There is not much to tell," Valjean replied stiffly. "I have an average childhood, I come into enough money to live on my own, and I move to a cottage in order to achieve that. Though, some people just won't let that happen, will they?" 

Enjolras had an idea; A different approach. "Would you call yourself well-read?" 

"I suppose. I took an interest in literature when I was a younger man," Valjean said fondly, then cocked his head in curiosity. "Why do you ask?"

"I'd like to try talking to you," Enjolras responded, and he was being honest; he scorned liars with a great passion. "As someone other than the man from the woods who mothers shield their children's eyes from at the market. If you'd allow it, that is.”

Valjean chewed on his lips for a moment, and looking between Mabeuf and Enjolras, drew them into a crooked grin. 

Enjolras shoved pages upon pages of letters and observations aside as he tried to clear his mind. It had long occurred to him that not only must he prove Valjean innocent to the public, he must also provide an alternative explanation; If not to the public, then to himself. Enjolras needed no help convincing himself that Valjean had nothing to do with the series of deaths plaguing Paris, but the unanswered question of what still nagged at him, and he longed to answer it himself. 

Enjolras had always believed "witchcraft" to be a hoax, an excuse. When things were left to mystery, people had one response, desperate to come to a conclusion, even if that meant a preposterous one. Valjean was already an outsider, and though perhaps many people lacked a malicious spirit, they, like Enjolras himself, were desperate. 

Looking to science, Enjolras had drawn up a list of many possibilities: Poisons. Plague. Contamination? Paris hadn't exactly had a reputation of being the most cleanly city in the world, which meant anything was possible, and he couldn't draw anything out for certain. However, he saw a pattern in the victims, which Enjolras found peculiar. He had originally suspected a sort of pandemic or plague, but now that didn’t seem to be the case: He had heard of viruses that affected certain groups of people, but the majority of the deceased were male, adult, middle-to-upper class, and married. The specificity of the profile made Enjolras think that he was looking for a serial killer. 

Enjolras's knowledge of murderers was slim, but he had heard tales of a series of murders in London, which had suddenly stopped the year prior. All six victims were female prostitutes living in squalor. The killer had a specific type of victim to look for, using the same brutal methods on each of them. He'd mutilate the woman and remove some of her organs with the skill of a seasoned surgeon. He still hadn’t been caught. The story gave Enjolras chills, and not the pleasant kind. 

Perhaps he was dealing with a similar killer. Someone as deranged and bloodthirsty, but who took a more inconspicuous way of going about it; something that may not even appear as premeditated homicide to the naked eye. 

Earlier in the afternoon, Enjolras had paid a visit to the library to collect a series of books to read up on various possibilities. He had studied various natural poisons in a botanist's journal, but nothing that would make the victim drop dead without warning, no symptoms at all. Perhaps he was dealing with a scientist; someone privy to knowledge of disease and purposeful contamination. A miasma or gas, maybe? His theories were endless, unbound pages of notes stacked almost as high as the books he'd rented. 

Narrowing everything down would require a word greater than "difficult," and Enjolras suspected he would need an outside opinion. He thought back to university; While he didn't make many friends, he preferred quality over quantity, and formed a lasting bond with a lively young man named Grantaire, whose literary mind remained top-notch, despite developing the unfortunate habit of getting into the bottle at the age of sixteen. 

Grantaire's presence would be a much-needed change in tone for Enjolras's new lifestyle, so he quickly drafted a letter, paying an urchin a few francs to deliver it to his old, but not forgotten, friend.

Grantaire's response came quicker than Enjolras expected, suggesting they meet at his usual spot, a friendly little tavern on the corner of the Rue de la  Chanvrerie. Enjolras was not accustomed to such places on his own time; he wasn’t much of a drinker.

The tavern’s conditions were a stark contrast to the outside world, and took Enjolras off-guard no matter how many times he visited. The overwhelming smell of brie and wine made the lawyer’s head ache and he had a hard time adjusting to the dim, candlelit dining room; too sharp a breath might cast the whole building into darkness, he thought. The lawyer was unsure of how his colleague managed to spend hours on end here, or why he insisted on meeting at a grimy pub rather than a more refined location.

Enjolras knew he stood out from the usual clientele, donned in a sharp three-piece suit compared to a mass of poorly-tied cravats and unbuttoned vests embroidered with fraying lace. He moved cautiously to the end of the tavern— head held high, as if superior to the looming stench— to find Grantaire hunched over a bottle of absinthe at a table in the corner. 

“Monsieur Grantaire,” the lawyer said. “Greetings.” 

Grantaire snorted, pupils dilated so wide Enjolras could barely see his irises, and his wild black curls provided an air of insanity. “Greetings,” he mimicked, bursting into a fit of laughter. He hiccuped and continued: “You should hear yourself! ‘Monsieur Grantaire’ Ha! University has changed you, my friend.” 

“You’re drunk,” observed Enjolras, scowling.

“Good observation. I’m as drunk as the sky is blue.” Grantaire took a swig from his bottle and gestured grandly to the seat across the table. “Come! Sit, comrade. Have a drink with me.” 

“I asked to meet with you to discuss business,” said Enjolras petulantly. “Not to waste away.”

“And business we will discuss! Over wine, of course.” 

Enjolras looked over his shoulder at the scattered drunkards of the tavern, many of which he couldn’t make out in the twilight. He felt unsafe, unable to detect possible threats. Letting down his guard would be a terrible mistake, but Enjolras desperately needed someone to talk to. The bench across from Grantaire was undoubtedly filthy, just like the rest of the godforsaken tavern; Enjolras would take a chance at ruining his suit, so he weighed the benefits carefully. He needed a break. 

“Alright,” conceded Enjolras, sitting down. Grantaire cheekily offered him his bottle to the lawyer’s refusal. “None for me, thank you, Monsieur.”

Grantaire lifted an eyebrow. 

“Grantaire,” Enjolras corrected. His colleague smiled bashfully in response, face flushed, and leaned his elbow on the table. “I’m in a rough situation. I needed to talk with a friend.”

“Life is but a myriad of rough situations.” Grantaire closed his eyes, lazily circling his finger around his bottle’s lip. His eyes suddenly shot open. “Tell me about it, Enj.” 

When he said it, it sounded like Ange. Angel. But Enjolras paid that no mind. 

“I took on a case,” Enjolras sighed, removing his spectacles to clean them off with his sleeve. They hadn’t been particularly dirty, but the air had violently swelled, and the lawyer’s headache had gotten so dreadful, it became difficult to see. “It might be too much for me, but I’m committed to making things right.” 

“Classic Enjolras antics, always in over his head,” Grantaire grinned wolfishly. “I’m sure it’ll work out.” 

“It’s that Valjean fellow.” 

“Ah! A real challenge!” Grantaire’s eyes widened. Impossibly, it seemed as though his pupils did, too. “With an attitude like yours, it’s nothing you can’t solve,”—Grantaire hiccuped, a new brightness in his voice— “I can almost see the headlines. Imagine: ‘Upstart Lawyer Saves Local Outcast From Certain Death!’ Beautiful women will be brawling in the streets for your signature! Oh, Enj, you’ll be a hero. I swoon at the thought!” 

“A hero, sure. Or a pariah,” Enjolras folded his hands over his chest. “I appreciate your support, Grantaire, but we should look at this realistically. People despise Monsieur Valjean and will continue to do so no matter what the official court says. He has no connections in society and no one to lean back on. He was hardly cooperative when we first spoke.”

“No connections?” Grantaire slurred. He shook his head drowsily. “No, that can’t be.” 

“How come?”

“Why, I spoke with his daughter just the other day!” exclaimed the drunkard. “She was very pleasant. Worried sick, too.”

“His daughter?” Enjolras blinked. “I didn’t know he had any living family.”

At this, a rather suggestive barmaid adorned in patched linen sauntered up behind the lawyer, interrupting his conversation. She snaked an arm up Enjolras’s neck, back, around his shoulder. He startled at the sudden force, annoyed that he had been interrupted mid-conversation.

“Can I get you men anything?” she asked, practically lowering herself next to Enjolras on his seat. The room felt much tighter than it had been before, the claustrophobia settling in. It had already been hard to breathe, but his throat felt tighter and tighter, the thick air weaseling its way into his lungs. 

“Always, Mademoiselle! I would be honored if you brought some wine, along with some more of whatever this was,” Grantaire held up his nearly-empty bottle, now a translucent olive color. “And a cheese platter for my friend, here. He doesn’t drink, the lunatic!” 

Enjolras uncomfortably shrugged the woman’s arm off his shoulder. “Now, if we may have some privacy, please? Our discussion was rather important.” 

The barmaid nodded curtly and carried on. 

“What did you do that for?” Grantaire huffed. “She was a fine woman, at least by my standards!”

“I have no interest or time for such pleasures, and it’s quite inappropriate of her to assume I would.” At last, Enjolras’s heartbeat slowed, his breathing resuming a normal pace. After a period of time, he had grown tolerant of the musty ecosystem that was the tavern; Perhaps it was just numbness. He jammed a finger pointedly onto the table: “Back to business, please. I want to know more about this daughter.” 

“Alright, alright!” Grantaire said, brightening at the presentation of a new bottle to drain, while Enjolras didn’t touch his cheese. Instead, he only ignored the barmaid. 

Adjusting himself, the drunkard lowered his voice, as if he were about to spill some grand secret: “Her name’s Cosette, and she’s adopted. I heard Valjean took her in after her mother passed away. Illness, she said,” —Grantaire took a purposefully dramatic pause to take a drawn-out swig of wine— “She feels a bit responsible for the way the town treats him, I think, and who could blame her for that? Ha! I heard she even tried to change her name for a while— sever every possible connection to Valjean— but that worked out about how you'd expect. I couldn't understand her logic if you stuck my head through a noose!" 

“Where can I find her?” asked the lawyer. 

Grantaire thought for a moment, squinting up at the fading candle that sat between them. “She said she lives in a cottage off Rue Norvins,” he concluded.

“Thank you, Grantaire. This has been a good use of my time,” Enjolras meant it. He had been looking for something— anything— to tie into this case, and he had found it; he only had Grantaire to thank.

“Anything to help a friend, dear Enjolras!” cried Grantaire. “I fancy seeing you around, always” 

“You as well.” The lawyer smiled, getting to his feet. The stool he had been sitting upon made an unsettling creak under him. Once again, he had become aware of his own discomfort, anxious to leave, but he had more to discuss with his friend. "There's another matter on my mind, Grantaire, and I've been wondering if you know anything about it." 

"Of course. I'm all-knowing, didn't you hear?" 

"You're a brilliant writer, Grantaire," Enjolras began, tapping his fingers on the table. "Brilliant enough to get published someday. I've read plenty of your work, especially back in university, and I was surprised about how much research you put into your stories."

"Oh, Apollo, you make me blush." 

Enjolras had no time to waste dancing around the subject even more: "What do you know about murder?" 

"Murder?" Grantaire's eyes widened. "So, you do think Valjean's responsible. It's not a plague after all?" 

"No, no," Enjolras rushed to Valjean's defense. "I used to think this epidemic to be plague, but now, I think we're looking at homicide, I just don't think Valjean's behind it all." 

"Well," Grantaire hiccupped. "I know everyone's speaking of witchcraft." 

"I didn't ask what everyone's saying," Enjolras huffed. "Witchcraft isn't real, it's just what mothers warn their little girls of to keep them out of trouble." 

Grantaire made a humming sound, droning off into what Enjolras assumed was thought. Unlike most of the people he had ever met, Grantaire was most productive while intoxicated, jamming away at his typewriter until his fingers bled, bringing new, fascinating stories into the world with every press of a button. Though he didn't seem to realize it, Grantaire had a naturally impressive mind, which Enjolras deeply respected him for, though scorning the excessive drinking. 

"I would think it's poison, from what I heard," Grantaire concluded at last. "Though, I don't want to jump to any conclusions. I'm not well-read on the subject, but I'm sure it would be more than possible given the circumstances. As for the perpetrator... I think we're looking at someone very clever. Unassuming. Perhaps well-liked... who has connections around Paris. Maybe accomplices?" 

"It could be more than one person," Enjolras agreed. "I hadn't thought of that." 

"Please take that with a grain of salt," said the drunkard with a shrug. "It's only a thought. I'm probably thinking too big." 

"I think you're onto something, Grantaire. We need to think of the bigger picture when anything could be possible." 

Grantaire burst into a laughing fit, but Enjolras couldn't figure out what was so funny. Grantaire's change in tone, however, brought him back into the reality that was a filthy Parisian tavern. He cleared his throat: “I appreciate your help greatly, but don’t you think you’ve had enough to drink? I could accompany you home.” 

“I have, haven’t I?” Grantaire chortled, standing up on wobbling legs. He began hastily spooning cheese into the pockets of his green tailcoat. Enjolras gave him a look that the drunkard received very often. “What? If you’re not going to take it, someone might as well.” 

“Come now, Grantaire,” said Enjolras, steadying his friend himself. The drunkard tossed a couple francs on the table for the barmaid and let his companion lead him through the tavern— including the crowd of people Enjolras had been desperate to avoid— and outside the doors. 

It had been so dark in the bar that Enjolras had forgotten it was still daytime, not even dusk. He was finally able to breathe, the fresh scent of nature and the neat cobblestone roads that differed greatly from the grimy floor almost made him forget the stuffy interior of the tavern. He felt free, and a drizzle began— peculiar against the cloudless sky— washing off the residue the tavern left behind

Grantaire immediately stumbled in Enjolras’s grasp as they made their way from the tavern. He, who had been so used to near-darkness, hissed like a feral cat at the sight of natural light, muttering to himself: “Curse he who hangs the sun in the sky each morning.”

Enjolras slung his friend’s arm around his shoulders, carrying him in the direction of his home. It didn’t bother him too much; It was an easy walking distance from the tavern, but Grantaire stopped him before they got too far. 

“Would you mind if I slept off the absinthe at your place?” he asked, holding two fingers to his temple in agony. “My apartment is much too far away.” 

“My home is always open to you, Grantaire,” said Enjolras, concerned. He wouldn’t want Grantaire walking all the way home in this state, especially not by himself. The weather persisted, a strange mixture of light and dark; Gentle rain softly patted down the lawyer’s usually lush hair, which was now pulled back with a green ribbon. “The air is refreshing out here, so I’d like to keep a window open.” Grantaire made a groaning noise, and Enjolras winced: “Just try not to retch; That’s all I ask of you.”