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The streets of New Paris are not safe for anyone. Even broad daylight sees people snatched up by the police, dragged into alleys, beaten, robbed, killed. The citizens are reminded every day not to venture out after curfew. That no one will be responsible for what befalls them. No one cares if a few more undesirables are swallowed by the city's dark underbelly, leaving behind empty houses and hungry children. The people of New Paris have to fend for themselves.
The young boy dodging down side streets tells himself that the shadows will protect him. Running through the city during the day is just as dangerous, only with more people and fewer places to hide. But he knows all the little shortcuts and hidey-holes of these streets; they're his home, after all.
“Hey, boy.” At the mouth of the alley, silhouetted against a flickering streetlamp, a man gestures at him to come closer. “Boy, come over here. I've got something for you.”
The boy stops dead, one hand clutching the package to his chest, the other slipping beneath his jacket to curl around the grip of his gun. With his exit blocked, he runs through another route in his head, slowly backing away, never taking his hand from his gun.
“I'm not gonna hurt you!” He hears as he flees around a corner, running as fast as he can and praying the man wouldn't try and follow.
He's out of breath by the time he reaches the club, but he hasn't met anyone else and no one killed him so he considers it a successful run. He slows to a trot, panting, as he closes in on the Musain; even the nightclub is dark and quiet this late. And the boy almost makes it, almost, before a hand shoots out of the shadows pooled at the side of the building, grabbing the boy's arm and holding tight.
The package drops to the concrete as the boy spins around, gun already in hand, finger on the trigger and aimed right between his assailant's eyes. Which, after a heartbeat or two, he recognizes as the red, bleary eyes of Grantaire.
Grantaire blinks, his forehead wrinkling as he tries to make sense of the gun barrel almost touching his skin. “Gavroche?
The boy's face goes pale and he drops his arm with a sharp exhalation. “I- I could have shot you,” he says, his eyes going wide.
“You could've sh--” The man stinks of alcohol and it takes him a moment to pull the pieces together. “You have a gun. Who the hell gave you a gun?”
Gavroche takes a few steps back, stooping to pick up the package as Grantaire struggles to stand. “No, no, don't answer that. I know who it was and I'll shoot him." He makes a valiant attempt to storm into the club which ends in him falling and knocking his head against the wall.
“No, Grantaire, please, it's fine,” Gavroche pleads, tugging on the man's sleeve. “Look, I've got the plans they wanted, and it's fine.”
Grantaire manages to find his feet, stumbling slowly toward the back entrance, all the while snarling out curses. “It damn well is not fine. They can kill themselves in the name of freedom all they want, but you're just a kid.”
“I'm twelve!”
That earns him a bitter bark of a laugh as Grantaire practically kicks the door in.
The group of men inside all jump to their feet at the noise, hands on their weapons, reflexes taking over. There's a tense silence as everyone recognizes Grantaire, notices how he is swaying on the spot, and nervous glances pass from one man to another. Grantaire sneers at their battle positions and fumbles his way to the closest table, leaning heavily against it as Gavroche edges in behind him.
“So,” Grantaire spits out, the words coming out slurred and uneven. “Where is our glorious leader, hm? Off making more child soldiers?”
There's silence while the men avoid Grantaire's demanding eyes, muttering something noncommittal, and he can feel his anger boiling over. Courfeyrac gingerly takes a few steps toward him. “R, you're drunk.”
“So what else is new?”
“You don't want to fight with him like this. It doesn't help anything.” Courfeyrac is beside him now, putting a calming hand on his shoulder. “Why don't you go to bed and you can deal with this in the morning?”
“Deal with what?”
Grantaire whirls around to see Enjolras emerge from the back and he looks so calm and composed that it makes him all the angrier. He grinds his teeth, shoves his hand into Gavroche's jacket and yanks out the gun. “What the hell is this?” He slams it against the table, making the other men flinch. Enjolras doesn't blink.
“It's a g-”
“I know it's a goddamn gun, asshole!” Grantaire roars. “Why does Gavroche have it?”
He can see color rise to Enjolras' cheeks, but he exhales slowly through nose before responding, his voice even and measured. “He wants to help the cause. Don't you think he's safer with one than without? Especially on the streets?”
“He doesn't need to be on the streets. He's just a kid.”
“He's old enough to make his own decisions. I won't stop him from fighting.”
Few people can make him this angry. Grantaire feels like he's going to fly apart from the fire in his chest and his leader's icy gaze makes it that much worse. How one man can burn so brightly and yet be so cold is something he can't understand. And he knows he can't win against Enjolras and his pretty ideals, so he curls his lip and stuffs the gun into the pocket of his own jacket. Gavroche might find another but at least Grantaire wouldn't be the one to put it in his hand.
“I won't have my freedom bought with the blood of children,” Grantaire says simply, turning to march out of the building like he'd won, the effect ruined when he stumbles and catches himself on the door frame. But he doesn't look back, he just slides out into the chill air, ignoring Courfeyrac's calls from inside. There are other places he can stay where he won't freeze and he won't go back in there after that.
---
“Should someone go after him?” Combeferre asked.
Enjolras shook his head dismissively. “Grantaire can take care of himself. And I'll find you another gun, Gavroche.”
The boy shuffles, looks down. “I don't need one, sir.”
Enjolras furrows his brow. “You're sure?”
“Yes, sir. It's just, he seemed really upset.” Gavroche hands over the package, the pride of a job well done tempered by Grantaire's reaction.
Taking the package from him, Enjolras lays his hand on the boy's shoulder. “He just doesn't understand how it feels to fight for a cause. Twelve or no, you're a braver man than he.”
Gavroche presses his lips together like he wants to protest, but only Grantaire is allowed to disagree with Enjolras. He just nods and runs across the room to sit beside Courfeyrac, leaning heavily into the man's shoulder as though suddenly exhausted.
The package is heavy in his hands and his fingers tighten around it anxiously, hoping for good news. There are other groups scattered throughout the city, small ones, two or three people at most, that hide and hope for a brighter tomorrow, planning little acts of rebellion while they scrape together enough money to eat for the week. The Amis are the biggest, the most influential, and the hardest to pin down. Enjolras hoped they commanded enough respect in the city's underbelly to rally some support. He had been disappointed.
At most there had been letters of consolation, regret that they couldn't be of more help. Usually there was silence. Enjolras tries not to blame them for being afraid, but he knows it's exactly what their masters want. For the people to be too scared to fight back. And he knows that, no matter how brave his Amis are, no matter how hard they fight, without the people behind them the best they can hope for is a noble death.
But this package is heavy and he allows himself to hope. He turns it over and lets the contents spill out over a table.
The Amis look up when they hear the clatter of coins, most of them bouncing onto the floor. There's also a small bundle of paper bills wrapped with a rubber band. For anyone in the city to give this much money, when it could be used to buy food or clothing or medicine, is one of the sincerest forms of allegiance. Enjolras picks one of the silvery coins off the table and holds it in his palm, regarding the embossed likeness of the chancellor coolly before dropping it to the table, letting the head of their dear lord and master roll. The money was a sign of faith, and a much appreciated one, but he was more interested in the sheets of paper and data sticks that lay in a heap before him.
He plucks a clearly marked stick from the pile and tosses it towards his men, saying, “Encryption keys.”
Bossuet's eyes shoot up and tries to snatch the stick out of the air, fumbles, misses, lets it fall at his feet. Undaunted, he manages to grab it triumphantly. “Fuck yes!”
“Bossuet!” Courfeyrac lays his hand on Gavroche's head protectively, running his fingers through his matted, unwashed hair.
“Oh shit, sorry,” Bossuet whispers sheepishly. “Shit. Oh, damn it.” He clamps his mouth shut and cuts his losses, dropping his eyes back to his computer screen. “Sorry.”
Courfeyrac continues to act scandalized and Enjolras rolls his eyes, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. The jokes, the easy camaraderie of his friends is comforting, but he doesn't join them. They earn their rest, they earn it daily and a hundred times over. The world can't hope to repay them for what they put themselves through. But Enjolras doesn't allow himself to stop and breathe, not while there's still work to be done. So his friends talk and laugh and wait, it's too late for any of them to return to their homes without stumbling across a lawman but still too early for the wolves to have prowled back to their own beds. And Enjolras sits apart from them, reading through the information contained within the package.
It's only much later that he finds something that stirs his interest; Gavroche is curled up on a couch, his head in Courfeyrac's lap, and several of the men are dozing. Enjolras scans the papers again to be sure, in case his lack of sleep was playing tricks on him. But no, there they are, clear as day: plans for the National Ascension Day celebration.
He almost laughs at their luck, their sheer blind luck. How the other revolutionaries got their hands on these he didn't know, but the holiday is only a few short days away. Their little windfall had come at just the right time. Hopefully they'll be able to plan a little celebration of their own.
“Feuilly,” he says quietly, so as not to wake the others. Feuilly is draped over the arm of a couch, fiddling with something in his hands, and looks up at the sound of his name. There's a moment of genuine shock on his face when he sees the Enjolras' smile, so rare that it seemed out of place on his lips, but it's quickly wiped away. “I've got a job for you.”
When Feuilly flicks open the thing in his hands Enjolras sees it's a lighter, and the tiny sputtering flame illuminates the impish smile spreading across the other man's face, one that would almost make Enjolras nervous were Feuilly not on their side. “Name it, boss.”
---
Enjolras climbs to the roof of the club with the sun still high, trying to snatch a breath of fresh air from the choking grasp of the city. The streets are all but empty. No one comes to the entertainment district this time of day. But he can hear voices on the wind, dim echoes of children shouting, and he can't tell if they're laughing or screaming. Tangled disjointed musical notes float by from the celebrations in the wealthier districts. No doubt there are parades and singing somewhere where the people aren't strangled and beaten by their government, those who have enough money to warrant special treatment and tolerance. Enjolras sits, dangles his feet over the edge of the building, listening to the discordant sounds of joy and suffering.
He can just see Justice from his vantage point, a huge marble statue harkening back to days of old when cities were just as corrupt but the buildings were prettier. She stands outside the national courthouse with a rag tied over her eyes, hoisting a balance into the air like a trophy. It would be a nice sentiment in a different world. In this one "justice" is a dirty word, something the police threaten innocents with and the government uses to kidnap and torture anyone brave enough to say so. The state has made justice its whore, but Enjolras has plans to liberate her.
As the sun sinks lower the other Amis trickle up to join him. They're almost all together when the national anthem starts playing, echoing from every loudspeaker on every street corner, the soaring triumphant music harsh and mocking as it rings in the deserted streets. And as one last low note plays on and on, Enjolras feels someone slide down to sit beside him. Grantaire looks filthy and exhausted, but sober, and smiles knowingly when he feels Enjolras watching him, his own eyes never leaving the statue on the horizon. Enjolras claps a hand to the other man's shoulder, gives him a shake, and doesn't let on that he was even the slightest bit worried.
The final note doesn't fade into silence. Instead a new song grows from it, eerie and mournful, that same triumphant anthem turned back onto itself until it's unrecognizable. Enjolras has a moment to see Feuilly and Bossuet looking pleased with themselves before the sky explodes.
Even from here they can see chunks of the statue flying into the sky, her marble prison destroyed. The blasts are shattering, drowning out the backwards melody; Jehan covers his ears, smiling all the while. No doubt there are already forces mobilizing, but they wouldn't find them this time. This time they had won. And when the fireworks rise from the broken corpse of the perversion they called Justice, when all of his friends are illuminated by the red glow and their shouts are smothered by the explosion and even Grantaire is laughing, his skepticism momentarily absent, only then does Enjolras let go.
When the sky goes dark again, he's cheering with the rest of them.