Chapter Text
Paris, February 10th, 1832
The morning dawned, cold and grey, bringing with it a heavy fog that settled over the narrow streets and clung to the murky surface of the Seine. Throughout the city, the flickering orange glow of the streetlamps was diffused by the mist, creating a shimmering, golden, haze; giving a false sense of warmth and illumination to the labyrinth of crooked alleyways below.
On the corner of the Place Saint-Michel, a young man stood beneath a lamp-post, wrapped in a scarlet coat; clear, blue, eyes scanning the crowd of people and horses that moved about the nearby streets. Across the cobblestones, a small boy tussled with a mangy dog over a scrap of bread, only to turn and run as the metal tip of a rich man’s cane narrowly missed his head. The young man narrowed his gaze, although he made no move. Better that he wait; for in this miserable game of power and despair, he who stood and spoke alone was destined to fall. A wagon rattled past, heavy wheels clattering upon the uneven road. Both horse and driver were thin, and weary, beaten down by years of grueling labour, with neither recognition nor reward to show for their struggles; condemned, like so many others, to suffer beneath the iron heel of the bourgeois monarchy, hopes and dreams trodden into the filth that lined the edges of the streets.
It had begun to rain, a light, misty, drizzle; adding to the damp chill of the morning fog. A group of students splashed their way across the road, yelling as a horse-drawn omnibus rounded the corner at speed, almost knocking one of the boys over. A couple of his friends shoved him out of the way, shouting angrily at the driver. He ignored them, sending the horses running again with a flick of the reins; before long, the bus had disappeared into the mist, heading north, towards the river.
“Making eyes at the rich again, Monsieur Enjolras?”
The young man in the scarlet coat spun on his heel, coming face-to-face with his fellow revolutionary, Grantaire. His hair was damp with rain, his clothes crumpled and his breath wine-soaked. He looked like a fool; chaotic, yet strangely beautiful, at the same time. He laughed as he caught Enjolras’ eye. “Much better! Stare at me, why don’t you?”
Enjolras gave no reply. He did not have time to deal with this, not now. The world was balanced on a knife-point, although the direction in which it would fall was impossible to deduce. The only certainty now was change, the only constant, political unrest. A storm was breaking, and Enjolras was determined to be there when at last it did. Pushing past Grantaire, he continued down the street, making his way towards the narrow café which served as the base of operations for his small rebellion. Despite the early hour, the café played host to a number of patrons, a few of whom nodded respectfully to Enjolras as he passed. He paid them no heed, not out of rudeness; he simply did not wish to waste time exchanging pleasantries. Walking quickly, he crossed the floor, skirting around the close set-tables, heading for the door to the back room. Enjolras pushed it open, revealing a clutter of wooden furniture. A dim, grey, light filtered through the gaps in the shutters, illuminating the scattered bottles and crushed papers that littered the floor, remnants of the previous night’s meeting.
Enjolras set his bag down on one of the tables, and proceeded to begin unpacking the various documents he had brought along with him. Most were handwritten notes, recording half-finished ideas and plans of attack. Others were maps of the city, several streets marked in ink or charcoal.
Behind him, the door creaked open. Enjolras paid it no mind, assuming it was merely an early arrival to that morning’s meeting, and continued with his work. It was not until he felt a hand upon his shoulder that he realised Grantaire had followed him inside. He sighed, and shook his head, refusing to look up from the papers in front of him. A moment passed, and Enjolras paused. Grantaire’s hand was still resting on his shoulder.
“Can I assist you?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the table.
Grantaire chuckled softly, and stepped closer, lowering his voice to a whisper. “You need not do anything, mon ami. Your presence is enough for me.”
Enjolras stiffened, brushing Grantaire’s hand away. “Do not play games with me,” he warned, his voice icy. “If you have nothing better to do, why not make yourself useful?”
Grantaire released him, taking a step back. “Whatever you say, Monsieur. Although, I fear there is not much I can do for so hopeless a cause.”
He crossed the room, taking his preferred seat in the far corner, from where he could watch, and drink, occasionally calling out when the proceedings began to bore him. Enjolras watched him go, the air around him suddenly feeling strangely cold. He shook it off, returning to his task.
The scrape of glass against wood made him look up. Grantaire had taken a bottle from the floor, and proceeded to drink from it, keeping his eyes fixed on Enjolras.
Enjolras shook his head, exasperated. “I do not see why you insist upon taking part in this revolution. You show no interest in the cause, no devotion to Patria, or her people. You merely drink, and interrupt. So, why is it that you stay?”
Grantaire smiled, his dark eyes sparkling in the candlelight. “I stay because of you. You are brilliant, shining, my golden Apollo; the dazzling light which makes the terrible darkness of my world a little more bearable.”
“You think very highly of me, it seems.”
“Ha! If only you knew.” Grantaire gave a heavy sigh, and took another swig from the bottle in his hand. Enjolras stared at him for a moment, unsure of what to say. It seemed strange to him, how, in the space of mere moments, Grantaire could go from drunken skeptic to lyric poet; the same voice which mocked Enjolras’ cause so relentlessly now singing his praises.
As puzzling as this was, for Enjolras to dwell on such a thought would only waste precious time. Musing over the inner workings of Grantaire’s intoxicated mind brought about no change to the suffering in the streets outside. In order to turn the tide of misery and injustice, he who stoked the fires of revolution could be afforded no distraction. The freedom of Patria must take precedence over all else. Enjolras had sworn his soul to his country, forfeited any possibility of a life outside the cause; becoming in the process the perfect soldier, a zealot devoted only to ideals. Grantaire may call him a god, liken him to a saint, but, in truth, he cared not for the power others handed him; his own existence was merely symbolic. There was no divine appointment here, no prophesied hero. Just a cold, cruel reality, and a young man who could see far enough beyond his own comfort and desires to recognise the need for change.
“Bonjour, mes amis!”
Enjolras spun around, lost his balance, and tripped over Gavroche, who had just entered the room, followed by Courfeyrac and the others .
“Oi! Watch where you’re going!” he cried indignantly, leaping out of the way. “You could have trampled me!”
Enjolras ignored him, frantically trying to retrieve the papers that had fallen out of his hands in the chaos. Whilst he did so, Gavroche pulled himself up on the table, and sat facing the open door, dangling his legs in midair, humming a disjointed tune to himself. After a moment, Enjolras rose to his feet, slamming the reorganised pile of notes down beside the map. Gavroche peered at them, curiously. “What are those for?”
“They are eyewitness records regarding the security surrounding the corps de garde at Place du Châtelet,” Enjolras replied. “As such, they are invaluable to our plan.”
“Explain to me again why we plan to raid the corps de garde at Place du Châtelet?” asked Combeferre, his tone uneasy. “The area is constantly patrolled, it will be a death-trap!”
Enjolras shook his head. “That is not necessarily true,” he said. “From the information we have received, we can be certain that there will be no fewer than a dozen Guardsmen on rotation, leaving us with two on duty at any given time. If we follow the plan, and keep to the shadows, then I believe we shall stand a chance.”
“You still have not answered the question, Enjolras. Why that specific corps de garde?”
Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted by Grantaire. “He chose it because it lies beneath the Fontaine du Palmier, of course! How better to be martyred for the republic than to fall than at the foot of the Emperor’s monument!” He shook his head, laughing, and raised his bottle in a mock toast. Enjolras shot him a glare across the table. He smiled back, his expression one of equal longing and disbelief. Enjolras felt his face grow hot, and quickly averted his gaze.
If the others had noticed his composure slip, they made no move to show it. Enjolras shook himself, and continued: “It would be foolish for us all to go. I shall take Courfeyrac, and one other man. Between the three of us, we should be more than able to carry enough guns.”
At the word guns, Gavroche looked up. “Can I come?”
Enjolras shook his head. “No. It is too dangerous.”
“You always say that,” the boy complained. “Just because I’m small doesn’t mean I can’t fight!”
“I never said you could not fight, Gavroche, merely that this particular excursion will be fraught with difficulty, and I cannot afford to lose any of my men.”
Gavroche huffed, and crossed his arms angrily. “Fine.”
“I shall go.”
It was Feuilly. He stood at the end of the table, determination glittering in his eyes. Enjolras felt a sudden rush of pride as he watched his comrade volunteer himself for this, most perilous of missions. Here was a man of the people. Here was someone he could trust to see this revolution through to the very end.
A loud thud made him turn. Grantaire had slammed his bottle down on the table, and was staring at Enjolras, hurt and despair written all over his handsome face. “What?” he asked. “Do not look at me. If you three wish to go and get yourselves killed at some ungodly hour, so be it! It is hardly my problem.”
Enjolras sighed heavily. “If you had been listening, Grantaire, you would have known that I had not requested your presence in this particular venture. I suggest you set aside the bottle for a moment, and focus on the matter at hand.”
“If only I could, mon ami. And yet…” he trailed off, his eyes fixed longingly on Enjolras.
Enjolras was struck once again by just how beautiful Grantaire was, his face lit from the side by the sputtering flame of a dying candle, his expression that of a poet gazing upon his muse.
“Enjolras!”
Courfeyrac’s voice was sharp in the silent room. Enjolras shook himself, cleared his throat, and began to rearrange the papers on the table in front of him, trying desperately to hide the blush that had crept across his face. Whatever this was, he could not deal with it now. He had a revolution to run.
“Right,” he said, setting the papers aside, “the plan is simple. The guard shift changes just before midnight. This gives us a small window in which the corps de garde will be left without a watchman, allowing us to slip inside, unnoticed.”
“What if there’s a guard inside?”
Enjolras smiled. “Then he shall be given a choice. Assist in the liberation of the people, or fall so that Patria may be free. Vive la révolution!”
The room erupted in a cacophony of cheers and applause. Enjolras dropped back into his seat, pride and exhilaration coursing through his body. Across the table, Grantaire was smiling at him, admiration and devotion shining in his dark eyes. He smirked when he caught Enjolras looking, and took another swig of wine. Enjolras blushed, and turned away, terrified should he be caught staring.
“Look at the time.” Jehan had taken his watch from the pocket of his jacket, and was gazing at it thoughtfully. “I have to return to my flowers.”
“And I have to go deface a national monument,” said Gavroche, sliding off the table, and landing on the floor with a thunk. “Au revoir!”
He half-walked-half-skipped out of the door, humming a mischievous tune. Combeferre sighed, and shook his head, rising to his feet. “If you will excuse me, mes amis. I would not wish for him to come to any grief.”
Enjolras nodded. “I understand. I do not think there is anything more we need to say at this moment. Let us reconvene at dusk, so that we may prepare for our mission.”
Within moments, the gathering had dispersed, and the room fallen silent. Once again, Enjolras found himself alone, his only company the fading exhilaration of the morning’s work, and the terrible weight of his own secret. He tried to push it aside, and concentrate on tidying the spread of maps and documents that lay on the table before him. The more he attempted to ignore it, however, the more distracted he became. Why? Why was this happening to him? All his life, he had wanted nothing more than for his country to be free, for the suffering of her people to end. Then Grantaire had stumbled, drunk and misty-eyed, into his world, and everything had changed. Enjolras never sought out his company, yet he could feel his absence like a cold wind, sharp, painful, almost. He wanted to be close to Grantaire, to fight alongside him, to hold him near when the light faded and hope seemed lost. Yet he knew he would never act upon such a desire, not because he feared the law; Enjolras had no time for unjust rules imposed by gilded tyrants, but because he could not permit himself to love another, not whilst Patria and her people remained at the mercy of the rich and powerful.
“You are very beautiful, Enjolras, but how much longer do you plan on standing around? It is becoming rather tiresome to watch.”
Enjolras had not realised Grantaire was still in the room. Without turning around, or pausing in his task, he replied: “Until the work is done. If it bores you, you can either assist me, or leave.”
Grantaire made no reply. Enjolras sighed and shook his head, stuffing the last of his notes unceremoniously into his bag. “Au revoir,” he said, not bothering to turn around as he stepped through the back door, out onto the Rue des Grés.
The rain had stopped, at last, although the iron clouds still hung low and menacing in the sky. A single, oil-burning lantern fixed above the lintel of the café’s back door was the only light in the dark, narrow, street, and even that did little to brighten the dreary afternoon. Enjolras exhaled shakily, watching his breath turn to mist in the cold.
He was about to move when he felt a sudden hand upon his wrist. “Wait.”
Enjolras turned to face Grantaire. The dim lamplight reflected in his eyes, dark pools of ink shining with hurt and wonder. He took a cautious step forward, as if afraid of how Enjolras may react. “I need to tell you something.”
“Can it wait? I have to prepare for tonight.”
Grantaire shook his head. He moved closer again, until only inches separated them. Enjolras could almost taste the wine on his breath as he spoke. “I want to come with you.”
Enjolras was slightly taken aback by the statement. “I thought you said you did not wish to martyr yourself for, how did you put it, so hopeless a cause?”
“Ha. You should know by now that I do not always mean everything I say.”
“Just when you are criticising me? Or when you are praising me also?”
Grantaire smiled sadly. “Non. In those times, mon amour, I mean more than I can say with words alone.” He fell silent, beautiful eyes never leaving Enjolras’ face.
It took Enjolras a moment to register what he had just heard. Then: “Did you just call me ‘mon amour’?”
“Oui.”
“Why–why would you…” He shook his head, lost for words.
“Parce que je t'aime. And I believe you feel the same way.”
Panic flooded Enjolras. He glanced around, frantically searching for any sign that they were not alone. “My God, Grantaire! You cannot say such things!”
“Why not? They are true, and we are alone.” He reached out, taking the lapels of Enjolras’ coat, and drawing him a little closer. “We are safe, just the two of us, for a moment.”
Enjolras nodded. He closed his eyes as Grantaire leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. His arm slid around his waist, pulling him close, shielding him from the cold. Their bodies were pressed so closely together that Enjolras could feel his companion’s heartbeat through the fabric of his coat, in perfect rhythm with his own. He gasped in delight as he felt Grantaire’s hand on his cheek, tasted the ever-present sharpness of the wine on his tongue. There was something surreal about this, this stolen fragment of intimacy, just the two of them, alone with the wind and the silent city.
“Merci,” Enjolras whispered as they drew apart, blinking open his eyes. “I did not believe myself capable of caring for anything other than Patria. I did not think it possible for me to wish to live for something, and I fear that if I allow myself this one comfort, it shall make it harder for me to die.”
“What if I were to promise you, here and now, that you shall not die alone? That I shall share in your fate, however gruesome, however terrible, if you should permit it?”
Enjolras’ breath caught. “I cannot ask such a thing of you. Is it not better for us simply to leave it at this, and return to the way things were?”
“I do not believe you want that any more than I do.”
Grantaire was right. Enjolras did not wish to leave him now, to go back to a life of forbidden glances and guilty secrets. He shook his head. “Non. But I will not allow you to sacrifice yourself for me. From now on, we shall protect each other.”
Grantaire smiled, kissing Enjolras once more. “Then tell me where it is we are going, mon amour, and I shall follow.”