Work Text:
Enjolras knew how ridiculous it was that he was attempting to work on his senior thesis while at a party exactly one day after his junior year had officially ended. Papers with scribbled thoughts and half-finished charts were strewn around him on the kitchen counter; a few books were stacked to his side where an untouched beer was sitting on top, collecting condensation.
“Come drink with us, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac shouted from the other side of the living room, his voice high-pitched with the buzz of alcohol.
Enjolras sighed and turned around, knowing he should at least acknowledge Courfeyrac’s exclamation, despite the fact that he had no real desire to look away from his work. He’d come to the party only because he considered Courfeyrac one of his best friends and, for some reason, the end-of-term gathering meant a lot to him. And because he suspected Courfeyrac would enact some sort of obnoxious revenge if he said no. (Like sneaking in and stealing Enjolras’ expensive, comfortable desk chair which he had done when Enjolras refused to leave the library and go out one night. Enjolras had had to search through all of his friends’ rooms before finding it underneath a mountain of foul-smelling gym clothes in Bahorel’s apartment, which was a good 10 blocks from where Enjolras lived. Courfeyrac didn’t do anything half-assed.)
As he swiveled on the stool, Enjolras took in the sight of Courfeyrac and Marius’ crowded apartment, suddenly aware of just how many people were crammed into the small space.
Enjolras’ circle of friends has increased exponentially since Courfeyrac had started at the Musain Grille roughly six months ago.
It had been only Combeferre and Feuilly for him for a long time; he’d had the sheer luck to get housed with them during orientation weekend the summer before their freshman year, and Enjolras figured out — through the course of the weekend of social mixers and how-to seminars on everything from doing laundry to not getting pregnant — that the two other young men were of a similar mind. Combeferre and Feuilly, history and anthropology majors respectively, were at the university to learn and to experience, and they had little patience for both the immature students poking fun at the opportunity bestowed on them and for the RAs and professors condescending to them like they were 6-year-olds.
Combeferre was like Enjolras: serious, organized, and driven. His mother was an elementary school teacher, a favorite among the first-graders because she had a beautiful, open face that smiled easily, a trait she passed onto her son. His father was a mathematics professor at the university with a fierce, purposeful attention to detail that Combeferre also inherited. The fact that Combeferre knew from the time he was about 5 that he wanted to be a teacher as well was no surprise. He devoured books like most teenagers cleaned out a pantry; it was never enough for him. And he read everything, from poetry and critical essays to philosophy to mystery thrillers. For orientation weekend, he’d brought along a huge text on naval history and a slim, well-worn copy of “Letters to a Young Poet.” He refused to leave the house without at least two books on him, for fear of boredom and for the safety he could find in the pages if necessary. Enjolras found his devotion to books, both fact and fiction, laudable. He could relate to that need to collect knowledge.
Feuilly was equally fascinated by knowledge, but he was darker and yet somehow more playful than either Combeferre or Enjolras. His parents died when he was 3 and, without any other family, he grew up in and out of foster care and group houses. Some were almost like home, like the Carters who’d been so close to adopting him when he was 8 before Mrs. Carter had gotten pregnant. Others were as bad as could be imagined, a half-dozen cramped, dirty beds in a run-down house with the adults only interested in collecting the stipend. When he turned 18, just a few months shy of graduating high school, he was booted out of his last house, literally left on the street to fend for himself. Yet, he survived, succeeded, and graduated. Feuilly was the most determined person Enjolras had ever met, even more so than himself. In addition to his perseverance, he was warm-hearted and intelligent, a winning combination that had led to him receiving enough scholarships to attend the university on a full ride, though he worked as many as three or four jobs to pay for housing and other necessary expenses. Enjolras, who had grown up in a comfortable home and had never worried about money, admired Feuilly more than anyone else for using his disadvantaged childhood to create a better future for himself.
And all three of them shared the same streak of resolute stubbornness in regard to social and political justice. They’d found out that just a few weeks before, they’d all been at the same demonstration, protesting against the governor’s opposition to gay marriage. And they were all members of an online youth political forum and had actually been involved in the same discussions and arguments without knowing each other.
After orientation, they’d asked to live together on campus (a late request only granted because nobody ever wanted to live in the cramped triple-person dorm rooms). Yet, the three of them had thrived in each other’s presence. Combeferre learned to let loose from his rigged self-imposed schedules, and Feuilly learned what consistency felt like for the first time in his difficult life. Enjolras, who had never cared much for close friends or entangling relationships up to that point, found himself completely smitten with his companions and delirious with the discussions they had and the ideas that were fueled between them.
Even after they decided to move off campus for their sophomore year, Enjolras by himself and Combeferre and Feuilly sharing an apartment, they were still mostly inseparable, leaving books and toothbrushes and clothing in each other’s spaces so they were always ready to crash at either location. Feuilly even kept his second-favorite item at Enjolras’ apartment, a thread-bare blanket that had followed him from home to home when he was younger. (His favorite thing, and the only physical item that held much meaning for him, was the photo of him and his parents at a park, taken only a few days before they were killed in a mugging gone wrong. Feuilly had trouble remembering what they looked like sometimes, since he had been so young, so he kept the photo folded up in his wallet, never leaving his side.)
Enjolras knew Combeferre and Feuilly had other friends, as they were both more successful in everyday social interactions than he was. Combeferre was very involved in the education club on campus, who mentored local students while also gathering experience for their own teaching careers after college. And Feuilly was so fascinated by all aspects of the human experience that he threw himself into multiple groups and cliques and was at least marginally well-known in every circle, from sports teams he didn’t play for to study groups in courses he didn’t take. When the trio would eat in the dining hall, Feuilly would be greeted by nearly every person who passed.
And Enjolras vaguely knew some other students. There were acquaintances in classes who admired his passion when challenging professors, and there were people with the same kind of determination with whom he regularly attended protests. When he’d started work at the Musain the summer before his junior year, he was friendly enough with the other employees, though he kept them at arm’s length, preferring to have the workplace be professional without any other kind of attachments (except after Combeferre and Feuilly started there in the months that followed). But as far as friends went, it was only the two of them for him; he trusted no others.
Everything, however, changed one evening this past January when the hostess stormed out in a ridiculous huff because Enjolras had reprimanded her for unequally seating the customers. As the newly promoted general manager, he was perfectly in the right to take issue with her putting more customers in her friends’ sections and leaving the other waiters, including Feuilly, without an equal opportunity to earn tips. Knowing how much his friend needed every cent he could earn, Enjolras was seeing red and was probably a bit harsh in how he spoke to the 17-year-old, but he honestly didn’t care. She left during the middle of her shift, leaving Enjolras to juggle the front of house in addition to his manager duties.
Courfeyrac had been eating at a nearby table with Marius and, overhearing the entire argument, hopped up and offered to help. Enjolras remembered it so clearly, Courfeyrac with his unruly hair and polka-dot bowtie, looking barely 18 instead of the 20 he was. Enjolras had stared at him, trying to figure out what could possibly have possessed him to offer help to a complete stranger in the middle of a crowded restaurant.
“What do you have to lose?” Courfeyrac had asked, sporting a smile that somehow made Enjolras feel at ease, even though he hardly ever felt at ease, especially not at the restaurant where he was basically a pinball, ricocheting between everything that demanded his attention.
Enjolras had shrugged helplessly before stepping out from behind the host podium and letting Courfeyrac slip in, leaving Marius at the table alone with his mouth hanging open. By the end of the night, the service at the Musain had never run smoother and Enjolras offered Courfeyrac a permanent job.
And Courfeyrac proved to be a missing piece to the puzzle that Enjolras hadn’t realized was lacking anything. His bright smile and unending supply of energy warmed the restaurant, and it wasn’t long before he and Marius were a part of the group with Combeferre and Feuilly. Courfeyrac could talk himself in or out of any situation, and Enjolras was fascinated. They got into more than their fair share of friendly arguments, and Enjolras loved how Courfeyrac questioned everything. It was the best kind of frustrating, especially when Combeferre would add a third perspective and Feuilly a fourth, and the discussion was almost like a song, fast words in an uptempo rhythm, going back and forth between them all.
Eponine started as a waitress two months later. Courfeyrac had known her since freshman year and promised she’d be the best worker Enjolras had ever seen. She nearly proved him right, her work ethic coming only second to Feuilly’s (though she gave Enjolras attitude more than anyone else, too). Her friend Bahorel started hanging around the restaurant then, too, becoming a regular at the bar, teasing her and giving Marius a hard time. Joly came next, a friend of Courfeyrac’s from their communications course; Joly’s boyfriend Bossuet worked as a temp at an office a block away and was constantly in the restaurant as well. And the newest was soft-spoken Jehan, who’d only started a week before, but Enjolras immediately took a shine to him because he had this peaceful, comforting way about him that made everyone feel like they were being hugged all the time.
In the span of about six months, Enjolras had gone from two people he trusted to nine, more than he ever imagined possible. And he felt so incredibly blessed that these people trusted him in return and would follow him into the fire if he asked. Sometimes he just stood back and watched his small, patched-together family with a fond smile.
Now he looked out at the party, spotting Courfeyrac in the corner by the TV, a beer in one hand and a cup of something mysterious that Enjolras didn’t even want to think about in the other. He was standing on one foot, his arms outstretched, engaged in some kind of balancing contest with Bahorel and another student Enjolras didn’t know.
“You’re going to lose this one, Courf!” Bahorel shouted, already becoming unsteady on his one leg.
Courfeyrac caught Enjolras’ eye and nodded to invite him over, but Enjolras shook his head with a smile, letting his eyes scroll across the rest of the room, automatically looking for his friends.
Eponine was on the arm of the couch, serving as judge for the balancing competition. Combeferre was seated down on the sofa right next to her, his head resting against her side as he spoke to Marius and two of his classmates. His glasses were sitting low on his nose, his cheeks were pink, and Enjolras realized he was definitely buzzed, which was rare for Combeferre.
Bossuet and Joly were in the small group actually attempting to dance along with the music, a beautiful woman with tattoos on her arms and long dark hair pressed in between them. Enjolras figured that must be Musichetta, their on-and-off girlfriend who lived with them whenever she was in the country. Enjolras hadn’t met her before since her internship-turned-job with National Geographic involved her traveling all over the world pretty much constantly while she took a hiatus from school. But he could tell the three of them were intimate just by how they moved in rhythm to the music, Bossuet’s large hands on Musichetta’s hips and Joly’s hands on top of his from the other side, their bodies curving together naturally. Enjolras felt a blush creeping across his face for watching, and he quickly turned back to his work.
“Don’t you dare pick up that pencil, Enjolras!”
He was startled to see Feuilly and Jehan on the other side of the kitchen counter. Feuilly was grinning at him, a smudge of black marker on his cheek, while Jehan was busy scribbling words in a zig-zag pattern across the side of one of Enjolras’ charts. His long strawberry blonde hair was swept over one shoulder, and Enjolras noticed what appeared to be a vine drawn in sharpie, with flowers and stars blooming from it, up Jehan’s thin arm from his wrist to his shoulder blade. Give Feuilly a canvas, even if that canvas was a person, and he would always take advantage. Especially if that person was Jehan, whose bare arms in his tanktop had probably been screaming to Feuilly from the second he walked in.
“This is a party, E. You need to let loose!” Feuilly said, taking the beer that Bahorel had shoved it at Enjolras sometime earlier in the night and placing it down in front of him. “It won’t kill you to not work for a night, you know.”
“I didn’t even want to come, if you’ll remember,” Enjolras replied, taking a drink of the warm beer just to appease his friend. “I should be preparing my thesis, creating a functional outline, planning a schedule for next semester. I don’t need to remind you how much is riding on this for me.”
Feuilly sighed. “You’re still in your clothes from yesterday, you know. And before you ask how I can tell, it’s because of that tiny mustard stain on your cuff from where Eponine squeezed the bottle at Gavroche but got you instead.”
Enjolras looked down at his shirt, one of many identical button-downs that he owned, and saw the spot instantly on his rolled-up sleeve. Had he really not changed since yesterday? He’d taken his last final in the morning and then spent the afternoon and evening at the Musain. As soon as he’d gotten home last night, he’d started work on his thesis, spurred with energy that had lasted him until about 4 in the morning when he’d finally crashed. He’d woken up with his forehead cozied up to his keyboard and started writing again immediately. And he didn’t leave his desk except for the bathroom or coffee until Courfeyrac bombarded his phone with so many messages that he knew he couldn’t skip out on the party.
“Well, I have a lot of work to do. I don’t have time for things like --”
“Showering? Changing your clothes? Sleeping in your bed? Enjolras, you have to lighten up just a little or you aren’t going to make it through your last year alive; you’ll kill yourself from dehydration or something first.”
Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest. “I will do no such thing. I’ve been a hard, dedicated worker for my whole life. I know what my limits are and --”
Feuilly sighed again, taking a sharpie out of his shirt pocket and pulling Enjolras’ hand toward him.
“Don’t draw on me please. That’ll take days to wash off --”
“And summer vacation just started. Literally, just started. You need to take a rest. Enjoy yourself, have a drink, make some new friends, laugh a little. Smile, for god’s sake.”
The sharpie felt strange on his skin, a slight cool pressure gliding seamlessly along the back of his hand. Enjolras knew he should return his focus to his work, but it was seeming less and less likely, at least for the moment. Plus, would it really kill him to take a break and be social?
Using his left hand so as to not disrupt whatever Feuilly was drawing on his right, Enjolras took another drink of the warm beer and set the bottle down near Jehan. He’d apparently finished his poem and looked up as he twirled his pencil into a handful of his hair and it somehow, magically, stayed in place; he then reached forward and took a gulp of Enjolras’ beer.
“So, how do you like working at the Musain, Jehan?” Enjolras asked. “Everybody treating you well?”
Jehan smiled shyly as he snuck a look at Feuilly, who was fiercely concentrating on his drawing. Enjolras wondered how long it would take the artist to realize that Jehan had a crush on him; if Enjolras was picking up on it then it couldn’t be much longer before Feuilly noticed, if he didn’t already. Enjolras found himself hoping that the feelings were returned, partially because he liked both of them so much and partially because there was no one who deserved love as much as Feuilly. He made a mental note to discuss it with his friend soon.
“Oh yes, y’all are great. I’m so glad Courf told me about the job,” Jehan spun a few strands of his hair in between his fingers. “And thank you for hiring me.”
“When Courfeyrac recommends someone, I tend to take him at his word. He’s basically employed everyone who’s there now,” Enjolras laughed.
“Don’t move your hand,” Feuilly said between his teeth.
“You told me to laugh. I’m laughing,” Enjolras chuckled again as Feuilly stuck his tongue out while not breaking his concentration.
Enjolras rolled his eyes as he smiled at Jehan. “You’re going to be a junior, right?”
“Yeah, same as Courf and Marius,” Jehan replied as he watched Feuilly intently.
“Creative writing?”
“Yeah, and a minor in music if I can swing it. I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up with both though, so we’ll see.”
“Jehan is wicked good on the flute,” Feuilly added without looking up, covering his drawing with his hand so Enjolras couldn’t see anything. “Enjolras, you used to play the clarinet, right? Or some woodwind instrument.”
Taking another drink of his beer, Enjolras replied, “Oboe. I actually played the cello and a bit of piano, too.”
Jehan’s face perked up, finally looking away from Feuilly to meet Enjolras’ eyes. “That’s awesome! My mom would always play the piano with me; it was one of our favorite things to do. Is your family musical, too?”
Enjolras had to laugh. “No, no, not musical. My mom’s a surgeon and my dad’s a criminal psychologist. Stereotypical left-brain types. But they were always very supportive of everything I wanted to try when I was younger. Hence the multiple instruments. And the debate and key clubs, the school newspaper, student government; they also put up with me through soccer, track, lacrosse, and ballet.”
Even though it was the least likely of the bunch, Enjolras had enjoyed ballet the most. He liked the repeated practice, learning the positions and memorizing them. He liked the strength he felt when he was able to successfully complete a new routine, and the determination it fueled in him when he failed. A lot of parents, especially fathers, would have tried to talk their son out of a traditionally female sport; Enjolras’ parents, however, were the picture of support. They attended his recitals with perfect attendance and, when he made the decision to stop dancing, they still supported him.
They helped him make campaign posters every year for his class president elections; they hung his articles from the paper on the refrigerator; they recorded every concert he played in (except for the one time the camcorder battery died and even then, Enjolras’ father found someone else who was taping it and copied theirs). Enjolras knew his parents had important jobs that required a lot of their time and attention, but he always felt as if he was the most important thing in their lives.
He knew he was lucky to have such accepting parents, who were so dedicated to him and his quest for knowledge, who put up with all his idealistic rants and political enthusiasm. Yet, he also remembered every day that they had never told him they loved him — not once — in his entire life. Those words had never passed their lips. “We’re so proud” and “good job” and “you’re a wonderful son” were nearly everyday occurrences. But never “I love you.”
And no amount of plaques on his wall or trophies on his shelf would change that. Subsequently, after he was about 10 or so and stopped trying to get his parents to say it, Enjolras had never said the words to anyone else.
“Enjolras?” Jehan was worriedly looking at him with those intuitive, blue eyes, as if he had somehow seen into Enjolras’ mind and witnessed his reflection on his family. “Are you alright?”
“I’m fine, just thinking, sorry,” Enjolras smiled sheepishly. He picked up the beer and finished it, hoping that emptying the bottle was meeting some sort of party quota.
Before Jehan could ask any more questions, Feuilly exclaimed, “Finished!” and capped the sharpie in a flourish.
Enjolras looked down to inspect what Feuilly had drawn: It was two hands clasped together, one coming from his knuckles and the other from his wrist, meeting in the center with thinly scratched fingers intertwined. He felt a comfortable warmth in his chest, and he knew the smile on his face was probably goofy, especially for him. Feuilly had the most impressive knack of knowing exactly what to do or say to make Enjolras feel better, even in his most stressed or darkest moments.
“Thank you, my friend,” Enjolras said, placing his hand over Feuilly’s for a moment.
Feuilly’s mouth quirked into a grin as he squeezed Enjolras’ hand in return and then stood up straight, turning to look at Jehan.
“Jehan,” he said, “I’m almost positive Courf has some more sharpies in his room. Would you let me add some color to my design on your arm?”
Jehan bit his lip and then smiled wide, nodding, and Feuilly wound his hand into the fabric at the bottom of Jehan’s loose tanktop and pulled him out of the kitchen. Enjolras swiveled on the stool and watched as Feuilly led him through the crowd of people and disappear around the corner toward Courfeyrac’s bedroom.
Sometime during the distraction by Feuilly and Jehan, the balancing contest had ended. Courfeyrac was clearly the winner as he was in the throes of one of his ridiculously intricate victory dances that involved a lot of jazz hands. Eponine consoled Bahorel on his loss, taking him by the hands to go dance by Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. Combeferre took Eponine’s place on the arm of the couch, his legs bent up on the cushion, leaning forward as he excitedly talked to Marius and the others. Enjolras couldn’t make out a lot of it, but he could pick out the word “walker” enough times to know Combeferre was either discussing his very serious plan for the zombie apocalypse or talking about “The Walking Dead,” either were possible as they were frequent topics of his.
Enjolras looked down at his hands in his lap, tracing Feuilly’s drawing lightly with his fingertips. It really was impressive for a five-minute sketch with a marker and, from what Enjolras had gathered from Feuilly and his artist friends, hands were difficult to draw a lot of the time anyway, much less actually on a hand. He didn’t understand the purpose of it though. Was it a “I’ll always be here to lend you a hand” type of thing? Or was it Feuilly expressing friendly concern about the lack of anyone holding Enjolras’ hand?
Before he could properly analyze the train of thought that his friends were potentially worried about his romantic well-being, he heard a booming voice: “You didn’t just call Keats a narcissistic, sentimental drip, did you? I know I heard that wrong. What are you fucking smoking to think that he’s anything but one of the most astounding and talented of the Romantic poets, you ignorant twat?”
It was loud enough that everyone in the apartment heard it even over the music, but most of them just shook their heads or rolled their eyes and went back to whatever they were doing like it was a normal occurrence. Courfeyrac broke out into a grin and flopped down on the bean bag near to where Combeferre’s feet were dangling off the sofa arm; Eponine started to walk toward Marius’ bedroom in the back, where the voice had come from, but Musichetta took her by the waist and pulled her back into the group.
Enjolras, however, was not so easily swayed. Who in their right mind would be practically screaming about 19th-century poets in the middle of a party? It was nearly as ridiculous as Enjolras working on his thesis. Nearly.
He stepped down from the stool and made his way across the living room, sidestepping empty beer bottles and the long-forgotten game of Monopoly that Courfeyrac, Marius, and Joly had been playing earlier in the evening. (The idea of drunk Monopoly was apparently much better in theory than in reality.) Enjolras nudged Combeferre’s shoulder with his elbow as he passed by, earning a nearly blinding smile from his intoxicated friend in return. As he walked down the hallway toward Marius’ room, Enjolras could hear the voice; it wasn’t nearly as loud as the outburst before but still angry and sharp. When he arrived at the open door, he leaned against the frame and peered in.
Enjolras didn’t know anyone in the room. He assumed they were friends of Courfeyrac’s, as he seemed to have a never-ending network of interesting characters in his life. There were five people in front of him, but Enjolras truly saw only one.
He was sitting backwards on Marius’ desk chair, his long legs in paint-stained jeans straddling either side. His arms were folded up to rest on the top of the chair, one hand holding a half-empty fifth of Jack Daniel’s and absently clinking it against his leg. Enjolras could see the beginnings of a tattoo, some small text winding around a shape, on his bicep, disappearing beyond the fabric of his black T-shirt that clung to his body excruciatingly well. His head was covered in a mess of black hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen a comb in years; the curls dangled on his forehead and around his face, serving as a frame for the most spectacularly clear eyes Enjolras had ever seen. They were practically cyan, a vibrant technicolor that you didn’t see in real life, much less blinking from underneath eyelashes.
Frozen in place, Enjolras couldn’t look away. No one was paying attention to him, with all their gazes, like Enjolras’, focused on the man speaking. Enjolras’ heart was thumping so loud it was drowning out every other sound, from the dreadful music to the man’s voice. All Enjolras heard was his heart, pounding out a shaky, ever-increasing rhythm. He bit the side of his lip, sucking it in between his teeth and tongue, because it was all he could do to not leap forward and press this stunning boy against the wall. He wanted to see those eyes close up and try to drown in them, feel those strong hands wrap around him, tangle his fingers in that jumble of hair.
It had been a long time since Enjolras had felt his entire body react to another person. He knew his friends enjoyed making jokes at his expense — about his virginal lips, his angelic face, and his untouched skin — but he wasn’t as naïve as all that.
He’d had his first kiss when he was 8 from his best friend Elizabeth (who had the loveliest long brown hair with which Enjolras learned how to French-braid). And then there was Michelle and his first handjob in seventh grade (Enjolras had given her a really terrible poem he’d written that read more like a class assignment than a declaration of love).
His first and only relationship — though he didn’t consider it as such now — was with Gabriel when they were 14. Gabriel was the freshman student government president, and he was beautiful and charismatic and arrogant as hell. All the girls were so obsessed with him that he had a different girlfriend every week. One day, he was late to their civics class and had to sit next to Enjolras in the back of the classroom instead of his usual seat up front. Enjolras noticed that Gabriel had impeccable organization, with color-coded folders and tabs, special highlighters for certain subjects, and specific pens for individual notebooks.
When he mentioned his appreciation of this to Gabriel, Enjolras also noticed that he had freckles on his lips and Enjolras wanted to know what they felt like. When he mentioned that without even thinking, Gabriel’s green eyes had gotten wide as saucers and he didn’t say a word, and Enjolras was sure he would be getting beat up after school. Instead, after class, Gabriel pulled him into the janitor's closet and kissed him so hard he saw stars.
This continued for months, stolen kisses in empty classrooms and intense make-out sessions behind the fieldhouse, eventually progressing to Gabriel giving Enjolras blowjobs under the bleachers and Enjolras digging his fingernails into Gabriel’s shoulders, bruising him to keep quiet through his orgasm. And all the while, Gabriel kept dating different girls, a new one every week, and ignored Enjolras in public.
When they started their sophomore year, Gabriel broke things off with a text, saying he was done “being a fag” and that Enjolras should never even look at him again. To prove a point and maybe to spite him just a little, Enjolras decided to run for student government president against Gabriel. After Enjolras won (and by a landslide thanks to how terribly Gabriel treated everyone), he tried to be civil and shake hands, but Gabriel spat on him in the middle of the hallway.
After the incident with Gabriel, Enjolras pretty much swore off relationships and all forms of affection. Sure, he found people attractive and often it was nearly impossible for him to focus on anything except how badly he wanted to just make out with someone. Yet, he remained an actual virgin throughout high school. Even though he recognized that what he and Gabriel had was far from typical, he didn’t want to go through anything like that again. More than just the secrecy and the hurt was how small he had made Enjolras feel, like a miniscule speck of dirt on his sneakers. Someone to be ashamed of, someone worthless. And he didn’t want to feel that ever again.
When he got to college, he decided he needed to experience sex, if only to see what it was like once and then be done with it. He managed to relate a partial story of his past to a girl from his philosophy class at a party after Feuilly left him to pursue a lacrosse player. She, in turn, said she’d be happy to let him “experiment” with her, so to speak. While Enjolras didn’t hate the sex, he didn’t particularly enjoy it either. He was mostly indifferent, and thankfully when he told the girl that, she didn’t take offense. She suggested, based on his past experiences, that maybe he should try sex with a guy.
So he did. A few, in fact. And he found that he actually did enjoy that. Especially with a young man who struck up a conversation with him in the student lounge one night sophomore year upon seeing Enjolras buried in a copy of Nietzsche’s “The Birth of Tragedy.” After an hourlong conversation about Apollo and Dionysus, Enjolras let the fellow student sweet-talk him into bed. Enjolras enjoyed it so much that he went back a handful of times until they broke things off amicably after Enjolras had declined going out on a real date.
Enjolras had never been in a real relationship, and he’d never been in love. It hadn’t truly bothered him much because he figured he wasn’t like others who needed it; he had his passions, he had his knowledge, he had his friends. He thought romantic love wasn’t necessary to his happiness, but standing in the doorway, watching this unrealistically beautiful man speak, Enjolras felt a stirring that he had never felt. It was as if his entire body was crackling, every muscle and nerve on high alert, a warmth attached to his very bones that just kept getting hotter, fireworks going off in his stomach.
The man was speaking still — Enjolras could see his full lips moving — yet he hadn’t heard a sound since he’d arrived at the door. He closed his eyes and forced his ears to pop, trying to bring himself down from the high he’d slipped into. When he opened his eyes, his ears opened as well. The volume of the man’s voice pierced into Enjolras’ brain like a drill.
“‘Beauty is truth, truth beauty,’ he said. You can’t call Keats a sentimentalist. He’s not that kind of poet. He’s fascinated and enraptured by art and nature and what it means to be human and to create and to love. His way with words with transformative, like you could touch them on the page. They come alive as you read them because of the deep level of feeling he put into them. He felt everything so much and when you read his poetry, you feel it, too.”
The man tried to stand while he spoke, but he bashed his knee against the chair and almost fell over; he hooked his other leg around the base of the chair and used his arm to hoist himself back upright. He grinned without a trace of embarrassment, taking a long swill from his bottle.
One of the other students in the room started to speak, “But where do words like that fit into today’s world? Outdated, stale --”
“You can’t disregard a poet for the era he wrote in any more than you can discredit some of the first movies created because of their lack of technology. That’s moronic.”
The man appeared to be running out of steam now. Who knows how long he’d actually been on the topic. Becoming less animated, he slumped back to rest against the front of Marius’ desk and placed the bottle in between his legs on the chair. He dragged both of his hands down the sides of his face, finally cradling them underneath his jaw while he breathed, his fingers stained with red and purple paint laying on his neck.
Enjolras was a statue, just like his friends had joked so many times. He was glued to the door frame, his arms at his sides aching to reach out but unable to do so. He didn’t know it was possible to be so completely immobilized by a person.
“John Keats was only a few years older than us when he died. And he died thinking he was mediocre at best. Many said some of the nasty reviews he got contributed to the illness that ultimately overtook him. But, despite you lot of illiterate swine, he’s considered one of the greatest poets ever to have lived. And maybe it was partially because of his feelings of personal failure that he was able to be so great.”
The man leaned forward, nearly knocking his bottle to the ground but catching it with a surprising grace. He laid his head sideways on the back of the chair, his eyes taking on a slightly glazed appearance as he stared up at the ceiling. The other students started talking amongst themselves, seemingly used to the volume, the passion, and the abrupt ending of the man’s tirades.
Enjolras wiggled his fingers slightly, breathing a sigh of relief to see his body was responding to his need for movement after being frozen for too long. He decided to disappear while he was still unnoticed by everyone, especially the hypnotizing man. He slowly backed out of the doorway, his hands now stuffed in his pockets, his heart still racing as if he’d just run up 10 flights of stairs. He stepped backward, unwilling to look away from the man until absolutely necessary. He honestly didn’t want to have to ever look away again.
“Who are you staring at, Enjolras?”
Enjolras jumped as Courfeyrac appeared right at his shoulder from behind.
“Don’t scare me like that, geez,” Enjolras pressed himself against the hallway wall, feigning more fright than he felt in the hope that Courfeyrac wouldn’t notice just how undone he had become.
“What was going on in there?”
Courfeyrac was grinning, his eyes wide open and his bowtie half-undone around his collar. Enjolras was also fairly positive he’d had suspenders on at some point in time, but they weren’t there anymore. Drunk Courfeyrac could be mischievous, so it was probably better that Enjolras not ask any questions that would prompt further badgering. However, drunk Courfeyrac could also be very informative, like how he’d spilled the beans about Eponine’s secret One Direction obsession or Joly’s ticklish spot behind his left knee.
Enjolras decided to take his chances.
“Someone had a bit too much to drink and was arguing the finer points of Keats’ poetry while simultaneously being unable to stand on his own two feet,” Enjolras tried to sound calm, even more aloof than his normal.
“Dark hair? Paint on his clothes? The most absurd eyes you’ve ever seen?”
Enjolras felt a lump rising in his throat as he nodded.
“Oh, that’s Grantaire,” Courfeyrac said with a wave of his hand. “He’s, well, he’s unique. Truly one-of-a-kind. You’ve never met him before?”
Enjolras shook his head while gently spinning Courfeyrac around to walk back toward the living room, away from the man whose face was still making Enjolras nearly sick with desire.
“He was in my freshman English class, and he would show up hungover, or more usually drunk, and he made the professor so mad with his ranting and raving that he got thrown out of almost every lecture. It was fabulous. He was usually right in whatever he was saying, but you know better than most how professors react to being questioned like that. Anyway, I knew I had to be his friend. That’s how I met Eponine and Bahorel, too; the three of them have known each other for ages, something about growing up around Ep’s slightly criminal family.”
Courfeyrac threw out an arm suddenly, nearly smacking Enjolras in the face in the process. He pointed a finger against Enjolras’ chest, narrowing his eyes in a way he probably thought was menacing but was really just silly and a little adorable.
“Why do you care, oh fearless leader? Don’t think I didn’t notice that you’re out of that stool for the first time in, like, three hours. And you left your precious papers unguarded from all sorts of spills. What made you get up? Was it Grantaire? Did you feel some kind of cosmic pull toward him? Was it fate? Are you in love? Do you hear angels singing in that ridiculously golden head of yours? Do we have to start planning the wedding of the century? What are your feelings on Queen or ABBA? How about --”
“If you say one more word, Courfeyrac, I will march over to Combeferre and tell him how you said you wanted to kiss him so hard his glasses flew off.”
The threat to expose his secret (which Courfeyrac had divulged very late one night after a movie marathon when Combeferre had fallen asleep on his shoulder) had the desired effect: Courfeyrac immediately closed his mouth into a pout and crossed his arms.
“I was simply interested in what he was saying. It’s not every day you get to watch a drunk college student discuss poetry with such ... passion. And he wasn’t totally wrong in his points either. It was remarkable, that’s all.”
Courfeyrac raised his eyebrow, and Enjolras knew he was just digging himself a bigger hole. Thankfully, Enjolras knew Courfeyrac had the attention span of a kitten.
“Feuilly and Jehan are probably making out in your bedroom. You should go find out,” Enjolras said with a smile.
Courfeyrac’s face brightened instantly. “Kissing? In my room? Do you think they’ll let me join?”
Enjolras just shrugged and kept smiling.
“Fine, you win, for now. But don’t think we’re done with this. I have some more questions for you.”
Enjolras didn’t allow himself to think about anything except the fact that he wanted a reason to see Grantaire every single day as he grabbed Courfeyrac’s arm and pulled him in close.
“Do me a favor and mention to him — Grantaire — that the Musain could use a new bartender,” Enjolras whispered into Courfeyrac’s ear.
Courfeyrac grinned wildly and kissed Enjolras’ cheek with an unnecessary amount of slobber. “I can and will most certainly do that. Now I have to go check up on some lovebirds.”
Enjolras groaned and wiped at his cheek as Courfeyrac skipped around the corner toward his room. Enjolras knew he’d probably get an earful from Feuilly later, but getting rid of Courfeyrac for the time being was far more important. Enjolras swatted his hand on his pants to dry it and then started walking back into the living room.
In a shocking turn of events, Combeferre was dancing in the middle of the room, spinning Eponine with one arm and Joly with the other. He looked ridiculous and free, and Enjolras felt a distinct spike of jealousy at how he was able to just let go like that. Bahorel and Marius were on the sofa, with Musichetta draped over Bossuet’s shoulder while he used his phone to film Combeferre’s intoxicated dance. Enjolras was grateful for that at least because he couldn’t wait to see his friend’s embarrassed face when he was shown the video tomorrow.
Enjolras slipped behind the couch, past the small crowd of people he didn’t know who were dancing, finally making it back to his stool and his mess of papers that appeared to be thankfully untouched. He looked out at his friends one more time with a fond smile before turning his back to them. He put his arms out and gathered all his notes into a single, haphazard pile; the paper on top was, of course, the chart that Jehan had written on earlier. Enjolras leaned closer as he read the words:
He who hopes to grow in spirit
will have to transcend obedience and respect.
He will hold to some laws
but he will mostly violate
both law and custom, and go beyond
the established, inadequate norm.
Sensual pleasures will have much to teach him.
He will not be afraid of the destructive act:
half the house will have to come down.
This way he will grow virtuously into wisdom.
Closing his mouth that he hadn’t realized was hanging open while reading, Enjolras let his fingers drag across the words Jehan had scrawled, Feuilly’s drawing on his skin simultaneously moving with his hand. He felt as if both the artist and the poet were trying to tell him the same thing; he just didn’t know if he could hear it, if he wanted to hear it.
Even out of sight, Enjolras still couldn’t get Grantaire out of his mind. The biting way he spoke, how his hands clenched while making his point, the veins on his forearms visible as he gestured. And those eyes that looked like they could contain the entire world if Enjolras could just peer into them. He felt dizzy, like he’d been both punched in the gut and had the wind knocked out of him, like the room was spinning and staying perfectly still, like he wanted to kiss Grantaire so he couldn’t speak and hide so he’d never have to see him again.
Love, especially love at first sight, was something Enjolras had written off for himself a long time ago. It was a silly romantic notion that had no place in his life governed by logic, knowledge, and the pursuit of justice. But he was beginning to think maybe it would be worth it to learn how to give himself over to another person if that person was Grantaire.