Chapter Text
The first thing Enjolras does when he moves out of his parents’ home (before changing out of the skirts, out of the bodice and the heeled boots) is cut his hair. His cot is still on the floor, his things still unpacked, and his parents’ carriage is trotting away from the sidewalk.
But he pulls out a knife―taken from his father, saved for a moment like this―and twists his blonde curls around his fingers.
And he saws at his hair―though it gives little resistance to the sharp edge of the blade―and the curls come away in his hand, only to be tossed in the wastebin (a small thing, sitting in the kitchen, though wastebins are better suited to toilets and other such places).
It is only after he stands before the mirror in the toilet, after managing his curls beneath the blade of the knife, that he begins to disentangle himself from the skirts he’s been trapped in for the entirety of his life.
Those get burned in the alley, nearby.
“Tuberculosis,” Enjolras says when he gets an odd look or two. “Very contagious.”
The people scurry on.
And no one pays too much mind to the oversized shirt he’s wearing (he’ll bind his breasts when the skirts are burned, when they’re nothing more than the ashes of a memory of a person he never was and never has to be again).
Curiously missing from the pile of skirts are the starched petticoats that Enjolras has found another use for after attacking them with his knife. Underneath it, the fabric tears, giving way to his will and intent―he has many mighty enemies to conquer, petticoats are an easy task. The strips of plain white, less pliant than their sisters that had been reduced to ash mere moments ago, lay on his cot, generally uniform in size and shape. Enjolras allows himself a pleased smile before picking one up to tug at it, testing the strength of the thread. They would do quite nicely for the time being―he could buy a better bolt of starched cotton later, when he had sold the boots and jewellery that had come with him.
With the few pieces of silver he owns, Enjolras is sure to fetch some coins, and possibly a few bills. Enough for a pair of shoes that are made of black leather, and some clothes (he silently yearns for the clothing his mother had found months ago, taken away with a downward twitch of her lips and an exhausted sigh).
The mirror hanging across from his cot shows a stranger who shares Enjolras’ features, sharpened by the lack of curls cascading around them; the face is new and familiar all at the same time, like a long lost friend greeting him. His chest is a flat plane of white that abruptly ends at the last of his ribs, not the barest hint of a curve showing through the over sized shirt he had put on.
A tremendous rush of relief courses through his veins as goose flesh raises on his skin, wariness and exhilaration surging one after the other as he thinks of the finality of his release. It’s all he could have wished for, dreamed for, and desperately clung to all of his life and he had finally been set free from the prison of his old life.
And so, he supposes, he’s ready for his life to begin. (It’s been full of arbitrary beginnings already―beginnings for a person he never was, a person who never existed past the plane of his family’s imaginings.)
As he considers himself in the mirror, he cocks his head. That’s a man I’d follow, he thinks, though the reflection is slimmer than most men he knows, but hardly to be begrudged of a decently well-off schoolboy. And, well, if he just starts walking everywhere, he should build some muscle. No one will be any the wiser.
The first of his walks takes him to the pawnbroker’s, where he sells the jewellery that he had only worn when ordered to by his parents, another weight leaving his shoulders as the shopkeeper takes the pieces and scrutinises them under a curved piece of glass. The boots are sold for a pittance, despite the fact they had hardly been worn―Enjolras starts to argue on the price, but the look he receives makes him bite his tongue. It would be better to settle for a pittance than a swindle, though it does not quell the small flame of anger in the pit of his stomach.
He walks away from the shop with a leather wallet now containing something more than his allowance (it will be gone by the end of the day, and Enjolras doubts he will receive any more, though he is considerably less bothered by this than he probably ought to be).
Another stroll takes him to a shop of some ill repute, though the clothes would be just fine for the moment. A pair of boots catches his eye, shined to make them more appealing to the eye and possibly to hide a myriad of flaws. Enjolras takes them anyway, supposing it would be less expensive to make any repairs to them than it would be to buy a new pair―he can save for something new if another allowance comes, despite any doubts he has about it.
Out of the corner of his eye Enjolras catches sight of a coat, a streak of crimson in a row of muted colours, faded by wear. It entrances him, a spell cast upon him by the colour of passion. Quickly, he crosses the store to grab the jacket and slides it on; it fits like a second skin, as if it had been tailored for only him, a thought he quickly classifies ludicrous and mad.
The shopkeeper regards Enjolras with a look of mild disdain, annoyed that he is trying the coat on―if it’s out of fear that he’ll try to steal it, or because he somehow knows what Enjolras is, he doesn’t know, but he fixes the old man with a confident stare, jaw tensing as he does so. On his way over to pay for the boots and jacket, Enjolras snatches up a vest that looks like it may fit, though loosely.
He leaves the store with the coat on his back and boots slid over his pants―a pair he had bought and successfully hidden from his mother a week prior to his departure. The vest hangs loosely over one arm as he strides back to the flat to unpack his things, it could be tried on later.
Red, he would later muse, was the colour of his destiny.