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The papers scattered across the heavy oak wood desk in front of him refuse to disappear. And the words on them—complaints from restless and unhappy citizens—refused to change.
Enjolras let his gaze wander from the papers on the desk, to those adorning the walls of the commandeered office.
The public address needed to be moved up. And maybe they could—
Combeferre strode into the room, his arms piled, presumably, with budgets and schedules. As he flipped through them, Enjolras debated a lunch break and resolved to invite Combeferre.
“Enjolras, we need to discuss the food allocations and housing. And the medical clinics There are crowds lined up waiting and no one who worked under the monarchy will tell us what resources we have to distribute.”
He swallowed any relief at ignoring the papers for a little while longer. The problems Combeferre brought would only provide a short distraction. “Are they giving a reason for refusing to share the information?”
“They question our credentials. They claim to be unable to assure we work for yo—“ Combeferre’s eye twitched, “For the new government.”
“Will they accept a signed letter?”
“Likely,” he said, and Combeferre remained standing, instead of settling into the comfortable chair opposite Enjolras, where anyone else would have chosen to wait.
Enjolras pulled out a new leaf of paper, crisp and unmarked, and scrawled across it orders to provide any and all requested information. “Here. This hopefully ought to do it for now. I believe Éponine said she knew someone who would be able to get me a signet ring? Not entirely certain from where but I don’t have one so who am I to question it.”
“Thank you,” Combeferre took the letter, and turned to leave.
“Would you like to find lunch with me?”
Combeferre paused in the doorway, “I have to deal with this. Not today.”
“Perhaps tomorrow?”
“Maybe.”
Enjolras sighed, he wasn’t that hungry anyway.
When Enjolras looked up from the pile of correspondence, Courfeyrac was seated in the window sill, reading.
“Are you done for the day?”
Enjolras moved things into piles. “No, I have a few more letters and need to review drafts from some of the previous officials, not to mention that we need to hold an election and for that we need a plan—“
Courfeyrac wandered over, and proceeded to gently tug the papers from Enjolras’ hands. “All of it can wait for tomorrow, Oh Fearless Leader. No one will be elected tonight, and the couriers are certainly tucked away in their beds, as you should be.”
“But—“
“Enjolras, you have five minutes to put your stuff away. We’re going to the Musain for a drink with our friends, and then I’m dragging you back to my place for the night. I don’t trust you to sleep otherwise.”
Enjolras held Courfeyrac’s gaze for another moment. “You really are a very good friend to me, Courf. Better than I deserve, and, I often fear, far better than I am in return.”
“Categorically untrue, Angel. If I’d said I was only escorting you home to bed, you would have dithered and argued until you were blue in the face. Yet you didn’t. You’re very diligently shuffling away all your papers without any fuss at all. Why? Because I told you we were getting drinks with our friends, and no matter what else occupies you, you always make time for us when we ask, and even when we don’t.”
The rate of paper shuffling increased as Enjolras attempted to hide the fluttery warmth beneath his ribs. He was less successful at ignoring the clamoring voice in his head, “I don’t think Combeferre feels the same.”
“Combeferre, is dealing very poorly with his own issues, and needs to be talked to. You can do that tonight.”
The papers were not quite where Enjolras wanted them, for optimal organization—
“C’mon,” Courfeyrac said, and tossed Enjolras his coat, “Time’s up. I can tell you’re just moving things around for the hell of it now.“
The Cafe Musain was a welcome respite from all the newness and opulence Enjolras had been surrounded by since Paris had overthrown her unjust monarchy.
Comfortingly, the backroom had mostly returned to a pre-warcouncil’s-meeting-room state. Tables with galaxies of water rings were once more placed haphazardly. A few empty wine bottles slumped in the corners. Les Amis were scattered around and yelled good-naturedly across the room.
Enjolras stepped fully into the room, greeted by cheers from his friends. Bahorel clapped him on the shoulder and ushered him to a seat. Courfeyrac returned in a whirl with a couple wine bottles, Marius and Jehan in tow with glasses.
They passed around the drinks and Enjolras let himself be swept away in Joly and Bossuet’s grand plans for future cohabitation, with the reasoning that Bossuet could reign in Joly’s hypochondriac tendencies and Joly would mitigate Bossuet’s bad luck.
Enjolras wasn’t at all certain how Joly was going to manage that, but wished them well all the same. He was also fairly certain that these were simply excuses that society would likely accept for their continued cohabitation, as opposed to their romantic entanglements. Though Enjolras couldn’t quite divine why they kept up the facade even here in the backroom of the Musain, with only their friends all of whom surely knew.
At least, that’s what Courfeyrac had said when he told Enjolras of Bossuet and Joly’s romance the year before.
Enjolras returned his attention to the conversation, which had drifted to Grantaire’s latest adventures in painting and bothering his landlord with the smell of turpentine.
One drink turned into many, many drinks—as it so often did when Enjolras hadn’t had a meeting agenda to lead them all through—and Enjolras found himself more inebriated than he usually allowed.
He also found himself at a table in Grantaire’s usual corner, alone with Combeferre. No doubt, Courfeyrac’s machinations.
Enjolras swirled his glass, debating a fortifying sip before he attempted conversation, but really, he’d had several fortifying glasses by this point, so instead he spoke, “I don’t know what I’ve done, but I miss you. I’d like to know so that we can—“ he gestured vaguely between them, “—fix this.”
Combeferre hummed, “There’s nothing to fix.”
The world wobbled as Enjolras turned to face his oldest friend and sat more upright, “Categorically untrue. You’ve been distant. For, for weeks now. I miss you.”
“It’s nothing you’ve done.”
“That is a lie,” Enjolras said with a snort, “Your nose wiggled.”
“My nose did no such thing.”
“Oh, it absolutely did, as it always does when you try to lie to me.”
Combeferre took a deeper sip from his glass and Enjolras sighed, “Ferre, you have been my closest friend since I first came to Paris. You were the first person to readily support and contribute to my thoughts on democracy and liberation and the end of the monarchy. I don’t want to lose you just as we’re finally getting to build the system we’ve always dreamed of.”
Enjolras’ chest heaved and he allowed Combeferre time to gather his thoughts.
“The issue is my own morals,” Combeferre finally bit out, “We— We killed people on the barricades. People, Enjolras! I am training to be a surgeon, I swore to the Hippocratic Oath, to do no harm to others. I can’t— I don’t know how to continue.”
The barricades had been… bloody. The National Guard had had no compunctions about raising arms against the revolution and the citizens who’d fought at their sides. Enjolras had given orders early on, to spare no quarter, given the guardsmen’s own fervor.
“I mourn them. All the people, citizens, revolutionaries, and guards alike, who died. I mourn the one you begged me not to kill. You stated that perhaps he was charming, perhaps he had family. But that applies to all our friends. All our friends, who are all alive and you as well. I cannot be sorry about that.
“And though I wish our future had not come drenched in the blood of fallen Frenchmen, I refuse to feel guilt that our friends survived and that we now have a chance at a future. That Joly and Bossuet can plan the acquisition of a joint house, that you can be a surgeon and Courfeyrac a lawyer and that I can try to lead France into a new era of equality and liberty. This has to be enough.
“The weight of those lives is no small burden, but I will bear it and honour this new chance for a world we can make safer from the clutches of the rich and greedy. So, I will mourn, but I will allow myself to feel no guilt. They fought for their convictions and, though they lost, we will remember them, and remember what they stood for, a warning perhaps, but certainly more care than would have been given to us had the National Guard been victorious.”
Combeferre’s face tilted towards the table, such that Enjolras couldn’t see the tears running from his eyes until one slipped down his cheek.
He jerked forward and wrapped Combeferre in his arms, his friend’s face tucked into Enjolras’ shoulder.
“Combeferre, you mean the world to me. I will be here, always, and no matter your turmoil, I will always want to help you through it. You certainly don’t have to feel the same way I do on the subject of those nights at the barricades, but I know you yourself never killed anyone, and you will wear yourself into the ground if you try to carry the weight of everyone else’s decisions.”
Ferre’s shoulders hitched and then heaved as sobs tore through him.
Enjolras held his friend tightly.
Later, the two of them would trail Courfeyrac home, and likely all end up curled atop one another in Courfeyrac’s bed, like the days before revolution was little more than a spark in Enjolras’ eye. They would chat into the night, as though none of them had important things to do in the morning. They would wake up to Marius banging on the front door, in a tizzy about getting married and meeting his soon-to-be father-in-law. Courfeyrac would help Marius while Combeferre and Enjolras provided unhelpfully witty commentary to attempt to ease the tension in Marius’ shoulders. And all four of them would walk to the Palais, to meet their friends and continue working on the ever unending list of tasks associated with reconstructing a government.
For now, with Combeferre’s sobs subsiding, Enjorlas decided this embrace was enough.