Chapter Text
April 1832
For Vivien Hugo, the French revolution was nothing more than an open wound that France insisted on tearing out time and time again.
From the window of the Republican barracks, Paris seemed to be slowly rotting under a gray sky. The smoke from the barricades mingled with the sickly stench of the Seine and the constant fear of cholera. The streets were filled with hunger, rage, and corpses.
Vivien placed a hand on the desk as he reviewed the accumulated reports.
Poor harvests. Unaffordable bread. Workers dying of exhaustion. Sick children. The people blaming the monarchy. The people blaming the bourgeoisie. The people blaming anyone who was still breathing.
France was being consumed from within.
And he knew it better than anyone.
The son of one of Paris's wealthiest merchant families, Vivien had grown up surrounded by marble, silk, and endless banquets. But even from that privileged position, he had been unable to ignore his country's decline. From the Revolution of 1789, through the rise and fall of Napoleon, France had never regained its equilibrium. Each government promised to rebuild the nation; each government ended up sinking it further.
Vivien's face remained impassive as he read.
His appearance always commanded silence.
He had an elegant, sharp build: a defined jawline, high cheekbones, and a face with precise, diamond-shaped features. His fair skin contrasted with his naturally tousled burgundy hair, strands falling haphazardly across his forehead. His dark, almond-shaped, and observant eyes seemed to analyze everything around her. Long, defined eyelashes further accentuated that unsettling gaze.
And when he got angry… His pupils took on that strange scribbled appearance that made even armed men back away.
Vivien let out a tired sigh.
The documents spoke of another cholera outbreak in the poor neighborhoods. Thousands dead. Entire families disappearing in a matter of days. Paranoia grew as fast as the disease; many claimed the government had poisoned the wells to get rid of the poor.
Perhaps France had already completely lost its mind.
Then, soft knocks sounded on the door.
—Forward.
The door slowly opened, revealing Hermes.
Blond, green-eyed, dressed like a simple merchant to avoid suspicion. But behind that unassuming appearance hid one of the most important Republican supporters in Paris.
Hermes looked at the mountain of papers on the desk before sighing.
—Mr. Hugo… you should rest your eyes.
Vivien didn't even lift his head.
—Relax while France falls apart?
—You won't fix the country by going blind.
The silence lasted only a few seconds.
Finally, Vivien placed the documents on the table and massaged the bridge of his nose.
—What's happening?
Hermes hesitated for a moment before answering:
—General Rodin wants to see you.
That made Vivien look up.
He slowly stood up.
His tall, athletic figure crossed the barracks as the echo of his footsteps resonated across the white tiles. Through the windows, the barricades erected by the Republican students and workers could be seen.
Broken wood. Overturned carts. Blood-stained flags. And beyond all that, Paris is sick.
There were shouts in the streets. Distant gunshots. Bells tolling incessantly. The smell of gunpowder barely masked the stench of death. Vivien watched the scene for a few seconds. This didn't look like a revolution. It looked like France's funeral.
When Vivien Hugo arrived at the general's office, the atmosphere inside the room was completely different from the chaos outside.
Rodin's office occupied one of the most heavily guarded sections of the Republican headquarters. The high walls were covered with maps of Paris, military routes, and documents sealed with red wax. The smoke from oil lamps slightly clouded the air, mingling with the smell of fresh ink, gunpowder, and bitter coffee.
There were several figures gathered around the main table.
Camus was quietly discussing something with Leyden while Renoir sat on the edge of a table, absentmindedly cleaning his pistol. Near the window, Chapa smoked with a tired expression. And among them all, one presence stood out as particularly out of place.
Charles Chevalier.
Fifteen years old.
Too young for a revolution.
The boy tried to appear mature with his upright, serious posture, though he still had the face of a child who didn't quite understand how the world worked. Vivien walked forward without saying a word, carrying a small notebook with completely blank pages.
Rodin looked up when he saw him enter.
The general was the right-hand man of the celebrated reformer Jean Maximillien Lemarque, one of the most influential figures among the French republicans. His mere presence commanded authority: broad shoulders, an impeccable uniform, and a voice capable of effortlessly filling any room.
He gently tapped the table with his knuckles before speaking.
—I have good news for you, boys.
The talks stopped immediately.
—Our negotiator finally secured an audience with His Majesty. A new law intended for the people has been discussed.
The entire room held its breath.
Rodin barely smiled.
—Now we can only wait for the Crown to decide to keep its word.
The tension broke instantly.
Some whistled in celebration; others burst into incredulous laughter. Even Charles smiled with youthful enthusiasm.
But Vivien didn't react. He remained leaning against a column, staring at his empty notebook. As if he were still waiting for France to disappoint him once again.
Rodin cleared his throat again.
—And also…
The room fell silent again.
—I want to introduce you to our new representative for the workers. And also… —he paused briefly— for Black people and other minorities within the movement.
That caused immediate murmurs.
Some exchanged uncomfortable glances. Others whispered to each other with obvious surprise. The French Revolution proclaimed equality, yes… but even among republicans there were invisible limits that few were willing to cross.
Then the doors opened.
And he appeared.
Julian Loki entered with calm steps, as if he were not affected by the stares fixed on his body.
He was young.
Much more than Vivien expected.
Tall, with a robust build and strong shoulders, his tanned skin stood out in the warm light of the lamps. His black hair was shaved with military simplicity, and his golden-brown eyes scanned the room with an uncannily confident calm.
He didn't seem intimidated.
Not even a little.
"Hello," he greeted naturally.
And then it happened.
Vivien looked up.
For a moment, the noise from the living room disappeared.
He didn't hear the voices. He didn't hear the fire crackling in the fireplace. He didn't hear the political arguments or the chaos of Paris waiting behind those walls.
He only saw him.
A Julian Loki.
And something clicked violently into his head.
Because there was the answer that France had been searching for for decades.
A bridge.
An impossible link between bourgeois, workers, republicans and those whom the country itself had marginalized for centuries.
Julian Loki was exactly that.
One possibility.
“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen,” Julian continued firmly. “I’ve come to build new relationships between the various groups of protesters. If we remain divided, the monarchy will continue to crush us one by one.”
He spoke without hesitation. With decisiveness. With such intense conviction that it seemed to fill the entire room.
And Vivien… Vivien thought he saw diamonds sparkling behind that golden gaze.
The silence that followed Julian Loki's presentation was awkward. Heavy. No one seemed to know how to react. Some avoided looking directly at him; others regarded him with obvious distrust. There were republicans there who championed equality in impassioned speeches and revolutionary pamphlets… but who had never shared a table with someone like him.
Because France spoke of freedom. But it was still built on prejudice. And Julian knew it perfectly well. Even so, he stood motionless before everyone, his back straight and his expression calm, as if he were used to entering rooms where no one really wanted him.
Then Vivien Hugo stepped forward. The sound of his footsteps on the marble floor drew several glances toward him.
Vivien stopped in front of Julian and extended his hand without hesitation.
—Pleased to meet you, Monsieur Loki. And thank you… for being here with us.
For the first time since he had entered, Julian seemed slightly surprised. But only for a moment. He accepted the gesture.
Julian's hand was rough. Rugged.
Vivien noticed it immediately.
They weren't the hands of an aristocrat or a politician. They were hands hardened by physical labor, by tools, soil, and constant effort. The difference between the two was almost absurd: Vivien, raised amidst wealth and refined education; Julian, forged from survival.
Vivien was also taller than him, although Julian's presence made that seem irrelevant.
—The honor is mine —replied Julian.
Their voices contrasted strangely.
Vivien sounded elegant, restrained, almost sharp. Julian was firm. Warm. Direct.
And before the silence returned, Julian stepped forward and greeted the rest of the room naturally.
-Gentlemen.
Some responded with just a nod. Others remained silent. But Julian did not back down.
—The French people are suffering… just like my homeland.
That immediately captured everyone's attention. Even Rodin stopped moving. Julian continued speaking with impressive confidence, walking slowly around the main table.
—I completely understand how France ended up like this. The royalists in Spain helped put a cousin on the French throne, believing that this would stabilize Europe after Napoleon… but all they did was replace one face with another.
His tone wasn't aggressive. It was worse. It was convincing.
—In the July Revolution of 1830, the Chamber of Deputies replaced Charles X of the House of Bourbon with Louis Philippe, his “more liberal” cousin. And yet, what really changed?
No one answered. Because everyone knew the answer. Nothing.
“The Republicans shed blood hoping for a new France,” Julian continued. “Many died believing that the people would finally have a voice. But by 1832, the feeling was clear: the revolution had been stolen from them.”
Vivien didn't take his eyes off him. He didn't even blink. The way Julian spoke was hypnotic. He wasn't reciting rehearsed speeches. He understood every word he said.
—The poor neighborhoods continue to starve. Cholera ravages Paris while the aristocracy continues to hold banquets. The workers labor until their hands break and will never escape poverty. And meanwhile, the bourgeoisie and the nobility continue to squabble over who deserves to govern a country that neither of them truly listens to.
This caused a certain discomfort in the room. Camus looked away. Chapa slowly exhaled the smoke from his cigarette. But Julian didn't stop.
—And it's not just the Republicans who are furious. The Bonapartists are still mourning the fall of Napoleon's empire. The Legitimists want to return the throne to the Bourbons. They're all fighting amongst themselves while the people continue to bury their children.
The entire room was captivated by his voice. Even Charles Chevalier watched him with utter fascination. Vivien felt something strange tighten inside his chest. Because Julian Loki was exactly what he needed.
Confident. Direct. Intelligent. Inspiring. Perfect.
Vivien could see it clearly.
If anyone could unite workers, students, minorities, and Republicans under a single cause, it was him. And Julian continued speaking.
He spoke of labor rights. Of political representation. Of public education. Of unfair wages. Of how France had spent decades destroying itself because of decisions made solely to protect privileges.
But he never lost his composure. He didn't shout. He didn't try to intimidate.
He simply spoke with such strong conviction that he made everyone else look like a coward.
And when it was over… The room erupted in applause.
Even those who had doubted him seconds before ended up giving in to that presence that was impossible to ignore.
Julian bowed his head slightly and politely.
—Excuse me if I've talked too much.
Some people chuckled. But Vivien continued to watch him carefully.
Because he had noticed something important. Julian wasn't nervous. Not even a little bit.
He had entered alone into a room full of white men, bourgeois, military men and French revolutionaries… and spoke in front of them without trembling, without lowering his head and without trying to make himself small.
That wasn't empty arrogance. It was genuine confidence.
Confidence born from knowing exactly who he was.
And even more impressive: Julian wasn't trying to please them.
As the conversation continued, he began to point out successes and failures with complete ease. He congratulated Renoir on organizing supplies in the working-class neighborhoods. He acknowledged Leyden's work negotiating shelters for cholera victims. But he also fearlessly criticized certain strategic errors of the republican movement.
—Barricades are useless if the people are starving behind them.
And nobody seemed offended.
Because even his criticisms were honest. Vivien slowly placed his finger on the cover of his blank notebook. For the first time in a long time… he felt hope.
[🥐]
The meeting ended late at night.
One by one, the men left Rodin's office, taking with them maps, documents, and urgent orders. Some returned to the barricades. Others were to patrol entire neighborhoods distributing leaflets or monitoring the movements of the royal army.
Paris did not sleep. Not in 1832.
Through the corridors of the barracks, one could hear hurried footsteps, political discussions, and the distant echo of gunfire straying among the city's damp streets.
Vivien Hugo remained outside the office, leaning near a huge window.
The Parisian night stretched out before him like a sick body.
The makeshift barricades were still lit by torches. In the distance, a column of smoke rose slowly into the dark sky. And amidst it all, the occasional sound of gunfire broke the silence as if Paris were breathing gunpowder instead of air.
Vivien gazed at the city with a vacant expression. Or at least that's what he tried to appear to be. Because in reality, he was still thinking about him. About every word. About that firm, confident voice. About those golden eyes speaking of revolution as if there were still hope for France.
Then he heard footsteps behind him.
—Ah, Mr. Hugo… is everything alright?
Vivien turned his face slightly.
Julian Loki had just left the office. He was the last to leave the hall. He carried several books clutched to his chest, and his weariness barely seemed to show. The hall lamps cast warm shadows on his brown skin, gently highlighting the line of his broad shoulders and the soft gleam in his eyes.
Vivien took a second longer than usual to respond.
—I thought your speech was impeccable.
Julian blinked, slightly surprised.
-Flawless?
“He was,” Vivien continued. “You have presence, intelligence, and an extraordinary way of speaking to people. Frankly… I’m surprised you don’t have a seat in the National Assembly.”
For a moment there was silence.
And then Julian let out a small laugh. Not mocking. Sincere and warm.
"Mr. Hugo…" he said as he arranged the books in his arms, "I remind you that I am a black peasant who came to France thanks to the education offered to me by a duke."
That hit Vivien immediately. Like a bucket of ice water.
Because he was right.
The France that Vivien wanted to reform was still a country where someone like Julian would never be accepted in positions of power, no matter how brilliant he was.
Vivien barely lowered his gaze.
—Ah…
For the first time all night, he seemed unable to find the words.
But Julian showed no resentment. Not even annoyance.
"Don't worry," he replied calmly. "I'm used to it."
And that made Vivien feel even worse. Julian lifted the books slightly.
—I need to go to the library. I need to think for a while.
Vivien barely raised an eyebrow.
-Strategies?
A discreet smile appeared on Julian's face.
—Exactly.
Silence returned between them.
But this time it wasn't awkward.
From a nearby street came the sharp crack of another gunshot.
Paris was still burning.
Vivien looked at the books in Julian's arms before speaking again:
—You're new here. I can show you around.
Julian looked up.
—To the library?
—It's in the basement of the barracks. It's easy to get lost in the corridors.
For the first time since they met, Julian seemed genuinely relaxed.
—Thank you very much, Monsieur Hugo.
Vivien shook his head gently as he began to walk.
—Call me Vivien. Let's drop the formalities.
Julian watched him for a few seconds.
And then he smiled. A small, natural smile.
Beautiful precisely because it didn't seem rehearsed.
And at that moment, as the hallway lights dimly illuminated Julian Loki's face, Vivien Hugo understood something terrifying.
He was falling in love.
[🥐]
Dawn had fallen on Paris like a silent illness.
The Republican headquarters remained awake, dimly lit by oil lamps and half-burned candles. Outside, the city continued to breathe violence: isolated gunshots, distant shouts, cartwheels crossing wet streets, and the constant murmur of a revolution that never rested.
But in one of the building's private salons, Vivien Hugo lay alone. He was half asleep on a dark velvet sofa, reclining uncomfortably, one arm dangling toward the floor and an open book resting on his chest.
A completely blank book.
Anyone would have thought it was an absurd eccentricity.
But for Vivien it wasn't.
From childhood, he had developed this strange habit: reading blank pages to think. The absolute whiteness allowed him to organize his thoughts without distractions. Each page became a mental space where he could construct strategies, imagine speeches, dismantle possibilities, and analyze people. It was a psychological mechanism.
A way of talking to oneself. Of bringing order to the chaos. Because Vivien's mind never truly rested.
Even now, half asleep, he was still thinking. Thinking about France. About the revolution. About the famine. About cholera. About the possibility that everything would end exactly the same as always.
And then…
He thought of Julian Loki. The image appeared with unbearable clarity. That calm smile. That firm voice echoing through the room. The rough hands gripping books. The golden eyes gleaming as he spoke of the village. And the perfect order of his thoughts slowly began to unravel.
Vivien narrowed his eyes.
What exactly was it he felt? Admiration? That made sense. Julian was brilliant. Respect? Also, Friendship? Perhaps. But then… Why did he keep thinking about him that way? Why did he remember his smile over and over again? Why did his chest ache slightly every time Julian said his name?
Vivien slowly turned his face towards the dark ceiling.
And for the first time in a long time, he found no answers. Could two men fall in love?
The question appeared brutally in his mind.
In France there were secret lovers, rumors, scandalous writers, and discreet aristocrats… but love between men remained something condemned to silence. Something that ended up destroyed. Ridiculed. Turned into tragedy.
Vivien slowly closed the white book on his chest.
Did love even exist in times like those?
Paris was dying. People were falling ill in the streets. Barricades grew larger every night. Soldiers pointed guns at students. They didn't even know if they would survive the summer.
So what was the point of falling in love?
The problem was that Vivien had always understood the world differently from everyone else. From childhood, he believed that each individual was born destined for a specific role. Some were leaders. Others were followers. Some were destroyed. Others built. And fighting against that nature only generated unnecessary suffering.
That's why he had never truly hated his political adversaries. Even when he argued with them, he ended up guiding, teaching, or correcting them like a patient mentor. He wasn't trying to destroy people. He was trying to reshape the world.
But Julian… Julian made a mess of everything.
Because when he was with him, Vivien stopped thinking strategically. And that terrified him.
Then someone knocked softly on the door. Vivien frowned immediately.
—Pass…
The door opened slowly.
And there he was.
Julian Loki appeared in the dim light of the hallway, still dressed in simple clothes, though slightly disheveled from tiredness. He carried some folded papers under his arm and seemed surprised to find him awake.
—Ah, Vivien… I'm sorry to bother you.
Vivien got up too quickly.
Almost clumsily.
—No, don't worry.
He tried to regain his composure as he pushed the white book aside.
—I was just thinking.
Julian barely inclined his head.
—About what?
Lie.
The answer came out before I could stop it.
—About listening more to the workers… something similar to what His Majesty Victoria does in England.
Julian let out a small, nasal laugh.
—I remind you that we are republicans.
Vivien coughed slightly, feeling exposed for some absurd reason.
—Yes, well…
Julian took a few steps into the room.
—Actually, I came because I need your help.
That managed to capture Vivien's full attention.
—My help?
—I want to talk to some members of the barricades tonight.
Vivien blinked.
—The barricades?
Julian nodded.
—That's where the real revolution is happening. Not here.
His voice became more serious.
—Furthermore, Prime Minister Casimir has just fallen ill.
Vivien opened his eyes slightly. This was serious. Very serious. With cholera spreading through Paris, any sick political figure could generate immediate panic.
—And… Why exactly do you need my help?
Julian barely raised an eyebrow.
—They told me you can get peasant clothes, weapons, books, money… practically anything.
Vivien didn't answer right away. Because it was true. Being the son of an immensely wealthy family turned many obstacles into mere formalities.
Julian looked around the room before adding:
—I also need ideas.
That made Vivien feel a strange sensation in his chest. Because Julian trusted him.
Finally, he sighed.
—Then I'll go with you.
Julian frowned slightly.
—It's too dangerous, Vivien.
-AND?
Vivien stood up slowly, adjusting his dark jacket. His sharp eyes locked directly onto Julian's.
—I am here to serve the people.
Silence fell between them. And Julian watched him as if he were truly trying to understand him for the first time. Because wealthy men like Vivien Hugo didn't usually leave their mansions to mingle with barricades, disease, and armed workers. Yet here he was.
Willing to go. Willing to take the risk.
For the revolution… or perhaps for him.
Julian ended up smiling gently.
—Well… that’s good to know.
And shortly afterwards, they both left the barracks under the darkness of early morning.
The carriage moved slowly through the wet streets of Paris as the revolution raged around them.
[🥐]
Paris was freezing that night.
The carriage moved slowly through damp streets and blackened cobblestones as a light mist blanketed the city's slums. The wheels crunched on mud mixed with rain, trash, and the remains of destroyed barricades. Sporadic gunfire could still be heard outside. But the farther they traveled from the Republican barracks, the more the sounds of the city changed.
The revolution had many faces. And not all of them cried.
Finally, the carriage stopped in front of a small square lit by golden lanterns.
Vivien Hugo was the first to get off.
He had left behind his usual elegant clothes. Now he wore simple dark flannel, worn boots, and a modest coat. Even so, it was impossible to completely hide who he was. Even disguised as an ordinary citizen, Vivien still seemed refined. Too upright. Too handsome. And too clean to truly belong on those streets.
Behind him descended Julian Loki, dressed in typical French village clothing: a simple shirt, a heavy jacket, and dark trousers marked by constant use.
The difference between the two was almost absurd. Julian fit in perfectly.
Vivien looked like an aristocrat trying to hide among the workers. And as soon as they set foot in the square, the atmosphere hit them hard.
There were shouts. But not of fear. Of joy.
—Did you see how that policeman ran away with his tail between his legs?!
Laughter erupted all around.
—You can say that again, Combeferre.
Several people toasted with half-empty bottles while others sang off-key revolutionary songs. Some students discussed politics on makeshift wooden crates; laborers drank cheap wine sitting directly on the cobblestones; couples kissed hidden in alleyways.
The square seemed alive.
The warm glow of the lanterns bathed everything in golden and reddish hues, creating a strangely welcoming atmosphere despite the chaos. The smell of alcohol, smoke, freshly baked bread, and sweat filled the air. There were other sounds too.
Bottles breaking. Banging on tables. Jumping. Laughter that's too loud. And… moans.
Vivien remained completely still for a moment.
His cheeks flushed slightly red. Julian immediately noticed his reaction.
And he barely smiled.
—Welcome to the barricades.
Vivien cleared his throat discreetly, trying to regain his dignity.
—Very… lively.
Julian let out a small laugh before pointing towards the other end of the square.
—There it is.
Vivien looked up.
The premises immediately stood out among the other buildings.
An old café with a dark facade, filled with smoke and voices, its windows lit from within and republican flags hanging between the balconies. Café Musain.
One of the main revolutionary meeting points in Paris. It was said to be led by a man named Angel. Julian started walking towards it as he spoke:
—I have a friend named Courfeyrac. He's studying law. He insisted that we meet with them tonight.
Vivien nodded as he discreetly observed the place. There were armed students. Workers. Journalists. Even some children carrying messages back and forth.
Everything seemed improvised… and at the same time dangerously organized.
Then Julian suddenly stopped in front of him. He took something small from his coat pocket. A patch of fabric.
The French republican flag.
Vivien barely had time to react before Julian approached and carefully placed the badge on his clothing.
His hands brushed against Vivien's chest as he adjusted the fabric.
A brief contact.
But it was enough to make Vivien's heart clench violently in his chest. Julian seemed completely focused on the task. Too close.
Vivien could feel the warmth of his body despite the night's cold.
"It's so they know you're with us," Julian explained as he finished arranging it.
Then he looked up at him. His golden eyes sparkled in the warm light of the lanterns.
—The revolutionaries really hate nobles like you.
Vivien let out a small nasal exhalation.
—How encouraging.
Julian smiled again.
And Vivien realized that he probably would have followed that man even in the middle of a war.
When Vivien Hugo and Julian Loki crossed the doors of the Café Musain, the noise immediately enveloped them.
The place was completely alive.
Conversations overlapped, mingling with laughter, political discussions, and the constant clinking of glasses on wooden tables. The air was thick, heavy with tobacco smoke, cheap alcohol, and the pungent aroma of freshly brewed coffee. There was no luxury. No elegance.
But there was energy. A fierce, desperate, youthful energy that seemed to hold the whole place together.
—Oh, come on, Joly, you know perfectly well that your hat shop is important. Don't sell it.
Laughter erupted near a table crowded with students.
Joly responded by moving his hands rapidly and using small acronyms written on crumpled paper to make himself understood. Although he was mute, he seemed perfectly integrated among them; in fact, he was probably one of the loudest in the group without uttering a single word.
Someone snatched the paper from his and read it aloud, and the laughter grew even louder. Vivien silently surveyed the scene.
I had never been to a place like this.
The aristocratic cafés of Paris were filled with refined conversation, soft music, and calculated manners. This was the opposite.
Here people spoke too loudly, constantly interrupted each other, and argued about revolution as if they were gambling money in a tavern.
And yet… There was something fascinating about it.
Then his eyes shifted towards a specific figure at the back of the room.
A blond young man. Extremely fair skin. Beautiful in a disturbing way.
Even sitting amidst the chaos of the café, he naturally stood out. He had a charming, almost warm smile… but something about his gaze was dangerously sharp.
As if he could embrace you or destroy you with equal ease.
Vivien felt a brief shiver run down his spine.
A few steps away, Julian raised a hand upon recognizing Combeferre.
—Combeferre.
—¡Loki!
The student immediately smiled and approached to shake his hand familiarly. Meanwhile, Vivien remained slightly behind.
Still. Tense. There were too many people. Too many unfamiliar eyes.
And nobody there really knew who he was.
For the first time in a long time, Vivien Hugo was not “the merchant’s son”, nor “the bourgeois reformer”, nor “the republican strategist”.
He was just a strange man in the middle of a revolution that didn't entirely belong to him.
Then someone shouted from another table:
—Hey, look who's here! Our favorite worker!
Several people raised glasses in Julian's direction.
Julian smiled naturally, greeting different groups as he walked between the tables. Some bumped his shoulder in a friendly way; others asked him quick questions about the barricades or supplies.
Vivien noticed something important immediately:
Julian fit in there.
Perfect. He didn't need to be imposing to get attention. People simply wanted to listen to him. And as they walked on, Julian exchanged a brief glance with the blond young man in the background.
With him.
They said nothing.
But it only took a second for Vivien to realize that the two already knew each other quite well. This made his absurdly uncomfortable. Julian finally reached the large central table of the café and placed several documents on the wood.
The surrounding noise gradually decreased.
—I've come to present this.
The conversations slowly died away. Everyone present leaned forward. Even the blond man abandoned his apparent disinterest and looked up.
Vivien looked at the papers as soon as Julian unfolded them. And then he understood immediately.
Maps. Detailed maps of Paris. Side streets. Military routes. Strategic positions. Sewer entrances. Potential barricade points. Invaluable information. Pure gold for revolutionaries.
The silence around the table lasted only a few seconds.
Everyone stared at the maps spread out on the wood as if they were sacred relics. Some students immediately bent down to identify streets and alleyways; others began murmuring possible strategies among themselves.
Vivien Hugo scanned the documents.
That was no ordinary information.
They were detailed copies of police patrol routes, military routes, and secondary access points to several troubled neighborhoods in Paris. Obtaining something like that could mean prison… or outright execution.
Then he spoke.
—Loki… Did you stole it?
The question came across more directly than intended. Several glances immediately turned toward Julian Loki. But the dark-haired man didn't seem bothered at all.
He barely turned his face towards Vivien while resting a hand on the maps.
—I actually did a “copy and paste”.
Some people chuckled. Julian continued calmly:
—The police are patrolling too much lately. There are too many checkpoints near government archives to remove the originals without raising suspicion.
Vivien narrowed his eyes slightly. Impressive.
Not only had he gained access to official information, but he had also found a way to reproduce it undetected. And he had probably done it entirely on his own.
Then Julian seemed to remember something.
—Oh, right.
He moved slightly away from the table and pointed at Vivien.
—He is Vivien Hugo. A personal friend of mine and a Republican.
Vivien immediately felt several eyes falling on him.
Heavy. Analytical. Some are even distrustful. Julian, however, continued speaking as if it were completely natural.
—Support the rights of workers, revolutionaries, women, and children. Also, the rights of minorities among us.
Vivien barely turned his face towards him.
"Personal friend."
The expression lingered in his mind longer than it should have. Even so, he ended up nodding automatically.
-Correct.
It wasn't a lie.
Although he hadn't expected to be introduced like that in front of a room full of armed revolutionaries. For a few seconds, no one said a word.
And then the presentations began.
—Feuilly.
A hardworking-looking man raised a hand from the other end of the table.
—Combeferre.
The student gave him a calm smile.
—Lesgles.
—Bahorel.
Bahorel seemed unable to remain still for even a second; he had an almost violent energy even when sitting down.
—Joly.
Joly held up a small piece of paper on which he had written his name in crooked ink, provoking laughter from nearby.
—Pontmercy.
A serious and elegantly dressed young man bowed his head briefly.
—Prove it.
—Courfeyrac.
Courfeyrac immediately smiled with charming ease.
—Grantaire.
A man, half-reclining in his chair, absentmindedly raised a bottle in greeting. And finally…
Vivien's eyes eventually drifted towards the blond young man in the background.
The boy remained leaning against the wall, observing everything with that dangerous calm.
—“Angel” —someone nearby said.
Then the blond man calmly corrected himself:
—Enjolras.
Ah.
So Angel was just a nickname. Like Adino. Names built more on reputation than birth. And honestly, Vivien thought, it suited him a little too well.
Because there was something almost celestial about Enjolras's appearance. And at the same time, something profoundly terrifying. Like an angel poised to start a holy war.
Then Bahorel burst out laughing while crossing his arms.
—So you support all those rights, huh?
Vivien looked at him.
Bahorel smiled broadly before continuing:
—I'm glad to hear that. I'm tired of those aristocrats who talk about the common people as if they were exotic pets.
Several people burst into laughter or murmured approval.
Vivien immediately sensed the challenge hidden in those words. It wasn't exactly hatred. It was distrustful.
And it made sense. For many of them, Vivien represented everything they were fighting against: wealth, privilege, and the bourgeoisie.
Vivien himself knew it. That's why he didn't react with annoyance.
He simply replied calmly:
—I can't blame them for being distrustful.
The atmosphere around them softened slightly. Vivien placed a hand on the maps before continuing:
—Most wealthy men would never sacrifice comfort for equality. France has been proving that for decades.
That immediately caught their attention. Even Enjolras glanced slightly up at him.
Vivien continued speaking in an almost philosophical calm:
—But if we continue to divide this revolution between bourgeois, workers, students or minorities… then the monarchy has already won.
The silence returned. Not awkward. More like an expectant. And from somewhere beside him, Julian smiled slightly. As if he had just confirmed something important about him.
[🥐]
The night progressed slowly inside the Musain Café.
Empty bottles began to pile up on the tables; the political discussions grew more philosophical as fatigue and alcohol took their toll. Some students sang off-key revolutionary songs in a corner while others debated military strategies using ink-soaked napkins.
Paris was still awake. And so was the café.
Vivien Hugo remained there for hours, listening to conversations he would never have heard inside the bourgeois drawing rooms where he had grown up.
Workers talking about hunger. Students dreaming of a perfect republic. Young people who were completely prepared to die rather than return to silence.
And throughout the night… glances between him and Julian Loki continued to appear. Brief and furtive.
Sometimes Julian would look up in the middle of a conversation and find Vivien watching him from across the table. Other times it was Vivien who noticed those golden-brown eyes discreetly analyzing him as he spoke with the others.
Neither of them said anything about it. But they both felt it.
The connection slowly grew between them.
Like a dangerous flame.
When the old café clock struck two in the morning, exhaustion finally began to overcome Vivien. He stifled a yawn behind his hand while the others continued arguing about barricades and supply routes.
Julian noticed it immediately.
—You should rest.
Vivien let out a small, tired exhalation.
-Probably.
Outside, his carriage was already waiting beside the square, lit by lanterns that were slowly going out as dawn approached. Some revolutionaries were beginning to leave for the nighttime barricades; others would simply sleep in the same café.
Vivien watched as Julian gathered his documents and maps again.
Then he spoke:
—Will you come here every night?
Julian barely glanced up at him.
-Yeah.
The response was immediate. Natural.
—I will also go to hospitals, rural neighborhoods, and factories.
He paused briefly before adding:
—Especially where the grisettes work.
Vivien blinked slightly.
The crickets.
Young Parisian working women: seamstresses, laundresses, textile workers… women exploited by endless days and miserable wages.
The fact that Julian thought of them first impressed him again.
Because most revolutionaries spoke of "the people" as an abstract concept. Julian spoke of concrete individuals. Vivien took a step toward that.
—Can I accompany you?
Julian seemed genuinely surprised.
-Because?
The question hung between them as the sound of coffee continued around them. Vivien remained silent for a few seconds. Then he answered with absolute honesty:
—Because my mission is to make this revolution work.
His dark eyes sharpened slightly under the dim golden light of the room.
—I'm not interested in becoming an individual hero.
That made Julian watch him more closely. Vivien continued speaking slowly, as if revealing something he never said aloud.
—Many want to be remembered as great men. Generals. Martyrs. Leaders. But that was never enough for me.
The noise from the cafe seemed to have become distant.
—I want to leave a mark on history.
His words didn't sound arrogant. They sounded inevitable. As if he were describing a destiny already written.
"I wasn't born to be just a republican," he continued. "I was born to create people capable of changing the world. To train revolutionaries better than myself."
Julian didn't take his eyes off him.
Vivien then spoke with that strange intensity that appeared whenever he spoke of his ideals:
—Transform people. Transform ideas. Transform France. Only in this way can I become a legend.
There was silence after that. A long silence. But not an awkward one.
Outside, the moon dimly illuminated the damp square while the night wind made the republican flags hanging between the buildings wave.
And then Julian smiled.
It wasn't a mocking smile. Nor a surprised one. It was warm. Deeply sincere. As if he had finally understood who Vivien Hugo really was.
—Very well —he said softly.
Then he extended his hand slightly towards him.
—Then let's change the world, Vivien Hugo.
Vivien felt his heart stop for a moment. He reached out too. And when their fingers barely touched in the early morning light… Something was born there. Not just love. Not just admiration. But a shared existence. As if, from that moment on, their destinies were forever intertwined.
[🥐]