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The meeting ended a few minutes ago. Enjolras was still standing as the others all began to congregate around a table to enjoy the rest of the evening. Enjolras himself was planning on heading back to his rooms to do some reading. He loved his friends, but they could be distracting at times.
He was stopped when, “Enjolras, where are you headed so early?”
“Yes, come sit with us!”
Enjolras hesitated. “I would love to, gentlemen, but I do have some matters that I must tend to.”
“Ah, nonsense! One night out won't hurt!”
“I don't know…”
Courfeyrac got up and took his hand, dragging him to the table. “Relax, my friend. Enjoy yourself for once!”
Enjolras sat down, shaking his head amusedly. “Alright, alright.”
The table cheered and Enjolras rolled his eyes fondly. He couldn't have assembled a tighter-knit group even if he'd tried.
Entering the conversation midway left him slightly off-kilter. He assumed Bahorel was ranting about his law classes. But at the same time, everyone knew he hardly went to those. Someone offered him a glass of wine that he rejected out of hand. Grantaire sitting at the corner of the table was already drunk.
Then as the talking shifted, the resident cynic began waxing poetic about Renaissance artwork, in the process mourning his inability to carve marble like Michelangelo or Donatello. He spoke of Pygmalion and Galatea as if it personally happened in front of him, and all the while he kept glancing Enjolras’ way. For why Enjolras could never fathom.
Enjolras spoke up, “I'm sure you would be able to mimic, or even surpass the great artists of Italy if you simply concentrated your efforts to doing so. But you seem far more interested in corrupting all you come across.”
After the words left his mouth, he bit his lip. That was a little harsh. He hoped to leave Grantaire with something to put himself to. He aligned himself with the cause but was largely parasitic towards it. Maybe if the cynic found something worthwhile, he wouldn't be sitting here drinking himself to oblivion and wasting his potential.
Combeferre flashed him a look. They had talked recently about how it wouldn't help the revolution if Enjolras kept being inflammatory towards the drunkard. He was right, of course, but it was difficult when the latter often made it his primary goal to make a mockery of him.
“Hah,” Grantaire scoffed. “Me live up to the greats? Surely not, as you've said I corrupt all I touch. Perhaps that is why you always keep me at an arm's distance. Oh, imagine great Apollo's light fading to black after being in the presence of a mere mortal. A sight to behold, yes? Of course did it not happen briefly after Zephyr's interference with that discus? Not that I think you would ever mourn for me. I'm too base for a god.”
“I do not believe myself to be a god. And it would be beneficial for you to do the same. Was I not wounded just three months ago?”
“I would not have been surprised had your blood been ichor.”
A chair scraped, effectively ending the conversation. “As wonderful as your bickering is, sirs, Joly and I are off.”
The two men put their hats on and Courfeyrac whistled. “Choosing Musichetta over your brothers again, I see.”
“The mistress doesn't like to be kept waiting,” Bossuet responded with a wink.
“Goodnight!” The two men said, opening the door.
Courfeyrac sighed. “Oh how I'd love to have a lady waiting back at my rooms.”
“You did, not two weeks ago, no?” Combeferre inquired.
“Well, yes. But someone else came along and she's never come back. Still, she was quite beautiful, no wonder she—”
Enjolras stopped listening. He really didn't care to hear about any of his friend's love lives. It didn't concern him and he always found that kind of rumor unfit for public discussion.
“Enjolras?” Prouvaire spoke up.
“Hm?”
“Do you have a mistress?” Grantaire not-so-subtly kicked the unfortunate Prouvaire under the table.
“Surely he does,” Bahorel answered for him. “Look at him.”
Enjolras felt his cheeks burn at the attention. He crossed his arms. He in fact did not have a lady. Nor did he want a partner of any kind.
“What's her name? Is she pretty?”
“Patria,” Enjolras deadpanned.
That got a bout of laughter all around. Enjolras kept his face straight. Feuilly smiled at him.
“I have no use for a mistress when my love for France demands all my attention.”
“You need to loosen up, my friend,” Courfeyrac said, laying an arm over his shoulder. “Let me find you a woman and you will make time, I assure you.”
Enjolras shook him off.
“Courfeyrac's right you know,” Bahorel added with a grin. “Once you feel her soft skin, there's no going back.”
Enjolras felt frustration building in his gut. Why couldn't they understand he wasn't interested?
Feuilly spoke up. “Why don't you lot leave him alone? Perhaps he doesn't want the things you want.”
“Have you ever been with another?” Bahorel asked, opting to ignore Feuilly.
Enjolras opened his mouth, but Courfeyrac beat him to it. “As long as I've known him, he's never shown a remote interest in women. Or men for that matter.”
“Will you stop speaking on my behalf?” Enjolras finally said, raising his voice. “It is true that I have never been with someone in the way that you speak, however you are implicating that I must be unhappy as a result.”
“But isn't love one of the most important human values?” Prouvaire spoke, though not rudely.
Enjolras looked around at them. He answered quietly. “I love my friends. And I love my people and my country.”
No one had a rebuttal to that. He began to think maybe he'd persuaded him. Until Grantaire that is. It was always him.
“Stop pretending you are too good for love, Enjolras. Even the gods fall in love.”
Enjolras furrowed his brow at the insinuation that he was simply posing to get a perceived superiority. “What of Pallas, Diana, and Vesta? Were they lesser deities simply because they remained chaste?”
Grantaire hesitated for a moment then hardened. “You are like them. Driven and severe as Diana, intellect sharp as Pallas, fire as bright as the flame of the Vestal Virgins. But you are as cold and unfeeling as marble. Of course you don't love. You are incapable of being human.”
How could he say that? Of course Enjolras was human. He still had to eat and sleep. He fell ill. He had passions like reading, writing, and using rhetoric. He cried in his rooms when the world became too much, when he began to wonder if he could truly fix it all. And his most human attribute? Hope. Despite everything, he had so much hope. Hope that the world was worth saving, that he could change it, and that humanity was indeed good.
He stood abruptly, focusing his eyes on Grantaire. The room shrunk down to the two of them now as far as he was concerned.
“I do not know why the love I do have isn't enough or why the idea that I am lacking a certain kind of affection means I am lacking humanity. But I assure you, I do not need romance to fight for the republic's future. That is my purpose.”
He put his scarf on and gathered his papers.
“Enjolras—” someone said.
“Goodnight.”
Enjolras let the door shut with a bang behind him. He didn't mind if they kept talking about him while he wasn't there. He spoke his piece.