Chapter Text
He sees them, sometimes, and he wishes he couldn’t. He sees the shadow pass over their face, that familiar flicker of uncertainty, because they know there’s something there but they don’t know what. And isn’t it better that way? That he stays hidden, face veiled by his signature black robe, scythe at his side? He knows they want him to come, they want the sweet, sweet bliss he brings – but it just feels so wrong.
And when he does come for them – when they look him in the eye, sensing his oddly-comforting presence – he leans in close, and whispers: “I am sorry.”
He remembers sitting on the edge of a bathtub, watching a young girl – Eponine, he believes – hold up a brand-new razor with a shaking hand. She was barely sixteen. He remembers the way her gorgeous, dark eyes had welled up with tears, the way she had flinched, when she heard shouting from downstairs. She had taken a deep breath, closed her eyes, and-
And then she had opened them again, but her hand was frozen. She sensed something – him – there. He stared at her, and she stared back. Except, she had no idea what she was looking at. And there was no reason for her to know.
He remembers leaning in close, placing a hand on her shoulder, and whispering: “It is not your time.”
~
Enjolras sits in a secluded booth at Café Musain, surrounded by approximately four binders, three hot pink folders, and dozens of papers. Oh, and his laptop. He reaches for his mug, and frowns when he finds it’s empty.
Combeferre, bless his soul, comes just then, with two steaming, completely-full mugs of coffee in his hands. He sets one down in front of Enjolras and sits down next to him, squinting his eyes at the bright computer screen.
He takes a long, thoughtful sip. “What are we preaching now?”
Enjolras briefly glances up. “Basic human rights.”
He turns back to his laptop, and opens the folder named ‘ART’. With Combeferre’s eyes tracking his every move, Enjolras sends the picture they had agreed on using for the posters to Courfeyrac. He finds comfort in the click, click, click of the keyboard as he types.
“More specifically,” Combeferre says.
“Equal wages,” Enjolras replies. “Gender equality.”
There’s the distinct rustle of a bag opening, and when Enjolras looks up, Combeferre is holding a potato chip out for him. Enjolras takes it with a nod. Combeferre narrows his eyes and tilts his head curiously.
“You’re thinking within the binary,” Combeferre says. He pops a chip in his mouth.
Enjolras shakes his head. “No, I’m not. Equality for all genders, Ferre. You know me.”
“Right.” Combeferre’s lips quirk up in a peculiar smile. “Just making sure.”
Enjolras playfully punches Combeferre in the shoulder before returning to his work. He still has a protest to organize, after all.
“This one’s going to be good,” he says.
Combeferre hesitates, and then reaches for one of the discarded Les Amis folders. This one’s labelled ‘Official Protest Planning’.
“They’re always good.”
“Whatever,” Enjolras inhales half of his coffee, and then takes a bite out of the muffin Combeferre brought him an hour ago. “This one will be a better good. The better….,” he pauses and frowns. “Better… betterest good.”
Combeferre laughs quietly. “When was the last time you slept, Enjolras?”
“Not too long ago.” Enjolras narrows his eyes suspiciously, mid-muffin bite. “Why?”
“Betterest isn’t a word.”
Enjolras slumps in the booth. “Oh.”
Combeferre half-heartedly pats his shoulder. It’s probably meant to be comforting. “Why don’t you go back to our place and get some sleep? I can take over. I know how to plan a protest.”
“No,” Enjolras frowns down at his muffin. He petulantly shakes his head. “I mean, I’m sure you can do it, it’s just…,” he rubs a hand over his face and sighs. “Maybe I will go back.”
“Here.” Combeferre throws a set of keys at Enjolras, and he instinctively catches them with his free hand. There’s a purple cat keychain dangling on the chain: Enjolras runs his hand over it, and smiles. He remembers when Courfeyrac got that: they were on a school field trip, in tenth grade, and they had gone to some world-famous anthropology museum in southern France. Combeferre had told Courfeyrac to choose something with his eyes closed, and he had picked the most horribly adorable, fuzzy, purple monstrosity of a keychain there ever was.
Combeferre’s had it with him ever since.
“Just,” Combeferre places a gentle hand on Enjolras’ forearm. “Go. Sleep a little. Don’t worry about this.”
Enjolras nods. He pauses, hesitant, before scooting past Combeferre and taking one last sip from his coffee. He isn’t entirely comfortable leaving his plans – his protest – in someone else’s hands, even if that someone else is Combeferre. He’s never let anyone else take control, and it feels so foreign.
But this is Combeferre. Enjolras can trust him.
“Don’t screw it up,” Enjolras mutters, flicking his hand in an ungracious farewell.
Combeferre laughs quietly, pulling Enjolras’ laptop closer to himself. “You know I won’t.”
Enjolras opens the Café Musain door, hears the familiar chime, and turns around to look at Combeferre. He smiles to himself. Combeferre is already busy typing away, eyes focused solely on the computer screen in front of him. Maybe this wasn’t such a terrible idea after all.
-
Enjolras is standing in an eerie, mist-filled, grey-tinted forest. He’s wearing a dusty, brown leather jacket that definitely isn’t his, and there’s a blood-stained dagger in his hand. When Enjolras turns his head, he sees a flickering lamppost by a tree. He doesn’t remember seeing it there before. At the far end of the clearing, there’s a hooded figure. Enjolras takes a step forward. So does the other person, whoever they are.
Suddenly, they’re face-to-face. Enjolras notices the figure’s pale hand, at his side, holding a rusted metal scythe. Upon further inspection, he finds that the scythe’s blade is made of pure, shining obsidian. Enjolras sees himself in it. He averts his gaze, uncomfortable, and instead looks up at the man before him. He sees nothing, no face – just an eerie darkness.
There’s a rustle in the trees. Enjolras instinctively turns towards it, eyes wide and alert. His hand is raised, dagger glinting. He can see nothing, which is rather disappointing. Slowly lowering his dagger, Enjolras looks back at the figure.
He sees glowing, blue eyes, and then-
Enjolras wakes up in a panic, eyes wide and breath ragged. His hands are fisted in his blanket, and his hair is slick with sweat. He glances around – he’s still in his room, in his apartment, and Combeferre is either finishing his documentary or asleep. Enjolras places a hand on his chest and closes his eyes: his heart is still beating rapidly, much too rapidly for his liking. With a shaky sigh, he turns to his alarm clock and groans.
It’s only two in the morning.
This is going to be a long night. Enjolras flicks on his bedside lamp, and opens the copy of We Should All Be Feminists he left on his table. If he can’t sleep, he might as well read.
Enjolras is on page fifty-one, so close to finishing the book, when he hears movement outside his door. His heart picks up its pace. Could it be-?
No, Enjolras reassures himself. It can’t possibly be the man from my dream. It was just a dream, after all. Maybe I’m just imagining things.
The floors creak as someone makes their way towards his room. Enjolras freezes. So he isn’t imagining everything. He can’t turn the lights off now, because whoever it is already knows he’s awake. So what can he do?
In a last-minute decision, Enjolras quietly reaches for the miniature flag he keeps by his bed, and holds it in the general vicinity of the door. Flagpoles are sharp, right? Well, it’ll have to do.
His door opens-
“Enjolras? What are you doing awake?”
Enjolras stares, eyes wide and unblinking, at Combeferre, who’s standing in his doorway, wearing flannel pajamas and looking like the dead. There’s a box of protein bars tucked under his arm, and half of one in his hand.
“Uh,” Enjolras says, closing his book. “I couldn’t sleep?”
Combeferre takes a bite out of his protein bar. “Why not?”
Enjolras shrugs. “I don’t know. I had a bad dream, I guess.”
“Oh.” Combeferre raises an eyebrow, and narrows his eyes. He probably doesn’t believe Enjolras, but that doesn’t really matter. “Okay.”
“What about you?” Enjolras asks.
Combeferre glances at the box he’s holding and sighs. “I, uh… I have to re-write my essay, you know, since Courf broke my laptop. And it’s due tomorrow, so…”
“Right.” Enjolras nods. He remembers when Courfeyrac thought it’d be a good idea to toss their desktop over the apartment balcony and see where it would land. Fun times. “Good luck with that.”
“Thanks.”
Combeferre sends Enjolras one last concerned glance before shuffling towards his own room.
With a sigh, Enjolras flops back down on his bed and pulls his blanket up. His dream had felt so real, like he was there, in that misty forest. He can still feel the dagger in his hand, he can still see those electrifying blue eyes. It was probably his mind playing a trick, but still… Enjolras can’t recall anyone with eyes like that, and he finds it slightly odd that he would know what they look like. Oh, well.
Enjolras yawns, stretches, and stumbles out of bed. He’s going to go make himself a cup of coffee, because he feels caffeine-deprived, and there’s no chance he’s going to sleep anytime soon.
When he looks back out at the dark hallway, turning his eyes from the coffee machine’s light, he sees haunting blue.
~
The rain, he thinks, is a melancholy sort of beautiful. But then again, in his eyes, what isn’t? Rain falls and rises again, like the human soul – only, today, as he watches the drops splatter on dirty pavement and flooded grass, he’s mourning one of many lost souls, that won’t ever return. He doesn’t normally attend funerals – there are too many who die, and not enough time – but this one had been a truly wondrous soul. Something special. Something rare. And he’ll miss having it around, having that little spark of pure, unadulterated goodness in a planet full of darkness.
He does not mourn the fate of those who could not escape it; he mourns the fate of the world they stopped being good to.
~
Enjolras spends most of his free afternoon in the field outside the library. It’s warm out, and he likes reading where there’s fresh air, and grass, and sunlight. But even with the serenity, he can’t seem to focus on his book. The protest – the one Combeferre’s taken to planning – is in a few days, and Enjolras is already anxious. He isn’t sure how many people are going to show up, or what’s going to happen. He wishes he does, but Combeferre refuses to tell him.
He doesn’t even know their plans in case of emergencies, because Combeferre had to go and change those, too. He just can’t leave anything as it is.
With a sigh, Enjolras turns his thoughts back to the textbook open beside him. The page he’s on is entirely covered in post-its, and entire sections have been highlighted in neon yellow. He can’t even remember what all of it is for.
Just as he’s about to go get another cup of coffee, there’s the soft sound of footsteps, and then someone sits next to him on the grass. Enjolras turns around. It’s Cosette, looking as radiant as ever in her pink sundress. She looks out at the rest of the students on the field for a moment, and then faces Enjolras.
“Why aren’t you inside, with us?” She asks.
Enjolras shrugs. “I like it out here. Sunlight, and all that.”
“Right.” Cosette nods, but she probably doesn’t believe him. Enjolras has always been a terrible liar. She places a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear. “Is this about the protest?”
“Maybe,” Enjolras mutters defensively.
Cosette places a hand on his arm. “I can assure you it’s going fine, Enj. Ferre’s got it all under control.”
“Yeah,” Enjolras sighs. “See, that’s the problem. I don’t know it’s going fine. All I have is what you guys tell me, and sorry, but that’s not really helpful.”
Cosette narrows her eyes and contemplates him. She crosses her arms indignantly. “Well, you have to deal with it. The protest’s on Saturday – that’s in less than two days, right? You’ll be fine.”
Enjolras pouts at the grass. He knows there isn’t any point in giving Cosette the benefit of the doubt, because she’ll see right through that. She always see past whatever wall any of them puts up, and Enjolras would find it endearing, if he isn’t too busy trying to stay mad at her.
“Oh, just relax a little, will you?” Cosette nudges his shoulder playfully. “Kill some misogynists, get a massage, hook up-“
Enjolras glares at her. “I don’t do one-night stands, Cosette.”
Cosette snorts ungraciously. “You don’t even do relationships, what’s your point?”
“My point is that I’m not going to do any of that anytime soon, so stop suggesting it.”
“Well, it might be good for you.”
“Bye, Cosette,” Enjolras says, returning his attention to his textbook. Studying seems like a very good idea right now.
Cosette sighs fondly, ruffles his hair, and leans over to press a soft kiss on his cheek. “The protest will go great, and everyone will proclaim you the new leader of France afterwards.”
“That’s a bad joke,” Enjolras mutters.
“Two days, okay?” Cosette reassures him. She stands up, brushes grass off of her dress, and pats his head. “Now quit worrying.”
Before Enjolras can say anything else, Cosette disappears back inside the library, and he’s left with the textbook and his own thoughts.
-
Enjolras wakes up on Friday night from another strange nightmare. This time, instead of glowing blue, the man’s eyes were a dark, eternal black. A pure sort of black, like darkness. He doesn’t remember much else, but it’s not like it should matter, anyways. It was just a dream.
The next morning, when Combeferre asks why he was awake at such a time, Enjolras lies and says he remembered he had coursework to do. Even though he looks incredibly suspicious, Combeferre doesn’t question him.
Enjolras makes himself coffee, and they don’t talk about it again.
-
The protest is going great. Enjolras is standing in the midst of a crowd, washed in golden sunlight, and preaching gender equality to the people-
Wait. Scratch that.
The protest is going terribly. Enjolras is standing in the midst of a panicked crowd, drenched in cold rain, and listening to his own frantic breathing. A few minutes ago – while he had been preaching gender equality – there had been a sudden gunshot.
No one knew what to do with themselves. No one knows what to do with themselves.
Everyone’s just standing there, completely frozen, eyes wide and terrified to move. To be frank, Enjolras doesn’t want to take any risks, either. He doesn’t really know what to make of the situation, as it were. It was never supposed to go like this. Protests are supposed to be peaceful.
Combeferre had ensured it was going to be peaceful. He had promised.
But this isn’t his fault, Enjolras thinks. Combeferre couldn’t have known about this. These things are unpredictable. They just happen. What could he have done? Nothing.
And now, they’re all soaked to the bone, afraid of what could possibly happen. But there was only one gunshot – maybe it’s over? Maybe someone just thought it’d be funny, to scare them all like that? Enjolras hopes it isn’t that, because that wasn’t funny at all, but at the same time… he’d feel a bit more relaxed if he knew what was even going on.
“Is it…” Courfeyrac pauses, and takes a shaky breath. He’s standing at Enjolras’ side, eyes wide and alert. He’s reaching for the emergency Metro ticket in his pocket (Combeferre got them all one, in case they had to flee). “Is it safe? Are we-“
“In danger?” Eponine interrupts, crossing her arms. She shakes her head, even though she still looks wary. “I don’t think so. Probably some stupid teenager who thought it’d be funny.”
Bahorel looks between Combeferre and Eponine, flexing his hands. “So, do I need to punch someone, or…? What are we going to do now?”
“You’re not going to punch anyone,” Combeferre says hotly. “Not yet, anyways. Just stay here, I’m sure we’re fine.”
“I’ll go look,” Enjolras says.
He turns to Combeferre, and receives a wary nod. If Combeferre thinks this is a good idea, then it probably is. Enjolras softly returns Cosette’s gentle smile before pushing his way through the crowd. From what he can tell, whatever was going on is now over. He’s just about to go back, and tell his friends that they have nothing to worry about, when he hears distinct yelling-
“Give it back!”
Enjolras whisks around to find the source of the yelling, and pauses. There’s two men and a woman standing near the protest crowd. Enjolras narrows his eyes at them. What are they yelling about?
And then he sees it.
One of the men, clearly drunk, is waving around a loaded gun. So that’s where the shot came from. The woman, scared out of her wits, is helplessly clinging to the other man, the one who had been shouting.
“Give it back, Rob!” The man yells, reaching his hand out. He has an arm wrapped protectively around the woman.
The other man – Rob – continues waving the gun around and smiling idiotically. “Hmm, what you gonna do ‘bout it? Steal it, like the… the stealer you are?”
“Just,” the first man sighs. “Just give it back. Please. Before you hurt anyone.”
Rob takes a step closer to them, shakily holding the gun. “I don’t… nah, I ain’t giving you the… the-“
“Please,” the woman sobs. “Please, Rob, put it down. You’re scaring us.”
Enjolras watches, frozen in his spot, as Rob jams the barrel of the gun against the woman’s throat. He’s laughing quietly to himself, clearly pleased with the situation. The woman looks like she’s stopped breathing – her eyes are incredibly wide, and her face is turning sickeningly pale.
Rob turns his attention to the other man, leaving the gun pressed on the woman. “What you gonna do, huh? I’m the one with the gun, so you… you got no leverage, no nothing.” He laughs again. “What you gonna do, if I… hmm, if your lady here ain’t gonna make it, huh?”
The man lunges forward, fisting his hands in the collar of Rob’s shirt. “Let her go.”
Rob shakes the man off. “Or what?”
There’s a pause. Enjolras is aware that everyone in the crowd is now watching this – except for Combeferre, who’s keeping his attention on Enjolras. He nods. Enjolras takes a deep breath and strides over to the two men, who have now taken to fistfighting over the gun.
“Hey, stop-“ Enjolras begins.
Rob looks up, wrenches the gun out of the other man’s hands, and says: “It’s none of your damn business-“
Just as he manages to get a grip on the gun, there’s a bang. Enjolras looks up at him, eyes wide. Rob looks like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. Enjolras feels something warm pool in his shirt, feels something draining away… he reaches a hand to his chest, and finds it drenched in blood.
His blood.
Time seems to slow down. The world starts to spin, and everything melds together. What’s he looking at? Where’s Les Amis? Where is he?
Enjolras looks towards his side. He thinks he sees the man with the blue eyes, but maybe he’s just… he’s hallucinating, that’s all it is. The man looks back at Enjolras. He looks… confused. Why does he look confused?
Enjolras closes his eyes, and then he drops.