Work Text:
Retiring from the Musain that night, Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac congregate at Enjolras’ lodgings afterwards, as they often do. As always, there are papers to sort out, correspondences to be drafted, and the meeting to be recorded. Combeferre takes the first job, Courfeyrac the second, and Enjolras the third.
Only an hour after settling down, Courfeyrac finishes his writings with a flourish. “There!” he exclaims, triumphant, holding the finished paper out for Enjolras to inspect.
Enjolras takes the paper, Combeferre moving in order to read over his shoulder. Invested as they are on reading, neither Enjolras nor Combeferre notice as Courfeyrac gathers his remaining papers and goes to fetch his coat and hat.
“This is good.” Enjolras approves, his expression taking a turn towards concern as he sees Courfeyrac don his hat. “You are to leave us so soon?”
“I am afraid so, my friend. I suspect Marius may be in need of a place to stay tonight, and, forgetful as he is, I doubt he had the sense to bring the key I gave him.”
Enjolras contemplates this. “And how is Marius? I have to confess, I am quite surprised you have not yet convinced him to return to our meetings.”
Courfeyrac laughs, “Believe me, Enjolras, it is not through lack of trying, I assure you! I fear we quite overwhelmed him last time.”
Anyone paying attention to Combeferre at this moment may have noticed the dark blush that spread itself over his already dark cheeks. Enjolras, however, remained oblivious in his own musings, and Courfeyrac was far too invested in recounting news of Marius to the effect that Combeferre’s embarrassment went unobserved.
Enjolras hums thoughtfully. “Well, don’t hesitate to let him know he has a welcome reception with us,” and with that he nods, apparently believing the matter closed. If Marius was not to visit again, there was not much that could be done; though his political sensibilities had not been a perfect fit for Les Amis de l’ABC, Enjolras had no doubt that the young man would have been an excellent addition to their cause. In a way, it was a shame to think he would not return- but Courfeyrac would no doubt make good on his promise of attempting further recruitment. Until then, there were other matters to attend.
Just as Enjolras is about to bid Courfeyrac goodbye, his friend speaks again: “I rather think he has larger priorities right now, anyway.”
“Larger priorities?” interrupts Combeferre, recovered from his earlier embarrassment. “By which you mean…”
“He fancies himself in love!”
“In love?” questions Enjolras.
The laugh of a young man is a delightful sound, and at that moment Courfeyrac’s laughter could have outmatched that of a thousand others. “Yes, in love. I know you to be quite unfamiliar with the notion, of course, Enjolras, but do try to keep up! Marius believes himself quite the romantic- and not in the same way as our dear fellow Prouvaire, either… No, he’s quite unfit for the revolution. But who knows! He may surprise us yet.”
Combeferre hums in thought. “Being so inclined does not dictate he should revoke his place with us; there are many among our leagues who are similarly involved with another, yet still devoted to progress.”
Nodding his head, Enjolras agrees. “Combeferre is right. He need not choose between two ideals. Love is at the heart of why we fight, after all. Besides, I am not… unfamiliar with the concept-”
“Forgive me, Enjolras!” Courfeyrac laughs, placing a hand on Enjolras shoulder in jest. “I did not mean to forget about your dear Patria. We all know how strongly you feel towards her.”
Enjolras frowns, ready to retort, but Courfeyrac sweeps down to place a kiss against his cheek in farewell, before repeating the action with Combeferre. “I will see you both tomorrow, I expect! Do give Joly my regards if you visit him tonight, Combeferre, he was in a bout of fever last I saw of him.” At Combeferre’s nod, Courferyac grins. “Goodnight, citizens!”
The door closes behind him with a ‘thump’, and Combeferre is the first on his feet to ensure it is locked once more. Enjolras spends a few more moments contemplating Courfeyrac’s words, before shaking himself out of his stupor.
“Is everything alright?” asks Combeferre, returning to his seat.
“Everything is fine,” replies Enjolras, beginning to write once more.
Combeferre nods. The two men acquire a comfortable silence, as Combeferre reads through Courfeyrac’s work and Enjolras pens out more of the progress they’d made in their meeting earlier. This is an activity that is only ever done in the company of one another, in a locked room, at nightfall. After they have retired for the night, the writings will be kept in a locked drawer beside Enjolras’ bed. Courfeyrac has often expressed some doubt at the need for such secrecy, but Enjolras maintains that it is a necessity; he will not take chances with their aim, nor with his friends’ lives.
Usually, they are able to achieve a substantial amount of work in the evenings they spend together, but tonight Enjolras is distracted. He does not slack off from his duties, but he is slower to finish his lines and will pause for moments at a time before returning to his work.
“Something is troubling you,” says Combeferre, who has finished his reading and has taken to watching Enjolras.
Enjolras takes a moment to finish the sentence he is writing before his eyes meet Combeferre’s. “Nothing of importance, I assure you.”
“But it is something.”
“It is hardly worth the effort of giving thought to, never mind voice.”
“And yet you appear to be thinking about it.”
Enjolras’ head bows. “Fine. We may discuss it quickly, but I ask of you, do not mock me for this.”
“I would never.”
“Do you think me incapable of love?”
Those words, spoken from the voice of conviction and revolution itself, could not more have shocked Combeferre at that moment. “Of course not,” he replies immediately. “But I must admit, I did not expect such a question to be coming from you.”
“Courfeyrac’s comments earlier seems to have disturbed me more than I would like. I confess myself quite unsettled by his words.”
“I am sure he did not mean you any offence, Enjolras.”
“No, of course not. I would not dare to assume he did. It is not within his nature.”
“Then how did you come to be so fixated on the subject?”
“It is something I have heard before. I believe Bossuet made a comment once, about how cold I appear. Also in jest, of course, after I myself had joked that Patria would be my one and only mistress, but nevertheless… There is no place for revolution once it has been severed from the love upon which it is built.”
“Be that as it may, we’ve well established that you are not lacking in your love for France. Courfeyrac may have been teasing, but do not think he would look down on you for it- rather, I’d say many of us admire you because of it, myself included. You need not trouble yourself with thoughts such as these.”
“It is not just for France whom I love.”
“Oh?”
“Bossuet, Joly, Feuilly, Bahorel, Jehan, Courfeyrac… Grantaire. Yourself.”
Combeferre smiles. “Of course.” he says fondly, laying a hand upon Enjolras’. “None of us would truly ever presume you did not.” At Enjolras’ raised eyebrows, Combeferre sighs. “Yes, Enjolras, even him. For all his talk and his… extravagancies, Grantaire knows you have as much heart as the rest of us. I dare say if you were to ask him he would claim you have more, even.” At this, Enjolras shakes his head lightly; he does not want to think of Grantaire and his inconsistencies right now, it gives him a headache.
Combeferre edges his chair closer to Enjolras, studying his expression. It is not often that he cannot look at Enjolras’ face and understand exactly what his friend is feeling- thinking, even- but now Enjolras appears as unreadable to him as a book written in a foreign tongue. Combeferre has seen this expression before, however- it is the look most often found upon his face after an unbidden passion has taken hold and driven him to spontaneous oration. Combeferre is not used to seeing Enjolras so deeply and distantly contemplative when it is simply the two of them, and he half-wonders if he ought to shake the man awake, out of the depths he has fallen into within his own mind.
He does not. Eventually, Enjolras’ eyes meet his, preceding a question. “And what of Eros? Romantic love?” he asks, quiet. “I think I’d be capable of that, if our fight for a Republic didn’t require the opposite.”
Combeferre feels as though he has been thrown off balance; never has Enjolras expressed in himself a desire for romance, nor a particular tolerance for it. Combeferre never would have dreamed that these thoughts had been the product of Enjolras’ mind, for his friend seemed so disinclined towards any type of romantic endeavour that Combeferre had considered him completely adverse to such things.
“I… do not think you’d be incapable, no,” Combeferre says after some time, choosing his words carefully. “And as much as I wish it were not so, I understand your reservations. But were we not in agreement, earlier, when discussing the Pontmercy boy? I thought you agreed with me that love and liberty need not be separate endeavours.”
“Perhaps,” Enjolras says evenly. “Although I find myself compromised in that they must not be separated at all. Understand, Combeferre, that I have wholly devoted myself to our cause, not from abnegation to an ideal but in allegiance with one. I do not reject love but use it. As such, I feel it would be improper for me to also give myself so wholly to another, knowing that I do not have my whole self with which to do so.”
Enjolras does not break eye contact with Combeferre as he speaks, bowing his head slightly as he finishes. The words are significant, and they settle heavily in Combeferre’s mind.
He understands Enjolras’ words for what they are: an explanation. Not an apology, because Combeferre would never ask him to apologise for this, and Enjolras must know that. All the same, there is a certain pain said to take place within the heart in times such as these, and Combeferre felt it most ardently as Enjolras spoke.
“You need not explain yourself to me, my friend.”
Enjolras looks up abruptly; a solemn shake of his head all the disagreement he offers. Impulsively, Combeferre takes his hand, allowing the pen to fall to the table as Enjolras’ grip on it slackens.
Combeferre carefully lifts Enjolras’ hand to meet his face, touching his lips to the other man’s knuckles slowly and reverently. Enjolras holds his gaze. Combeferre does not expect the gesture to be returned so he is without disappointment when Enjolras doesn’t move to reciprocate.
Just as Combeferre had understood the meaning behind Enjolras’ words, Enjolras understands what Combeferre means to confess through the kiss. He bows his head once more until their foreheads are pressed together. Combeferre brings his other hand up to rest against Enjolras’ cheek, but does not attempt more; he understands that any further advances would not be welcome, even if they may be desired.
If circumstances were other than what they were, Combeferre wouldn’t think twice about pressing his lips to Enjolras’. If their situation were different, Enjolras would happily accept, and perhaps reciprocate. If times were kinder, they could give each other their whole selves, uncompromisingly.
Eventually, Combeferre draws his hand away from Enjolras’ face, and Enjolras leans out of the embrace, gifting Combeferre with a grateful, yet slightly melancholy smile before reclaiming his pen from where it had fallen and continuing with his writings.
Their hands remain joined on the table for the rest of the night.