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What is the point, Enjolras thinks angrily, of living in a world where things like Facebook exist, if they're made redundant by the fact that he doesn't know the names of the people he's searching for?
He slams his laptop shut, overwhelmed, and digs the heel of his palm into his eyes to stop the tears. "Fuck," he swears, softly.
Combeferre is at his side in an instant, a hand resting comfortingly on Enjolras' shoulder.
"No luck?" he asks.
Enjolras shakes his head.
"As we suspected, then. Everyone will have different names now, like us."
Enjolras knew that would be the case- had been preparing himself for it, even. It doesn't make knowing it any easier.
Despair isn't something that comes easy to him; he's never been one to wallow in it when there are things to be done. Now, though, it's harder. It's been two months since he bumped into Combeferre in a used bookstore, two months since he regained the memories of his past life, two months since he started searching for the rest of their friends. Two months and not a single lead.
"They're here, I know it," he tells Combeferre, as he's been doing every night since they found each other.
"I know," Combeferre says, and his hand moves to rub circles on Enjolras' back. Enjolras likes it when he does that. "We'll find them."
Enjolras closes his eyes and hopes that Combeferre is right.
Combeferre is having a nightmare.
Enjolras can tell because he's become practically accustomed to Combeferre's sleeping habits over the past few months, just as Combeferre has done so with Enjolras' own. They moved in together as soon as possible after that first encounter, and it's possibly one of the best decisions Enjolras has ever made. He doesn't know how he ever slept without Combeferre by his side before.
Right now, however, there's a light frown on Combeferre's face and the hand at his side is balled up into a fist. His head jerks in tiny movements and his eyebrows twitch. Enjolras curls up closer to him and wonders if this will be one of the nights where that's all it takes.
Unfortunately, it isn't.
The nightmare continues for a little while longer before Combeferre jolts upright with a gasp, arm reaching out to grab someone who isn't there. Enjolras follows him up and slowly wraps an arm around his shoulders. Unlike Enjolras, Combeferre likes contact right after a nightmare. Sure enough, he slowly comes back to himself, letting his arm fall and turning his body into Enjolras' embrace.
They stay like that for a while, the only sounds being their slow breathing in the dark room. Eventually, Combeferre lies back down, Enjolras following suit.
Sleep doesn't come that easily to either of them after that.
"Coffee?" Combeferre calls as he enters the apartment, closing the door behind him.
"Yes please!" Enjolras calls back from his position on the couch. "Are you busy on Saturday?"
Combeferre raises his eyebrows. "I think you know that the answer is 'no'. Why?"
Enjolras smiles. "Poetry reading."
Combeferre joins Enjolras on the sofa after making their coffee, looking at the event details from over his shoulder.
"An ode to sci-fi: connecting Keats and Kubrick," he reads. "You want to go?"
Enjolras stares. "He could be there-"
"He could not be."
"It's worth a try."
Combeferre says nothing. Enjolras frowns, waiting for a response.
Eventually, Combeferre sighs. "How many poetry readings have you been to in the last few months?"
Too many, Enjolras thinks, but doesn't say. He's been to poetry readings and boxing classes and lectures in subjects he doesn't study. He's spent hours online looking at small businesses in Paris, through art websites and literature publications and craft stores. He's even been to a few wine tasting events, as well as almost every nightclub in Paris.
"Jehan- all of them- they might not even be in the same country," Combeferre says quietly. "Never mind the same city."
"We were both here," Enjolras points out. "It stands to reason that the others will be in the same place, too."
Combeferre is still silent. Enjolras feels a desperate need to convince him. Combeferre and him, they keep each other going, help each other stay in orbit. They can't give up, not yet.
Fortunately, Enjolras doesn't need to put in the effort to change Combeferre's mind, for Combeferre seems to do it himself. "You're right," he says suddenly. "There's no harm in trying. We should go."
Saturday night finds them at a small bar about half an hour's bus journey away from the city centre.
The venue is small and unassuming, the inside dimly lit but bustling with a reasonable sized crowd. Combeferre goes to the bar to get them both a drink whilst Enjolras takes two seats- close enough to be in the line of sight from the stage.
Enjolras has never much enjoyed poetry, and the past few months haven't done much to inspire him otherwise. He sees the appeal, of course, but it's hard for him to get into the mindset to be able to truly appreciate what he's hearing. He usually just trusts Combeferre's opinion on what's good.
For all his reluctance, Combeferre enjoys the poetry readings far more than Enjolras. He seems actually engaged with the performers, and he even smiles at some of the lines.
Sometimes, at the end of a poem, Combeferre will lean over and whisper to him.
"That one was about the battle between technology and nature," he'll say. Or, "that one was a little heavy-handed with the space metaphor." Sometimes, simply, "that one was really good."
Enjolras only smiles in response.
The event ends. They don't find Jehan, and they don't talk about it afterwards.
The bus rise home is quiet. Halfway through the journey Combeferre takes Enjolras' hand and squeezes. I'm sorry, it seems to say. Enjolras closes his eyes and lets his head drop on Combeferre's shoulder.
Months pass, and they remain no closer to finding the others. Enjolras tries not to let it get to him, but he doesn't always succeed. Combeferre will often find him deep in the pages of a google search or up to his arms in nineteenth century French history, anything to try and get a sense of where there friends are now.
On the worst type of days Combeferre will simply sit with him, giving Enjolras his company until they both feel a little less alone. Enjolras has always been grateful for Combeferre's presence in his life, but perhaps now more than ever.
He knows the rest of Les Amis de l'ABC are out there, and he knows they'll find them. They managed it once, after all.
This is the thought he clings to when things seem hopeless, whenever they come to another dead end.
He won't give up on them. He refuses to.
Enjolras breathes in the crisp Winter air as he and Combeferre make their way back to their new apartment. Enjolras is trying his best to listen as Combeferre tells him a story involving one of his new students and an accident with a fragile display case. He smiles as Combeferre gets so lost in his story that he starts gesturing with his arms, voice animated.
Combeferre flings his arms out in imitation of the student at the same time as a man, not looking where he's going, runs directly into their path. Enjolras can only watch as the full force of Combeferre's arm connects with the man's nose, knocking him backwards.
"Shit," Combeferre says. "I am so, so, sorry, I didn't see you there, I just-"
He cuts off, and when Enjolras offers his hand to help the stranger back up, he understands why. It's all he can do not to let go in shock.
"Bossuet?" he asks before he thinks to stop himself.
The stranger- no, Bossuet- gapes at them for a long minute. Then, he uses his grip on Enjolras' hand to launch himself forwards and into Enjolras' arms, clinging tightly. Enjolras stumbles back with the sudden weight, but grips Bossuet back just as hard.
"Oi!" comes a voice in the distance. "You, over there!"
"Oh dear," Bossuet says.
Enjolras swears, eyeing the three men running directly towards them. "Reintroductions may have to wait until later," he says.
The three of them share a look and then they're running, Bossuet in the lead, Enjolras and Combeferre following through alleys and side streets. Eventually they come to a stop next to a small bakery and Bossuet leans against the side, panting.
"Well," he says. "This has been an eventful morning."
The men, Bossuet explains as he leads them back to his apartment, were chasing him because they'd confused him with someone else. "Which is fair," Bossuet says, "as I did use that name to sign in to the library the other day."
Bossuet bears no injuries from his collision with Combeferre's arm aside from a sore nose and a slight graze on his elbow.
("Nice bumping into you," was the first thing he'd said once the initial adrenalin from the chase had worn off. Enjolras hasn't been able to stop smiling since.)
"No need to worry," Bossuet assures Combeferre, who is still apologizing profusely. "Joly will patch me right up." He walks up to a block of flats and punches in a code.
Enjolras stops still in his tracks and has to be pulled forward by Combeferre, lest the door fall shut on them.
"Joly?" he asks, hardly daring to believe it.
Bossuet grins.
It is indeed Joly who opens the door to them, smiling at Bossuet, then looking behind him straight at Enjolras and Combeferre. Enjolras can see the moment he realises it's them, the comprehension settling into his features.
"What..." he asks, eyes darting between them and Bossuet. "How...?"
"Let us in and we'll tell you," Bossuet says, laughing.
The moment they're through the door Joly grabs both of them in a hug that lasts a long time. When they pull away Enjolras is grateful to see that he isn't the only one with tears in his eyes.
"You're here," Joly whispers, hands in front of his mouth like he can't believe it. "You're real."
They spend the night at Joly and Bossuet's, catching up and reminiscing in equal measure. Enjolras learns that he and Combeferre aren't the only ones who have been looking for the others, and Joly graciously shows them the research folder on his laptop, lists of all the places he's checked and lists of all the places he has yet to check.
When asked if they've found anyone else, Joly says no.
Enjolras tries not to let himself be too disappointed by that. After all, if they found Joly and Bossuet, they can find the others.
Beside him, as if reading his thoughts, Combeferre squeezes his hand tightly.
It gets a little bit easier to breathe, after finding Joly and Bossuet.
The four of them keep in regular contact. Enjolras meets Bossuet for coffee every Thursday and walks Joly back from his labs on Wednesday evenings. Combeferre and Joly have study dates on a weekly basis, and Bossuet often comes over to watch the reality shows that Combeferre loves, but Enjolras has never cared for. They dedicate Friday nights for group dinner, taking it in turns to cook.
It's nice. Enjolras is glad to have them back, even if there is an ever-growing ache in his chest for the rest of his friends.
Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Jehan, Feuilly. Grantaire.
He misses them so much it's almost a physical thing, and he can tell the others feel the same way.
"We're making good progress on the list," Joly says one day. Enjolras tries to feel as optimistic about that as Joly obviously is, but he worries. What if they get to the end of the list and are no closer than when they started?
"We'll find them," Combeferre assures him when he gives voice to the doubt in the darkness of their bedroom. "The list might lead us to them, it might not. But we will find them."
Enjolras nods, burying his face in Combeferre's chest as Combeferre presses his lips to Enjolras' head.
"-eventually linked to stratospheric ozone depletion, leading to their eventual ban in the Montreal Protocol of 1987-"
Enjolras hums as Combeferre reads aloud from the textbook Joly had leant him. It's been a long day and Enjolras is beyond tired, practically sinking into Combeferre's touch as Combeferre uses his free hand to gently mess with Enjolras' curls.
"-widely regarded as one of the first international environmental- are you humming because you're invested in the history of hydrofluorocarbons or because you like it when I play with your hair?"
Enjolras hums again. "Both," he decides.
Combeferre laughs, but he doesn't cease his movements. "You're like a cat," he tells Enjolras, before continuing to read.
Enjolras lets the lull of Combeferre's voice lead him into something like slumber as his eyes drop shut. It feels like only moments have passed before he's being shaken awake again, his phone thrust into his hands.
"It's been buzzing like crazy for the past few minutes," Combeferre says in explanation. "It might be important."
Enjolras groggily checks his messages. He's had eight missed calls, all from Joly and a message which simply gives a location and 'COME NOW!!! URGENT'. Enjolras sits up quickly, passing his phone to show Combeferre the text.
They're out the door within the next minute.
The location Joly sends them to is a small technology repair outlet just outside of the city centre. The glowing red sign reads 'open' despite the late hour and Enjolras looks to Combeferre in confusion.
Combeferre simply shrugs and pushes open the door.
"Joly?" Enjolras calls when they wonder inside, closing the door behind him.
It's not Joly that greets them inside, however.
"Enjolras? Combeferre?" Feuilly says, staring at them in shock. "Fuck, it really is you..." he trails off.
Enjolras recovers from the shock quickly, and then he's launching himself across the room at Feuilly, gripping the other man tightly. Feuilly laughs, wrapping his arms around Enjolras in turn. When they break apart, Feuilly clasps his hand in his own. "It's good to see you," he says quietly.
"It's good to see you too," Enjolras smiles, stepping out of the way to let Combeferre greet Feuilly as well.
Enjolras looks further into the small shop and sees Joly and Bossuet sit behind the counter. The latter launches into an explanation as soon as reintroductions are finished. Apparently, Bossuet had broken his phone earlier in the evening, and this was the only repair place in a twenty mile radius that was still open. Once inside, they'd immediately recognised Feuilly and Bossuet had deliberately brushed his hand against Feuilly's when handing his phone over, causing a lifetime's worth of memories to flood back into Feuilly's mind.
Enjolras can recall all too well what that had felt like. Even though he and Combeferre had been going through the same thing, suddenly remembering a past life was a lot to process.
Feuilly seems to be taking it well. The five of them sit and talk until well into the night, when Feuilly finally admits that he should lock up and go home to rest before he has to open again tomorrow.
When the time comes for them to part ways, Enjolras finds himself reluctant. "I'll be here tomorrow," Feuilly assures him. "And the day after that, and the day after that. I just found you all again; I'm not letting you go."
Enjolras laughs a watery laugh.
On their way home, Combeferre tangles their hands together. "Four to go," he says, smiling.
June arrives, bringing with it a strange, pervasive sense of dread. It's the first time in a while that Enjolras can remember feeling sick with panic, and it's the first time in a long time that Combeferre has had to talk him down from an attack.
Combeferre's nightmares become more frequent, too. It's rare that he sleeps through the night without one; Enjolras does what he can, but he fears it's not enough.
"Well this sucks," says Bossuet, huddled under a pile of blankets on Enjolras and Combeferre's sofa. They'd decided to face the night of June fifth as a group, all crowded in one room like a strange imitation of a children's sleepover.
"I've always felt a bit weird around this time of year," Feuilly remarks. "Maybe this is why."
From beside Enjolras, Combeferre hums in thought. Enjolras can practically see the cogs whirring in his head.
It's Joly who starts the conversation about that day. Enjolras hadn't realised how much he'd been holding in until they began to speak about it, memories and words leaving his mouth in a rush.
He speaks about shooting the police spy and the artillery sergeant, about seeing good men fall, and about a hand slipping out of his own. Things he's never even told Combeferre before, though of course Combeferre is here now, and they hold each other through it all.
He listens to them each in turn, and it helps, to know that he's not alone in this.
They may not be complete yet, but they're all here, and that's what matters. They will find the others. Enjolras knows it like he knows his own name.
Until then, they have each other.
The first week of June comes to a close, and with it the suffocating feeling of the past few days gradually starts to disappear.
Combeferre starts research into their past lives a few weeks later.
"It's not official," he explains. "I just feel like we should have some kind of record, to document our experiences."
Enjolras is skeptical, at first, but Combeferre proposes it at the weekly group dinner and the others seem to be in favour of it, so he agrees.
Combeferre interviews them each individually, working through both their current life and their past life. Enjolras doesn't know the full purpose behind some of the questions but he answers to the best of his ability nevertheless.
There's not much they don't know about each other by this point, but there is one thing that he's so far avoided speaking about.
"Grantaire was with me when I died," he confesses, finally, when it would feel too much like lying not to mention it. Enjolras hates lying to Combeferre.
His throat feels suddenly thick but he forces himself to continue. "He declared himself one of us. He believed, in the end, in what we were trying to achieve. I saw it."
Combeferre presses pause on the recording and pulls Enjolras forward into a hug. Enjolras lets his tears fall on Combeferre's sweater and tries not to feel too pathetic about it.
"I'm so scared," he tells Combeferre later that night. "I'm so scared we won't find him."
"We'll find him," Combeferre whispers. "We'll find all of them. I promise."
Enjolras has always been involved in activism to some extent, even before he'd met Combeferre and remembered who he used to be all those centuries ago.
Having more of his friends back in his life only drives him further forward and he gradually allows himself to get more involved with local struggles, Combeferre, Bossuet, Joly, and Feuilly by his side.
This is the first protest any of them have attended since remembering. It's not particularly large, but that doesn't matter; Enjolras can still feel the prickle of fear under his skin, an unwelcome reminder of why he usually avoids this kind of thing. There are multiple ways to make change, and not all of them involve marching on the streets, he knows, but Enjolras wouldn't be able to rest if he didn't at least try.
Having the four of them by his side helps. Combeferre's hand is steady on his back whenever there's a loud noise, Joly's elbow linked through his own against the push and pull of the croud.
The march goes smoothly; there's only one commotion, towards the end, what looks to be a brief scuffle between a protestor and a police officer.
Enjolras is running over before he's fully registered what he's doing, ignoring Combeferre calling out his name as he does so.
For a moment, that protestor had looked an awful lot like-
"Wait, is that... Bahorel?" asks Combeferre, caught up with him. Enjolras nods. It only takes a minute for the others to reach them.
The five of them watch the situation carefully. Bahorel doesn't look like he's in any real trouble, but that doesn't stop Enjolras' heart from trying to beat its way out of his chest. He grabs Combeferre's shoulder for support as Bahorel flips the officer off before turning and walking away.
"Hey!" Joly shouts, waving as Bahorel turns to look at who shouted him.
Bahorel points to himself as if to check that it's him Joly is addressing and Joly nods vigorously. Bahorel tentatively makes his way over.
"That was very cool," Joly says, holding his hand out for Bahorel to shake. "Nice to meet you."
Bahorel takes Joly's hand. "You too-"
Enjolras can see the moment it happens. Bahorel's eyes widen slightly, and his grip on Joly's arm slackens. It takes approximately five seconds, and then Bahorel is gaping at all of them before his mouth curves into a huge grin.
Joly is closest to Bahorel, and so it's him who gets swept up in a hug first, followed by Bossuet. Enjolras grips the fabric of Bahorel's jacket tight when it's his turn, and Bahorel slaps him on the shoulder before moving to hug Combeferre, then Feuilly.
"Right," Bahorel says, looking across at them all with a dazed expression. "I'm not entirely sure what the fuck is happening right now, but I think I just remembered a past life, so... who's up for a pint?"
Bahorel fits into their group as naturally as he had the first time he'd met them, in the life before.
With each addition to their group, Enjolras begins to feel a little bit more like himself. He tells Combeferre this one evening and Combeferre just smiles at him, impossibly soft.
"It'll be a year, soon." Combeferre points out one night. "Since we met, since we remembered."
Enjolras blinks, but upon checking the calendar, finds that he's right. "That long?"
Combeferre smiles. "A year isn't so long," he says.
All things considered, Enjolras supposes he's right. "Maybe we'll have found the others by then," he suggests.
"Maybe."
"Enjolras," says Combeferre, starting upright from where he'd been reading his e-mails, "Enjolras, look at this!"
Enjolras tears his eyes away from his own screen to peer at Combeferre's. The e-mail Combeferre has pulled up is from one of the poetry night mailing lists he'd subscribed to in their first few months of trying to find their friends.
Enjolras squints as he reads the heading and then reads it again, convinced he's seeing things.
"An evening with Jean Prouvaire?" he reads out loud, looking up to Combeferre for confirmation. "How?"
"I have no idea," Combeferre says, just as baffled.
A quick google search for the name Jean Prouvaire pulls up only a few results. Eventually, Combeferre stumbles on a wordpress site which uses the domain name prouvairepoet.fr.
"It's an alias," Combeferre says, sounding awed.
"Why didn't I find anything when I googled all our names?"
Combeferre shakes his head. "It must be a new site."
They're both silent for a while. "What do you think?" Enjolras asks eventually.
"I think it's too much of a coincidence to be a coincidence," says Combeferre. He grins. "Looks like we're headed to another poetry reading."
They all attend the reading. Once Combeferre had explained the weird circumstances, each one of their friends had wanted to be a part of figuring out the mystery.
"I don't understand," says Feuilly as he and Enjolras are sent to retrieve the drinks. "If it is him, how can he remember?"
"Maybe he found one of the others," Enjolras suggests, trying not to betray how desperately he wants it to be true.
They end up seated near the front, in prime view of the stage, and there's a hush in the crowd as the event begins.
There are a few other acts on the lineup before Jean Prouvaire and Enjolras tries his best to be patient as they pour their hearts out on stage. He claps politely as the last act finishes and holds his breath as the MC announces the main act.
Combeferre grabs his hand tightly as Jehan walks on to the stage- for that is definitely Jehan, Enjolras is certain of it. From his other side, Bahorel sucks in a deep breath.
Jehan positions himself at the microphone and looks out into the crowd. Enjolras sees his eyes skate over them before widening, sees his hands freeze halfway to his chest, mouth opening slightly.
To his credit, Jehan recovers quickly.
"Hello everyone," he says into the microphone. "My name is Jean Prouvaire, though some of you may know me as Jehan. Thank you for coming today. I will admit, I was going to start with a different poem, but there's another I'd like to share with you right now." Here he pauses, scanning the crowd until his eyes meet Enjolras'. "This is a poem called 'Love, the future is thine.'"
Jehan, when they finally wrestle their way to him, is just as surprised to see them as they are to see him.
He cries as he hugs each of them in turn, telling them how much he missed them whilst simultaneously berating them for turning up out of the blue and making him emotional whilst onstage.
"You're one to talk!" Bahorel exclaims as Jehan untangles himself from his arms. "That poem turned me into a sobbing mess!"
Jehan laughs with his head throne back before moving on to pull Enjolras in for a hug. "Did you like the poem?" he asks, voice quiet against Enjolras' ear.
"I did," Enjolras confirms. "I really, really did."
Jehan beams at him.
As it turns out, Jehan hasn't found Courfeyrac or Grantaire yet. Enjolras tries not to let his disappointment show when this piece of information is revealed, but he must, for Combeferre reaches out and squeezes his shoulder.
"But... then, how did you remember?" Bossuet asks.
Jehan just blinks at him. "I've always remembered. Was it... different, for all of you?"
Enjolras can practically feel Combeferre vibrating with enthusiasm next to him, ready to add this development to the research folder on his computer.
"I have so much research to do," he whispers, staring at Jehan in awe.
The next few weeks see Enjolras in high spirits; he's energised and able to channel that energy into causes that he truly cares about.
Combeferre smiles when he gets in from distributing copies of the political zine he's been helping to produce. The flat smells heavenly, and Enjolras makes his way over to the kitchen, where Combeferre is cooking dinner.
"Taste," Combeferre instructs, holding out a spoon.
Enjolras does as instructed and gives Combeferre a thumbs up. "It tastes amazing. What is it?"
Combeferre laughs. "Sweet potato dahl. I'm glad you like it, I feel like I've been here hours."
"Need any help?"
"No offence, but no. I love you but your skill is not in the kitchen."
Enjolras smiles. "I guess I'll set the table then, shall I?"
After dinner, they settle on the sofa, Enjolras' legs in Combeferre's lap, Combeferre's head on Enjolras' chest.
"What do you suppose he's doing right now?" Combeferre asks.
Enjolras doesn't need to ask who they're talking about. "I don't know," he says honestly. "Setting fire to the Front National's manifesto?"
Combeferre laughs. "Yeah. Probably."
They sit in silence for a while.
"I miss him," Combeferre says, his voice breaking.
Enjolras takes his hand. "Me too."
"Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five Four. Three. Two. One!" Enjolras cheers along with the rest of his friends when they reach zero.
He's immediately swept up into a hug by Combeferre, clinging tight. "Happy new year!" Combeferre says, shouting to be heard over all the noise.
"Happy new year!" Enjolras shouts back, pulling away.
He hugs the rest of his friends in turn and even accepts a glass of wine from Feuilly.
Feuilly nudges him as he hands it over. "What a year, huh?"
Enjolras laughs. "What a year, indeed."
Feuilly toasts him and then floats off to where Joly and Bossuet are stood chatting.
Enjolras smiles as he watches his friends, smiling and laughing all around him.
It's almost the perfect end to the year.
Almost.
"Courfeyrac never was on time for meetings," Combeferre says one evening in February, curled up in Enjolras' arms after a long day of searching every lawyers office in the city. "Makes sense that he'd be late in this case as well. Grantaire too, come to think of it."
Enjolras laughs in a way that sounds more like a sob.
The meeting is going well. Enjolras isn't sure how much engagement he expected, but fifteen doesn't seem like a bad turnout, considering this is their first meeting.
He gives a welcome speech, as he and Feuilly had prepared, and then Combeferre runs through the aims of their organisation- a collective for change, organising on behalf of those who have been left behind by the state. A small smattering of applause follows both their speeches, and Enjolras feels a burst of happiness creep up his chest.
It's a productive meeting; they emerge from it with five new members and a list of actions to follow up on. Enjolras and Feuilly are discussing how to communicate with the union representatives in the area when there's a knock at the door.
Enjolras frowns down at the clock on his phone. They still have this room booked for another ten minutes. He looks to Combeferre, who shrugs.
The person on the other side knocks again, and then, apparently too impatient to wait, turns the handle.
Enjolras drops his phone on the floor.
"Hey," Courfeyrac says from the doorway. "Am I too late for the meeting?"
Combeferre and Enjolras reach him at the same time, the impact sending all three of them sprawling. Enjolras isn't sure whether he's laughing or crying as he lays there, trapped by Courfeyrac's torso and laying awkwardly on Combeferre's arm.
They manage to orient themselves into a sitting position, and Enjolras gets his arms around Courfeyrac's waist, holding tight.
"How?" he asks, once he's recovered enough to form sentences. "How did you find us?"
Courfeyrac pulls a piece of paper from his pocket and holds it so Enjolras can read. He recognises it immediately. "You read the zine I contribute to?"
Courfeyrac nods. "I did. A friend gave it to me, said I'd be interested, so I read it, and then suddenly I had all these memories come flooding back to me, like- like, I don't even know what happened, really. But I knew it was you from the writing- you always did have terrible metaphors- and I traced the zine's publication to here, found out your first meeting was today."
"Our first meeting." Combeferre corrects.
Courfeyrac laughs, loud and wonderful, pulling them both close once more.
Once Enjolras and Combeferre find the strength to move, Courfeyrac is greeted warmly by the rest of their friends. Bossuet's hug is so enthusiastic that he lifts Courfeyrac off of his feet (and action that almost sees him return to the floor.)
"Took you long enough!" says Bahorel, slapping Courfeyrac on the back once they've broken apart.
"Well excuse me for circumstances beyond my control," Courfeyrac jibes back. "Is this everyone?"
"Not quite," says Bossuet. "We're still looking for Grantaire."
Courfeyrac looks around the room, as if expecting to find Grantaire hid underneath a table. "Well," he says, still smiling. "I'm sure he'll turn up."
Courfeyrac moves in with Combeferre and Enjolras not even a month later.
Enjolras and Combeferre may complement and correct each other, but they've never been truly complete without Courfeyrac. He's their warmth and their center, the one who binds them together like glue.
It's a relief, having him back. Enjolras is reminded to be grateful of that fact every time he sees Courfeyrac smile.
The only drawback is the bed- it's barely big enough for the three of them. One night, having had enough, Combeferre had woken up and ordered them a king-size. Enjolras eagerly awaits its delivery (even if he dreads getting it through the door) for he can't wait to get a good night's sleep again.
Not that it's not worth every crick in his neck to be able to spend the night with them by his side.
Things are going well.
They haven't found Grantaire yet, but that's alright. It's only been a month and Enjolras has, with Combeferre's help, worked out that they've found an average of one ami every two months.
There's still plenty of time.
April comes and goes, the weather getting slightly warmer each day. Meetings continue to go well, and they're starting to make actual connections with other groups in the city, helping more and more people as time goes on. Enjolras goes to Jehan's poetry evenings and regularly meets Feuilly for coffee. He lets Bahorel cajole him into taking up boxing, and promises Joly and Bossuet that he'll watch the new series of Drag Race with them, when it airs. The new bed arrives, and it is everything Enjolras had dreamed it would be.
They don't find Grantaire.
May is much the same, though it rains more, Enjolras never able to leave the flat without an umbrella.
He tries to busy himself with work and seeing his friends, but it's getting harder and harder to continue on as normal.
They still don't find Grantaire.
June rolls round again, and it's just as miserable as Enjolras remembers.
He can tell the others feel it too, due to the increased effort that goes into making plans for that first week. Barely a day passes where he doesn't see the faces of his friends, and it helps, it really does- but he can't be in a room with all of them without also becoming hyperaware of who they're still missing.
On the night of June the fifth, he lays curled up inbetween Combeferre and Courfeyrac, the three of them quiet but not sleeping. They know better to pretend by now and there's some comfort, to knowing that they're not alone, even in this.
"We'll find him, Enjolras." Combeferre says, his voice strong.
Enjolras doesn't want to give voice to his doubt in case saying it aloud makes it grow stronger, but he knows they must be able to read it in his face.
Courfeyrac makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat, pulling Enjolras closer to him. He eventually falls asleep like that, cradled between them, tears drying on his cheeks.
June passes. Then July. Then August, September, October, November.
They still haven't found Grantaire.
They're in a supermarket, the first time it happens.
Enjolras is trying to figure out whether the tin of ravioli he's holding is vegetarian or not when he glimpses a figure from the corner of his eye, and before he knows what he's doing he has abandoned the shopping trolley, heart pounding as he runs to catch up with them.
Enjolras reaches out to the man once he's within range, his mouth forming the first syllable of Grantaire's name.
Then the figure turns and a complete stranger stares at Enjolras in concern. Enjolras realises how strange he must look, mouth open and arm outstretched, and hurriedly backtracks.
"I'm sorry," he says, voice pounding in his ears. "I thought you were... someone else."
The stranger doesn't react except to move away, and Enjolras feels his legs attempt to give out beneath him.
Thankfully, Combeferre is at his side in an instant. "Where did you go?" he asks, then seems to realise something's wrong. "Enjolras?"
Enjolras only shakes his head in response, grateful when Combeferre nods to Courfeyrac to finish their shopping, guiding Enjolras outside.
They find a bench to sit on and Combeferre wraps his arm around Enjolras' shoulders, pulling him close.
"I thought it was him," Enjolras say eventually, when his breath returns to him. "I thought it was Grantaire, back there, but it wasn't, it was just..."
"Hey, it's okay. It's okay. We'll find him. I promise you, we'll find him."
Combeferre continues talking to him in the same vein until Courfeyrac returns. The three of them make their way back to the flat slowly, groceries in hand.
"Feeling alright?" Combeferre asks once they're inside.
Enjolras manages a nod. "I think I just need to be alone for a minute," he says.
Combeferre and Courfeyrac seem to understand, and let him disappear into the bedroom without complaint.
Enjolras stares at the ceiling and tries to remember to breathe.
"I really didn't want to start another year without finding him," Enjolras says to Courfeyrac. It's a few minutes after midnight, and celebrations are still in full swing, the two of them having snuck away to somewhere quieter.
Courfeyrac knocks their knees together. "I know," he says. "Me neither. It sucks, that he can't be here with us yet. But think how awesome it'll be when he is."
Enjolras sighs. "Do you honestly think we'll ever find him?" he asks.
"Of course we will. We have to."
"The chances of us ever just running into him are so slim," Enjolras points out. "And I can't think of anywhere to look that we haven't already tried."
Courfeyrac hooks a leg over one of Enjolras', tangling them together. "The chances of us all finding each other were slim too. But look at us."
Enjolras' follows his gaze to the party happening behind them. He smiles
"We'll find him one day," Courfeyrac says. "Until then, we still have each other."
"Enjolras!" Bahorel yells from across the room, "pass me the tape- oof!"
A laugh goes up around the room as the tape leaves Enjolras' hands and hits Bahorel square in the face.
"Thought you were supposed to be good at catch?" asks Courfeyrac.
"Fuck off," Bahorel replies pleasantly. To Bahorel's side, Jehan claps his hands together in delight.
They're putting together packs for the city's homeless population, a task which, apparently, involves a lot of people crammed into one room fighting over the same equipment as they package essential items.
"Next time," Feuilly says decisively, "we should get a robot to do this part for us."
"And let automation replace the worker?" Bossuet asks. "Shame on you, Feuilly."
Feuilly flips him off and Bossuet laughs loudly.
"Automation isn't an inherent evil," Enjolras argues. "Under socialism, automation would mean more freedom for workers."
Joly cheers.
"Ah, but if we lived in a socialist society, there should be no need for us to be doing this anyway," Courfeyrac points out. "In an ideal scenario, everyone would already be provided for."
The group take a moment to think that over, a quiet lull spreading through the air.
"It was a cool idea, though, Feuilly," Combeferre says after a minute.
"'Course it was," Feuilly says, under his breath. "Robots are fucking cool."
There's a brief silence before the room bursts into laughter. Enjolras finds himself grinning along, the pain of Grantaire's absence still present, but made bearable by by the company of those around him.
Enjolras is in a coffee shop with Combeferre and Courfeyrac when they finally find Grantaire. It's two years to the day that Enjolras met Combeferre and remembered his past life, and if he were a more poetic person, he might have found something beautiful in that.
Enjolras has just ordered a black coffee and is carrying it back with him towards a table when he first sees him. The cup drops from his fingers with a crash and Grantaire looks up at the movement, meeting Enjolras' eyes.
Enjolras hold his gaze for a long time, frozen in place until a waitress comes and tries to usher him out of the way so she can clean up the mess. Enjolras apologises, but then Combeferre and Courfeyrac are by his side, guiding him towards the exit.
"Grantaire," he manages, trying to twist around in their grip. "He's right there!"
"I know," Combeferre says. His hand is gentle on Enjolras' back. "Let me go talk to him."
Enjolras nods, letting Courfeyrac lead him outside as Combeferre goes to Grantaire. The following two minutes are the most excruciating period of his life.
Eventually, Combeferre steps back outside, Grantaire following him, something like wonder on his face.
This time, when their eyes meet, Enjolras sees recognition in Grantaire's gaze.
"Grantaire," he breathes, surging forwards and grabbing for Grantaire's hand, holding it tightly within his own. He wants to hug Grantaire, hold him close like he did with the rest of his friends, but this feels more important right now.
"Oh," Grantaire breathes, staring down at their joined hands, and Enjolras nods, almost deliriously happy.
Then Grantaire is pulling him forwards and Enjolras goes willingly, wrapping his arms around Grantaire's middle and smiling into the soft fabric of his scarf.
"The others are going to be so happy we finally found you," Courfeyrac says from behind him.
Enjolras pulls back just in time to see Grantaire's stunned expression. "The others?" he asks.
Enjolras smiles. "Yeah," he says. "The others."
Grantaire's reunion with the rest of Les Amis is just as heartwarming and chaotic as Enjolras had expected it to be. Jehan lets out a sound that Enjolras can only describe as a squeal, Bahorel cheers so loudly that it genuinely hurts Enjolras' eardrums, and Bossuet tackles Grantaire so hard that both of them end up on the ground, shortly followed by both Feuilly and Joly.
Combeferre stands by Enjolras' shoulder. "That's everyone," he says quietly.
Enjolras nods, warmth seeping into his bones at the site of all of his friends together again, laughing and smiling as if the distance between their lifetimes has evaporated. He closes his eyes and imagines a future that belongs to the nine of them. He can conceive of it clearly; that together they can help build and shape the world into a better place, just like they did before, and just like they'll continue to do for however many years and however many lifetimes they have left.
Enjolras smiles, the warmth of his friends and the light of the future shining bright all around him.