A/N: Hello, everyone! So here is yet another Les Miserables story for you all, and my longest fanfic published yet. (Which is pretty sad if you think about it. Seriously, my longest fanfiction yet is barely one thousand words long.) And this time it (almost) has a plot. Though, really, it's mostly dialogue, so I guess that doesn't count. I recently began reading The Social Contract by Jean Jacques Rousseau, too, so just try and bear with me and my references to Chapter Seven. Oh, and I apologize in advance; I kind of turned Combeferre into the bane of every literary theorist's existence… Sorry about that. Anyway, enjoy! And review, please!
"Well, I still think it's stupid to assume that the State needs no assurance from its leader. Rousseau even mentions in the following paragraph that there may be individuals within the State with opinions differing from those of the whole, so how is it he goes about assuming that those individuals will follow their leader blindly? It just doesn't add up."
"No, you don't understand, Courfeyrac, what he's trying to say is that the State has a duty to obey its sovereign so that he may maintain order. There will always be a dissenting opinion, and in such cases, it is only prudent to submit to the will of the majority."
"And by that you mean the sovereign."
"No, by that I mean—" He cut him off.
"And besides, how do you go about assuming what Rousseau meant by anything, Combeferre? Do you claim to be omniscient, or have you just managed to finally solve the mystery of author intent?"
Feuilly sighed heavily. "Oh, Lord, not this author intent thing again."
"Yes this author intent thing again! Because apparently Monsieur The Important Medical Student has never taken a class in the humanities over the course of his lifetime."
"I have too taken classes in the humanities, as you very well know, Courfeyrac! I just refuse to believe that an author's intent can be fully left out of the equation when discussing any literary work. You claim that there is no way to verify an author's meaning behind anything, so it's irrelevant, but I think that French speaks plainly enough."
A sardonic laugh carried from across the room, managing to sound derisive even as it was slurred with wine. "French speaks plainly, you say?" Grantaire quipped, startling the others by his entrance into the conversation. "I'm afraid I must disagree with you there, my friend. For what could be so cryptic as this strange language we speak? How are you to know that I mean one thing when I say another, or whether I'm merely putting on a farce? It is not for you to read into the minds of men. That is something reserved for the gods alone, and let it remain that way, lest you should find yourself lost in this madness we call 'thought.' For no one speaks his exact mind, of that I can be sure."
"Though you seem to have no qualms speaking without using your mind," Enjolras retorted, talking aloud for the first time that night.
For a moment, Grantaire seemed stricken, but his easy smile returned soon enough that no one bothered to examine him too closely. "And so the mighty Apollo has condescended to join the rest of us humble mortals in conversation," he declared, a little louder than necessary. "How blessed we are to receive his guidance! Though do not admire him for too long—he is sure to blind you if you look at him directly. I begin to doubt, however, if you can look at him directly. One cannot see what is hidden—whether it hides behind trees or behind ideals makes no difference."
"That is enough!" Enjolras exclaimed, cutting Grantaire off with a snarl. "Who are you to speak of hiding with that wine bottle in your hand?" The room went silent as he slowly rose to his feet, marching towards the drunkard's table with an eerie deliberation. "And you have the gall to call me a coward?"
Grantaire raised an eyebrow, seemingly unaware of the tense atmosphere inside the café. "Ah, but I did not call you a coward, did I? You did that of your own accord." Enjolras flinched, clenching his fists. "In fact, Apollo, it would seem you had this on your mind earlier. Perhaps it was not even I who brought up this topic in you. Perhaps it was—"
SLAP
A hush fell over the room as Enjolras' hand connected with the drunkard's face, the sound of silence louder than the resounding crack as skin struck skin.
"I…" Grantaire began. "Enjolras…"
"Get. Out."
Without another word, Grantaire stumbled to his feet, shooting a pleading glance in the revolutionary's direction. Enjolras, however, refused to look his way, instead glaring fiercely at his shoes, red-faced and eyes burning with shame.
"I didn't mean… I'm sorry if—"
"I told you to leave."
"…Yes, sir."
No one spoke as Grantaire trudged out the door. All they could do was stare in silence as the café door swung shut, once again closing them off from the rest of the world.
It was several minutes before anyone spoke.
"Enjolras… don't you think that might've been a bit harsh?" Jehan said quietly.
"No."
Another few moments of awkward silence passed before Courfeyrac feebly attempted to rekindle his argument, Combeferre countering with less enthusiasm than could ever really be used to maintain such a conversation. They maintained it, though, if only for the sake of a return to some semblance of normalcy. Eventually, the rest of Les Amis followed suit, picking up on their conversations where they left off. Enjolras didn't say a word for the rest of the evening.
Grantaire's face swam about in his mind, expression shocked and hurt, his words replaying over and over again in his head.
One cannot see what is hidden—whether it hides behind trees or ideals makes no difference.
No, one couldn't see what was hidden.
But Grantaire could.