Combeferre was used to the musain being empty whenever he visited at night. It was a trek he made surprisingly often, after dusk had settled over Paris, lights were extinguished from windows and people were tucked safely into their beds. He went there to read, when his own apartment bore too many distractions from the words on the page, he could rest assured that the musain's door would always be open, and it would be empty as if it was an old friend, waiting for him to arrive.
That night, as Ferre entered, a thick leather bound book tucked neatly under one arm and a lantern hanging from his other hand, he heard something foreign. It was the sound of light crying, and with curiosity, concern and a slight pang of fear in his heart, he entered, the anemic light from his flame playing shadows on the walls.
At his regular table, in the very middle of the café, he saw a blonde man, hunched over himself, crying a melodious tune. The book was dropped, forgotten, and the lantern was set carefully on the table. Ferre slipped gracefully into the seat next to the man, placing his hand on his friend's back and rubbing gently.
The figure jumped slightly at the touch, then exhaled slowly. The crying had stopped, but it was clearly still right below the surface, waiting to be called on again. "Who is it?" the blonde man asked in a muffled voice.
"Etienne." Combeferre's fingers played softly through the other man's hair, but his mind was racing. He sometimes felt like he alone realized their so-called Apollo was nothing more than a man – nay, nothing more than a child – with a loud voice, high intentions and an unbreakable façade. Still, he had never seen their fearless leader quite in such a state.
An awkward sniff was omitted from the man's nose. "So I thought." A reasonable guess – who else would be in the musain at that ungodly hour but the two of them?
"Marcelin." He stated the name in a confident, stable voice that actually made Enjolras look up at him. Their eyes locked – bright blue into dull brown; the eyes of a leader into the eyes of his most faithful, and there was an intensity to their stare that could not be broken. "Tell me what's wrong." It was an order, not a request.
Enjolras looked away, his eyes downcast to the floor. He said nothing.
His friend reached out and took his hand – it was cold and somewhat gaunt, compared to Ferre's, which was warm and fleshy. The Apollo's face was blotched red, his eyes were wet, his back was bent and he was broken. "Please tell me. Maybe I can help."
He did not look up, but when he spoke, his voice was low and monotonous. "You can't."
"Try me." Combeferre's voice was patient and kind and everything he knew his leader wanted – nay, needed – to hear.
Enjolras looked up again, though he was careful not to let their eyes meet, and he covered his heart with his free hand. "There's nothing in here, Etienne."
"Don't be silly. I know exactly what's in there – enough dreams for twenty futures."
He sniffed. "Dreams that will never come true."
Ferre's brow furrowed disapprovingly. "Don't talk like that."
Enjolras seemed not to hear. "They're empty dreams..." he continued, sounding like he was reciting something he'd memorized, as if he was alone.
"Stop it!"
"All they're doing is plaguing my soul, making me want something more that I'll never have..."
"Don't say that!" Ferre cried, and suddenly he was looking down with horror at his hand, a hand that had just slapped the Apollo across the face. Enjolras was gawking at him, tears still in his eyes, feeling gingerly his cheek, which had the clear red imprint of someone else's fingers. "I... I'm sorry," Combeferre said, almost unintelligibly, staring down at the table in front of him.
Enjolras was dazed. "You... you hit me, Etienne."
He shook his head, completely in disbelief of what he'd just done. "I'm sorry."