A/N: Reviews are appreciated!
He was three months, and the dear of the neighborhood. Everyone in the neighborhood already knew him. The doll of the grandmothers, the envy of the mothers. Tufts of light golden hair, rosy face, and clear blue eyes that were constantly in motion, drinking in the world above him. When he found something that satisfied him—the large tree in the yard, the golden sparkle of a pan—he didn't grab for it or smile. He could only stare at it in wonder. He was a picture, they said, an angel, a cherub. Fair enough to be a daughter, but sure to grow up to be the handsomest of young men. What fortunate parents, to have such a gem of a son! And what a fortunate child, to be born into such wealth. The boy, of course, understood none of this, child that he was. He only slept quietly, while the adults and children cooed over him.
He was five, and the curiosity of the neighborhood. Instead of his toys, he sat in front of books, books that he could not yet read. When he did play with toys, he preferred the blocks with letters on them, organizing them into words that he thought he could spell. He would chase after the older local boys, pestering them about school and gazing upon their things with desperate longing. Then he would return home and pester his mother while she prepared dinner that evening, to please let him go to school along with the others, and he would receive the same answer he always did: One more year, petit. So then he ran to pester his father to teach him more words, to expand his limited vocabulary so the boys would not laugh at him. And his age would finally catch up to him, falling asleep as eight o'clock came around.
He was seven, and the darling of the neighborhood, the neighborhood girls. It seemed every one of them was trying to sneak up on him on the road home from class and land a kiss on his coveted cheek. He managed to evade them, until Marie from three doors down sprinted up so quickly he later thought she must have been training for it. For a moment after he was so stupefied by what happened that he stood in the street blankly, watching Marie bolt away. Then he wiped his face roughly where the offense had been placed and continued on his way. But from that day onward, it seemed he was being spied on less and less—the allure of being the first had disappeared. There was no pride in proclaiming oneself the second, or the third, and once Marie was triumphant, the competition was over.
He was thirteen, and the model pupil of the neighborhood. Number one in his class, a title that was five years his. The teachers adored him, the quiet, studious boy who never caused a problem and turned in excellent papers. While the other boys his age chased the girls around the fence trying to pull the ribbons of their hair, he stayed inside and read as much as he could. His appetite for books was insatiable; they were his only request every birthday and every Christmas. History was his main love, but he was slowly expanding into what law and political theory he could decipher. He quoted Rousseau, Saint-Just, Robespierre, and Montesquieu to anyone around him who would listen, that is to say, his tutor, and when available, his father.
He was seventeen, and the representative of the neighborhood, about to leave home for the first time to attend university far away in Paris. There was a great deal made of it, and such a crowd to see him off! Though many were sad to see him go, there could not have been a home more proud. There was no other young man so intelligent, or destined, or inspired as he, they all said. Oh, the women cried, and the girls did too. Beautiful Enjolras, off to the city! Would he come back with some lucky lady on his arm, for them all to regard with such jealousy? Stupid Enjolras, they all bemoaned, so oblivious to them all. But they could not help but still love and admire him anyway. He was so always courteous and polite, how could they not?
He was twenty, and the ghost of the neighborhood. No one had seen him for some time. The young women wailed (he's forgotten us!), the young men scoffed (thinks he's too good for us?). It was only the occasional correspondence that alerted people that he was still aware of them, and the animosity would gradually die down as word spread from his mother. They surmised he was up to his neck in work, but what work it was he never did quite specify; his letters were as brief as he was in person. In time, names were extracted out of him: Combeferre, Joly, Grantaire. Perhaps they'll teach him to live a little, his old classmates would joke. He can have all the women and drink in the city, why not take advantage? Enjolras, you lucky bastard.
He was twenty-two, and the head of the neighborhood. No, he visited home only once a year at Christmas and for only a week at that, and no, he was not the oldest man of the neighborhood. But everyone who knew what he was doing up there in Paris would declare him to be the only man suitable. He was leading his band of friends into revolution, for God's sake—all from the backs of dirty wineshops and cafés! The "Chief", they heard he was called by his followers. If he could lead such an affair, how could he not be the leader of his own home? Everyday when he put his head down on a pillow to sleep, little did he know of the multitudes of prayers whispered fervently for Him to bring their boy back safe from the danger.
He was twenty-six, and the legacy of the neighborhood.