Written for Feuilly Week - and totally encouraged by everyone on Tumblr and my own little headcanons about Feuilly's childhood. The name is taken from Brooke/Midshipmankennedy's translation of the lyrics of the song Vois sur ton chemin.
Feuilly wasn't at the café that night.
Enjolras wouldn't have worried – why would he worry? He always hoped no harm would come to his friends, of course, but he knew Feuilly well enough to be certain the man could take care of himself. Missing an evening wasn't all that unusual, although Feuilly always took extra care to attend as often as he could despite his long and exhausting hours at work.
No, Feuilly's absence in itself wasn't what worried Enjolras; rather, it was the fact that Feuilly had promised to look over some notes with Enjolras and Combeferre after the meeting yet had not shown up at all - not at nine, not at ten – and on a Tuesday, Enjolras honestly did not expect him to turn up very much later. But Feuilly had seemed enthusiastic about the subject the night before, though he had retired earlier than usual, complaining about a headache.
"Perhaps I've caught something," he had smiled ruefully, grabbing his coat. "I'll try to sleep it off."
Enjolras hadn't thought much of it at the time, though now, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was off with his friend – had he missed something the night before? Was Feuilly more ill than he had admitted being?
"I'll go see him," Enjolras told Combeferre once the meeting was officially over. It was nearing half past ten and Enjolras's worry had not eased one bit. "If there is something wrong…"
"I'm sure he was only tired," Combeferre raised an eyebrow, and after a moment of thought, nodded reasonably. "But yes, you're right, of course. It's not like Feuilly to not show when he says he will. I'll come with you."
And so they both walked to the tall housing building where Feuilly lived, climbed the six flights of stairs to Feuilly's room, and knocked.
Enjolras had been to Feuilly's room before – because that's what it was, really, a room. Four walls and a door, and only a small opening on the north-facing wall in lieu of a window; it was small and barely furnished, but Feuilly's few possessions, his paintbrushes and his old books, all seemed to know their exact place and purpose in Feuilly's life, as did the sketches and half-finished paintings on the wall. He had even hung up a map of the continent near his mattress - a birthday present from the others. Enjolras had thought the room lovely, cozy even, and had told Feuilly so. Feuilly had turned away at the compliment, cheeks glowing pink, but had seemed pleased anyway and smiled brightly the next time Enjolras had offered to walk with him. Enjolras was glad: even if that little insight into Feuilly's life was just that, an insight, and he still felt he didn't know much about him beyond what was brought up during their discussions, his friend finally seemed more at ease with him after that. Less guarded, perhaps - or younger, in a way.
Ten seconds passed, with no answer – only sounds of shuffling, quick steps and a light bang, then quiet. Enjolras moved to knock again, but Combeferre raised a hand to stop him.
"Wait," he said. "Do you hear that?"
Carefully, Enjolras leaned closer to the door – and heard it; sniffling, muffled sobs coming from the other side of the door.
"Neighbours?" he whispered, frowning. It sounded like a child's voice, whimpering and scared. But who would leave a child alone in a place like this, and at this hour?
Combeferre shook his head.
"No, definitely from in there."
Coupled with Feuilly's unexplained absence from the meeting, things were quickly turning out to be too odd for Enjolras's (already limited) patience. He grabbed the door handle, and winced at how easily it turned; It was unlocked.
"That's enough," he said. "I'm going in."
He pushed the door open and stepped in the oddly empty room – for it was indeed empty, as Enjolras was quick to realize. There were no traces of Feuilly, despite the lit candle on the desk, the dishes left on the small table, and the blanket thrown in disarray over the mattress.
"Feuilly?" he called anyway, just in case his friend was hiding - under the desk, perhaps. In the cupboard?
"Enjolras," Combeferre, only half a step behind him, grabbed his sleeve. "Look." He pointed at one corner of the room.
And Enjolras looked. And could not keep himself from gasping lightly at what he saw.
There, sitting in the corner of the room, tangled in a much too-large nightshirt, was a child. A boy of maybe four, five years at most, with untrimmed light brown hair and wide, red-rimmed eyes, the iris a familiar – very familiar – shade of hazel.
In fact, his features were also quite recognizable, from the furrowed brow to the constellation of freckles clear against his pale skin.
The boy rose quickly, but kept his back flat against the wall. He looked tired, even sickly, and was rather short for his age.
Then again, even as an adult, Feuilly had never been especially tall.
"Who're you?" the child – Feuilly, there was no doubt about it - said. "Do I know you?"
"Yes – " Enjolras started, quickly overcoming his shock, but Combeferre was faster. He knelt next to the boy and spoke in a soft, kind tone.
"Feuilly, right? – ah, Étienne. Hello."
The child nodded shyly, and Enjolras' last doubts about his identity vanished.
The boy seemed to realx a little. He sniffled, and Enjolras fought the urge to wrap his arms around him. He refrained, though – he supposed being suddenly and unexpectedly de-aged twenty years must be quite unsettling, and he didn't want to frighten him more. He quietly knelt down next to Combeferre and attempted what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
"I believe it's the first time we meet, isn't it?" Combeferre continued, sensing an opening. "We live nearby. I'm Combeferre, and this is Enjolras. We're friends."
The boy nodded again, then blinked slowly. His eyes filled with tears.
"Heard you knocking – I thought Mama was coming back to get me. But Mama doesn't knock."
"Feuilly-" Enjolras hesitated, then carefully put a hand on the small shoulder. "How long have you been alone, Étienne?" The use of Feuilly's given name felt strange, but so did the use of a last name for such a small boy; he hoped it would help put the child at ease.
It did. Feuilly shifted closer to Enjolras, leaning against his touch.
"Mama left for work and she didn't come back when she said she would. I slept a little. Then I woke up an' she still wasn't here." He rubbed at his eyes and took a shuddering breath, obviously trying to appear strong in front of the two big strangers. "I miss her. D'you know where she is?"
Enjolras sighed sadly. "No, I'm afraid we don't. "
"Oh." The boy's lip trembled, and Enjolras once again fought the urge to hold him closer.
"How do you feel, Étienne?" Combeferre asked. Enjolras turned to look at his oldest friend - he could see the concern shining behind his glasses; perhaps Combeferre had heard of such incidents before? But if there was something more behind this, something darker, if Feuilly's life was in danger from this -
"'m okay. Little sleepy. Hungry." Feuilly's answer was quiet and shy, but at least, the frightened edge to his voice was rapidly slipping away.
"Alright," Combeferre said, and Enjolras silently let out a sigh of relief. "Do you remember last time you ate anything?"
"Dunno. There's nothing to eat here," the boy waved vaguely to the kitchen area of the room." I looked, 'cause I'm hungry now."
"I understand." Combeferre nodded sympathetically. He leaned against Enjolras, resting a hand on his back, and whispered in his ear.
"I think he's fine, but we can't leave him here. "
Enjolras shook his head.
"We can bring him to my lodgings. We can figure out what happened and what to do once we make sure he is calm and safe."
Combeferre nodded again, and Enjolras turned back to the child.
"We don't know where your mother is," he told him sincerely. Feuilly winced, and his eyes filled with tears again. "I am – very sorry. But we would like you to come home with us. "
Sensing the boy was about to cry, Combeferre took over once more with his warm, confident smile.
"We will go a bigger home, get you something to eat."
Feuilly hesitated.
"How 'bout mama?" he asked, eyes wide and innocent and oh, how it pained Enjolras to have to lie to him like this! But he managed to look him in the eyes.
"We can wait for your mother there. She will know were to find us."
"Promise?"
"Yes," Enjolras said in a clear, steady voice. "We promise."
"Okay." Feuilly rubbed his eyes again, then unexpectedly threw his arms around Enjolras' neck, burying his face in the now-taller man's shoulder. His back shook with small, exhausted sobs. Slowly, Enjolras wrapped his own arms around the child and pushed himself unpright, easily picking his small friend up. Feuilly held on and let himself be carried without a word.
Combeferre rose as well and looked around for anything in the room that might be useful; finding nothing, he made for the door.
"I will go and see if I can find clothing and food for him. I'll meet you later, alright?"
"Wait! You can't - can't you come with us? Combeferre - You're a lot better with children - children adore you, while I cannot even speak to them?"
"Oh, I am no so sure about that," Combeferre smiled wryly. "You'll both be fine. He seems rather comfortable with you, does he not?"
Nested against Enjolras's shoulder, Feuilly appeared to be dozing off already; his breathing was slowly evening out and he was quiet.
"I -" Enjolras flushed. "I've never cared for a child. I won't know what to do, what he needs."
"He's a small child, Enjolras, not an infant. He'll tell you what he needs."
"Yes," Enjolras shifted. Feuilly held on tighter, his small hand cool and soft against the naked skin of Enjolras' neck, trusting and vulnerable. "That's what I'm afraid of."
Feuilly fell asleep in Enjolras' arms on the way home; for a four-year-old, he was incredibly light, Enjolras realised with a prang of guilt.
He set him down on the bed as soon as they reached his room. Feuilly blinked one bleary eye open.
"'re home?" he whispered drowsily.
"Yes, we're home," Enjolras sat next to him. "Combeferre went to get some things for you - he, ah. He will be back soon."
"Okay," Feuilly curled up on himself. He blinked, once, twice - and his eyes filled with tears again.
In the years they had known each other, Enjolras could not remember having ever seen Feuilly cry; now, he had no idea what to do. His hands hovered above the boy's shoulder, afraid the wrong movement, the wrong touch, would set him off and make the entire - admittely already awkward - situaton worse.
"Étienne," he said instead, and the use of the given name did sound easier the second time around, as if he could separate this frightened, lonely little boy to the young man he knew. The boy looked at him, the paleness of his face and the tears in his eyes turning the pupils a brighter green than Enjolras had ever seen them before. He blinked, turning away.
"Étienne," he repeated. "I know you - you don't remember us, do you?"
The boy shook his head.
"We're friends," Enjolras continued, "I promise I will not let anything happen to you. You are safe. You can rest."
Feuilly sniffed once, then nodded and slowly wrapped himself around Enjolras' leg. Enjolras instinctively reached down, treading his fingers in the boy's soft wispy hair.
Five minutes later, Feuilly was asleep again.
"He already seems to be at ease with you," came a soft voice from the door barely a few moments later. Enjolras turned - he hadn't heard Combeferre come in.
"He's asleep," Enjolras murmured. "He was exhausted. He hasn't said much."
"I'd imagine," Combeferre closed the door behind him. He set the bag he had been carrying to the floor.
"How strange it must feel, for him," he mused.
"I don't know. I don't think he realises. It's truly as if he has returned twenty years into the past."
Combeferre nodded.
"Yes, I think it is what this is," he shrugged his coat off. "I met with Lesgles - he was still at the Musain with Joly. According to him, Feuilly will be fine - he should be back to his, ah, usual state within a few days. Joly even offered to come by tomorrow to examine him if there are any concerns."
"So Lesgles and Joly know what this is?" Enjolras rubbed his eyes. "Very well, then. They are good with children, are they not? Perhaps it would be best if they came by tomorrow, they would know better how to deal with this."
"We can send for them tomorrow, if we need help, although I don't think it will be necessary." Combeferre sat down on the other side of the bed. He gestured to the bag. "Lesgle was the one who lent me those clothes. I think some of them are from Joly's youngest siblings as well. Oh, and I have brought some food. "
"Feuilly did say he was hungry. Should we - should wake him?
Combeferre looked at the sleeping boy. "I don't think we should. He looks - well. Peaceful."
"I don't know," Enjolras said quietly. "He is so very light, Combeferre. I cannot even tell for certain how old is he. He has already had a hard life for one so young. He wants to know where his mother is. I don't... I don't know what to say to him."
"We knew that already," Combeferre whispered. "Feuilly has not told us much about his past, yet we knew this much already."
Enjolras suddenly realized how tired he was. "We did. It doesn't make this any easier."
Combeferre turned to look at him; Enjolras could feel his gentle, calming gaze as Combeferre softly touched his arm.
"Perhaps you should sleep as well. We will do our best to look after him, but this will not last long."
Enjolras leaned against him.
"You're probably right, my friend, as always."
Enjolras was incredibly thankful that Feuilly had managed to sleep through the night undisturbed - Enjolras himself had woken up at the crack of drawn and had been unable to find sleep again once he had seen the small child holding on to him in his sleep anf the events of the previous evening had come back to him.
Combeferre had left early, the traitor - to pick up the sticks and brushes at the workshop where Feuilly worked, he had claimed, and perhaps to sollicit Grantaire's help to make up for the fanmaker's inabilty to work. It was a kind gesture, of course, and Enjolras knew Feuilly would be extremely grateful, but for the moment it left Enjolras alone to plan for a day with a four-year old. He had paced the room for a while, looking through the bag of supplies Combeferre had borrowed from Bossuet. Shirts and trousers for a child, which would probably be a little too large for Feuilly as he was at the moment. Children's books or illustrated fables and poems.
By the time the sun had fully risen Enjolras had put bread, preserces and syrup on the table and made himself a pot of the strongest coffee he could manage - somehow, he felt he would need it to get through the day. He hesitated; should he give Feuilly some as well? Feuilly as an adult liked coffee a lot, that Enjolras knew. But perhaps as a four-year-old his tastes were different? He would need to ask him, perhaps.
Speaking of which -
"Hello..?"
Enjolras turned with a start.
"Good mornin'," Feuilly said, voice small, not entirely awake yet. He shuffled on his feet by the bedroom's doorway, looking so out of place, clutching a blanket in his small fists.
Enjolras smiled, trying to appear as nonchalant and friendly as he could, as if the entire situation was completely normal.
"Good morning," he said. "Did you sleep well?"
"Yeah," Feuilly yawned. "No dreams."
"That's good, then," Enjolras nodded. "Ah - are you hungry? There isn't much, I'm afraid, but bread and fruit preserves - if you like that."
Feuilly's eyes grew wide; he suddenly appeared completely awake. He smiled brightly at Enjolras before climbing on a chair.
Enjolras felt his heart warm; they were off to a good start, he thought. Maybe he would do just fine, after all.
They managed to get dressed fairly quickly after breakfast; the clothes were a little too big, as expected - and Enjolras remembered that Joly also had younger sisters. But they were clean and the fabric was probably of greater quality than anything else Feuilly had ever worn at that point.
At four years old, the little boy standing before him was definitely not the Feuilly Enjolras was used to, but he was a surprisingly easy child to care for, and Enjolras found himself relax in his presence. He was quick-witted and curious, traits Enjolras knew he would retain in adulthood, and that was somehow familiar, reassuring. What shocked Enjolras the most - and perhaps shocked wasn't the right wor; shook him, perhaps, or surprised him - was the ease with which Feuilly so clearly trusted him. Aware of his friend's past, Enjolras had expected Feuilly to be a closed off, distant and scared child, and while he certainly was in some ways, quieter and calmer than Enjolras thought four-year-olds should be, he lifted his arms with a smile as Enjolras helped him dress and did not hesitate to ask for help when he needed to put on the small shoes Combeferre had brought for him.
"It's sunny!" Feuilly grinned up at Enjolras when they had finished dressing and putting away the leftovers from breakfast.
Enjolras smiled back at him and nodded. "It would seem so. Would you like to go out?"
Feuilly shuffled his feet and bit his lip. "I dunno... can we?"
"Of course we can."
They could stop at a bakery, perhaps, Enjolras figured - so, instead of a quick lunch, he packed a blanket and books.
When they were ready, Enjolras took Feuilly by the hand and lead him to the park.
It really was a absurdly gorgeous day, Enjolras reflected. The sky a clear blue, dotted with tiny, fluffy white clouds, and a light breeze ruffled the leaves of the trees, still bright green in the early days of September. A plethora of Parisians were strolling about, ladies with their large, pale dresses on the arm of men in shiny top hats.
Feuilly was utterly fascinated, looking around with eyes so huge and cheeks flushed bright, grinning so widely Enjolras could not hide his own smile.
"Have you been here before?" he asked. The boy shoot his head and tugged on Enjolras' hand.
"Nuh-uh! This park is so big!"
"It is, isn't it."
"I've never been here! Can we see more? The ladies have such pretty dresses - I want to see more!"
Enjolras chuckled.
"Alright. We can walk around the lake, then - and maybe we'll see ducks."
Feuilly let out a little sound of delight and quickly let go of Enjolras' hand to hug his leg.
"Thank you!" he said, before taking off, enthusiastically running towards the small gravel beach.
Enjolras felt his own face colour; after a moment, still unable to erase his own smile, he jogged to catch up with the boy.
They sat under a tree, breathless, their hair and clothes ruffled by the cool early autumn breeze. Enjolras took out the book of fables he had brought from his bag and Feuilly curled up next to him, and gently rested his head against Enjolras' shoulder as he read aloud.
They stayed like that for hours, Enjolras' arm around Feuilly, who helped him hold the book up with his small hands; and if some of the ladies threw them odd looks, wondering why a man as young-looking and well-dressed as Enjolras would be looking after a young child, well, Feuilly certainly wouldn't notice, and Enjolras couldn't care less.
Like Enjolras had promised, they stopped at a bakery on the way home. It was a small, unremarkable place, but it was warm and familiar and Enjolras knew the owner by habit. He ordered a croissant and a brioche at the elderly lady behind the counter smiled sweetly at the shy little boy hiding behind his legs.
Feuilly's face as he bit into the pastry, tasting the sweet treat for what was obviously the first time, would stay with Enjolras a long time, he knew. The boy thanked him again, crumbs all over his nose, and Enjolras had ruffled his hair to hide the tears that treatened to form in his eyes.
When they came back to Enjolras's lodgings, he found a message left by Combeferre; the fans for today were done, Combeferre had written, and the supplies at been left at Grantaire's. He would be back tomorrow with Prouvaire to take over Enjolras' babysitting duties, if needed.
Feuilly had fallen asleep in his arms again; Enjolras the weight on his other shoulder, looking fondly at the boy's sleeping face.
This day hadn't been so bad, after all.
Enjolras woke up to the noise of floorboards creasing - he sat up with a start, looking around; the room was still dark; through the window, the morning was starting to break.
A moment later he felt the warmth of someone curling up against his side, quivering, sobbing quietly.
"Feuilly?" he asked groggily. "What is it - what's wrong?"
"Mama didn't come for me today."
Enjolras felt a cold weight drop in his gut at the tiny, vulnerable sound. It was all the more disturbing because he could still hear the quiet of Feuilly's voice as he knew it, recognize the knot on his brow and the concerned look in his eyes, but the hollow hopelessness behind the words was new; this was not something Feuilly had ever allowed himself to show, but he could not help it, now, his defences not torn down, simply not built yet. So Enjolras did what he could: he took his friend's small body in his arms and let him cling to his chest, sobbing as he fought to take a long, shuddery breath.
"Mama was really sad, when papa left. I was too. Papa promised he would come back - he always did, and he brought me toys sometimes. Papa had books, too - sometimes he read, and mama teased him 'bout it, 'cause she didn't. But he read to her sometimes and she liked it, I think. She smiled lots then, and papa too. Then papa left. Mama said he had to work, but papa didn't come back. Mama hugged me, then she didn't anymore. She cried all day, and she didn't go to work. And again the next day. And the day after that. I was really hungry. Then she left too, she said she had to go to work again 'cause I was really hungry and she said that's what y'need to do to find things to eat. I think..."
The boy sniffled, and turned his face upwards to look at Enjolras with large, tearful hazel eyes, unconsciously fiddling with the collar of the older man's nightshirt.
"I think mama's gone to find papa. She was so sad when he left, so I think she went to find him again."
"Étienne..."
Feuilly sniffled again.
"I wish she'd have let me come with her. I don't wanna be alone. 'm scared."
Enjolras tighened his arms around him and gently kissed the top of his head.
"You aren't alone," he whispered, but Feuilly only shook harder. "You have friends, you have us - you will be fine."
"... 'm scared. Why didn't mama come from back? I miss her."
This time, there was nothing Enjolras could say; he could only rub Feuilly's back and shoulder slowly, gently, whispering sweetly against the child's hair until Feuilly fell asleep against him, still clutching at his shirt.
The last couple of days had passed like a dream for Feuilly - a strange, oddly comfortable dream.
It only hit him when he woke up in a bed that wasn't his own, face buried in what looked - and smelled - like a child's nightgown. Enjolras was lying next to him, dark circle under his eyes, his blond curls spread out across the pillow. One of his arms was lying carelessly on Feuilly's chest, and - oh.
Feuilly sat up and quickly gathered the sheets around his - of course, he was naked, wasn't he? how was he so warm, then? - body.
"I, ah, Enjolras?" he stammered, voice annoyingly high-pitched. He looked around Enjolras' room, at the large windows and the unfamiliar furniture - everywhere but at his friend's face.
Enjolras, obviously, hadn't been fully asleep as he cracked an eye open and smiled. "Ah, hello, Feuilly," he said lightly. "Good morning."
Feuilly's faced burned in embarassment. "Good morning. I... I mean, ah - I don't -"
Enjolras looked at him patiently, smile still hanging lightly on his lips.
Feuilly rubbed his face - odd, that he felt no stubble, even though he felt as if he had been asleep for days - and sighed.
"I'm sorry," he said. His heart was beating too fast and his head was hurting, but he felt unexplainably light - although terribly awkward.
"What for?"
"You - I've embarrassed you."
"You haven't," the truth, as far as Feuilly could tell; if Enjolras was embarrassed in any way, he did not show it.
"You didn't need to see that. I - I'm glad you were there, but -"
"Ah. You remember, then?"
He did; the warmth of Enjolras' arms holding him, the light of the sun on his face as he watched the ducks bath in the park, the delight of his first taste of brioche. They were far away, memories long forgotten - or rather like new painting, made explicitely to appear older than they truly were, then put on display, clearly and proudly, on the walls in his mind.
"I do remember," Feuilly finally smiled back, bashful. "It feels a long time ago, though."
Enjolras swung his legs out and got up.
"Well, I am glad to have you back, Étienne."
Feuilly's face burned brightly at Enjolras' slip. Enjolras patted his shoulder.
"I'll leave you to get dressed, then," he said, nodding, before turning to the door.
"Wait -" Feuiily called, fighting in own embarrassement. Enjolras turned back to look at him, an eyebrow raised.
"Since, ah, I remember," he begun, averting his eyes. "I - I wanted to say. Thank you. That day... was one of the best."
Enjolras swiftly crossed the room again and sat on the bed. Without hesitation, he wrapped his arms around Feuilly's neck.
"I'm glad," Enjolras whispered. Even though he could not see his face, Feuilly heard his friend's sweet smile in his voice.
He sighed happily and hugged Enjolras back.