Disclaimer: I do not own Les Amis, as much as I'd like to.
Summary: In which Courfeyrac realises how amusing Apollo's name really is.
A/N: I have no idea what this is, just a short bit of 1 am randomness. It might be a deeply allegorical piece on the nature of human immortality, but then you have to remember who's writing it . I'm kinda liking it. As always, R&R.
Names & History
Courferyac probably should have stopped drinking. Two bottles ago.
The night was creeping towards middle-age, and had taken on a certain shine, lubricated by the alcohol he knew he'd be regretting in the morning, but Courfeyrac couldn't find it in himself to be depressed at the present moment.
Grantaire was across the table, cheerfully laughing at Jehan desperately trying to be sincere about his love for the newest, no doubt beautiful grisette who had caught his eye across the park. One, though, did not join in the drunken revelry.
The blonde revolutionary sat silhouetted against the darkened window of the Café Musain, head down, golden hair lighted appealingly by the weak glimmer of his faltering candle. Courfeyrac could not hear the sound, though he knew the feverish scratching of the pen would be audible, unfaltering in its pursuit of the ultimate expression of Libertè…
The messy contentment of his other friends clashed so violently with the serene image of the blonde, alone at his table, that Courfeyrac felt the stirrings of understanding for the name they called him sometimes, almost never to his face. The Amis and their amiable humanity seemed so different from the man who has always been something more, something… Courfeyrac hesitated to say 'divine'.
Courfeyrac smiled and slumped back in his chair, lazily forgetting to even disguise the fact that he was staring in earnest now.
If any of them were to find immortality in the dusty books of history, in the tales of old so dramatic they were barely believed, it would be their Apollo. He cocked his head ever so slightly as he wrote the name on the canvas of his mind: Enjolras.
His smile turned into a grin, and then he could not suppress the giggles. He looked at the curling and angular letters in his mind again. Enjolras.
Despite all he knew of the man, of the purity of his ideals, Courfeyrac laughed. The name, written, suddenly struck him as hilarious.
The laughs seized Courfeyrac in scarcely controlled spasms as he rose unsteadily and carefully made his way over to the other table.
The blonde revolutionary only glanced up at the last moment, a distant look in his blue eyes.
"Courfeyrac?" The look of inquiry in the other man's face searched for answers, and Courfeyrac wasn't really sure that he had them.
He took up a discarded pen, inked it, and wrote the name in slightly lopsided handwriting upon a corner of parchment, emphasising the loops and curls, labouring over the careful lines.
Enjolras.
Courfeyrac burst out with his suppressed giggles, thoroughly enjoying the joke, though not quite sure of its finer points.
The unlikely procession of letters, the sounds… And this is what would be remembered?
His head thrown back in giddy mirth, Courfeyrac did not immediately meet Enjolras' eye. When he did, he found them cold and serious. Evidently, Apollo had not sampled the nectar of the gods.
"My friend, you are drunk."
Courfeyrac, of the indomitable good-nature, smiled. "Oui, Apollo. And you are Enjolras."