Author's Note: Greetings, everyone! So, I know it was a few months ago, but remember when I discussed "Same Old Lang Syne" being a prequel fic to another fic? This is the fic I was referring to. What's been taking so long is figuring out what plot lines to go with and what to even start with, so apologies on that (Such things will likely continue as the story moves forward).
I would like to note that with this fic, I am working with a few things that I have not yet worked with before. This of course involves some research on my part to avoid misrepresentation. I realize that despite my research, I might portray things inaccurately. If this occurs and I unintentionally offend you, please kindly let me know through a PM and I will do my best to correct it.
Chapter Warnings: violence (nothing too graphic, but better safe than sorry).
Thanks for your time, and I hope you enjoy!
7:30 am.
His friends were busy making last minute preparation for the rally. Feuilly was fetching the pamphlets from the printer's. Jean Prouvaire and Marius were gathering their notes together, being parts of their college's paper. Joly had his focus on making sure everything was clean while Bossuet prepped items for the weather (It was supposed to be sunny, but you could never be sure). Bahorel and Grantaire gave their attention to anything that could go amiss, given this was not supposed to end in violence. Courfeyrac was busy editing his speech, while Enjolras and Combeferre were offering their suggestions.
They thought they had everything planned, that they were prepared for anything that could go wrong.
9:55 am.
Students start to crowd the college square, and there's more than half an hour before the rally begins.
"What incentive did you give them, free food?" Bahorel asks Courfeyrac, clearly surprised by the early turnout despite the chill in the air.
He shrugs. "Nothing but an excuse to miss class, not that that was the intention."
Joly pipes up after grabbing a paper towel. "Courfeyrac, don't you have an ethics exam in…five minutes?"
He looks down at his phone, before muttering something under his breath and dashing off towards the other side of campus. Bahorel side-eyes Joly, whose attention has already returned to spraying the podium with disinfectant.
"He'll be back in time," Bossuet comments as he unfolds a chair. "If he isn't, I'm sure someone can stall for him."
"In the meantime, let's hope nobody gets too restless," Combeferre turns his head to the crowd. The numbers make him nervous, especially with all the time to spare...
10:27 am.
Enjolras scans the crowd, looking out to see if Courfeyrac managed to get lost in it somehow on his way back. The sudden thuds of rushed steps behind him signal that the man must have come from another direction.
He can't help but think something is going to go wrong, cannot shake the feeling that despite all the preparations they have made and all the emphasis they put on nonviolence, that someone, or even a group, is going to make it count for nothing.
He's not the only one...All ten of them feel it.
10:45 am.
Fifteen minutes, and everything has been running smoothly. Enjolras says a few words before handing the podium over the Courfeyrac, while Combeferre was erring to the side of caution and keeping his eyes out on the crowd.
10:47 am.
There's a small bit of commotion in the crowd moments before Feuilly takes the stand. Bahorel and Combeferre rise to get a better look, but after a few moments, it dies down, and they take a seat back in their chairs.
10:50 am.
It all breaks loose.
The mini skirmish in the crowd from a few minutes earlier starts all over again, and unlike before, it gets worse.
Bahorel and Grantaire are the first two to be sucked in, the pair of them trying to break it up. When Bahorel ends up being punched in the eye, his attempt at being civil disappears, and Grantaire's attempt at his own defense ends up in him fighting as well.
10:53 am.
It's Feuilly who takes note of the first knife, in which he calmly tries to have its owner sheathe it before anyone gets hurt. At this point, he already has been hit in several places by those involved in the brawl, and he most certainly does not like the sight of weapons.
By now, Combeferre has lost his glasses, while Joly has already fetched the first aid kit to help those who may be badly injured, Bossuet among them. Courfeyrac, despite being ready to join in himself, holds Jehan back from the crowd while Marius runs off for help.
10:55 am.
The first gunshot rings clear in the air, and everyone scatters in every direction.
Students collapse one by one, and with each shot, Enjolras hopes none of them are fatal. He doesn't know if the shots are random or if they are aimed targets, but with either scenario, he hopes that they are not lethal. Bloodshed was not what he wanted for today, and he grimaces at the blood spatter on the cement.
He scans the scene for his companions, a majority of them separated in the mass. Bahorel has someone pinned to the ground, and Grantaire is unconscious just a few feet away. Combeferre, his nose bleeding, is assisting Joly far off in tending to some of the wounded. Bossuet, meanwhile, cowers underneath a bench, a white bandage around his wrist and forearm. Courfeyrac, with restrained fury in his eyes, has Jehan by the wrist back by the square's statue, while at the same time trying to shield the writer from any of the flying bullets. Feuilly, in the distance, has been pinned down, trying to prevent an unsheathed knife from hitting his chest. Marius is nowhere to be found.
10:57 am.
Sirens, blasting sirens. Blend them with the gunshots, and they're deafening.
Marius appears, looking wary of the flying bullets. Feuilly, thankfully, receives Bahorel's assistance and manages to break free from what could have been a mortal wound. Jehan and Courfeyrac have joined Bossuet, all three of them looking around for further danger. Combeferre has made it to Grantaire, checking his vital signs. Joly is occupied with another student who took a gunshot wound to the shoulder.
In all of this, Enjolras is motionless.
He hears the screams, watches the panic, and he's frozen. He watches the authorities rush in alongside the paramedics, with bullets still gliding through the air. He tries to react, tries to take a minimum of one step forward, but his legs won't cooperate.
10:58 am.
"Enjolras, look out!"
It's Feuilly who calls it out, his eyes wide in terror.
"Get down!" "Move!" Combeferre and Courfeyrac.
He hears their pleas, but does not have time to react.
He never sees them coming, either bullet. From the front, the first one hits him in the right shoulder. The pain is blinding, and he's in too much of a shock to look down at his left hand, covered in his own blood. The second, from behind, in his lower back, sends him to the ground.
His first reaction is the look around, to try and stand back up, but his legs fail him. Any voices nearby become echoes, and he slowly feels himself becoming surrounded by darkness.
The last thing he sees is Combeferre's panicked expression hovering above him, and the last thing he hears is the clock tower chime 11 am.
Beep…beep…
His eyes drift open to white tiled ceilings and blank walls.
He should have expected something of the sort.
"There you are…" he hears a gentle voice from the side of the bed. He manages to turn his head despite his neck being sore, to see his sister quietly set down her book before scooting her chair closer to the bed. He's surprised to see her, after she had gotten involved in a student exchange program that had her outside the country for the semester.
"Annette…what are you—?"
"They couldn't get ahold of mama or papa, so Feuilly gave me a call," she explains, "Managed to fly in last night."
"What about—?"
"They understand family emergencies, Luc, and you being shot, regardless of reason, constitutes as one," she states firmly, reaching out and grasping his hand. "I've made all the arrangements already that involve me finishing the semester here, before you go off on a tangent about how education is important and whatever else you want to spew out.
"With that out of the way," she starts as she leans forward, concern in her eyes as she brushes a few blond curls from his face, "how do you feel?"
"Tired…sore…"
"The former is likely due to all the pain meds that they have you on, and you have been out for a few days…" Annette takes a moment to breathe deeply. "On top of that, you were shot twice…What were you even thinking?"
The question comes out quite calmly. She doesn't yell, doesn't shake her head, and no sarcasm involved. She does, however, look uneasy. Her eyes appear pained, her mouth a frown. Without much observation, she's troubled, bothered by something he knows she will not say until she feels the need to.
The sudden tweeting of her phone calls attention away from that, as she excuses herself to the hall, promising she'll be back in a few. He still cannot shake the feeling something is off. There are cheerful notes on the bedside table, some being Feuilly's and Grantaire's sketches and Jehan's poems, others including Marius' article of the incident. Positivity mixed with anxiety, the latter not being of good nature.
On the top envelope, he recognizes Combeferre's scrawl, and it's the first thing he reaches for. Rather than the usual "Get Well" or Marius' impersonal article, it regales the events of those he's likely concerned about. How Grantaire received a minor concussion. How Bossuet has a small gash on his head. How Feuilly is managing with a few cracked ribs on his right side. How everyone is coping. How Joly, despite his actions during the incident, took a while to calm down from the shock. How Courfeyrac has his moments where he just stares off into space and is suddenly startled by someone dropping a pen on the floor.
…and to think it has only been a few days.
Annette returns quietly, and he almost doesn't hear her come back in.
"That was mama," she says as she sits back down. "She and papa are working on getting the next flight."
"That's cutting their trip a bit short…"
"Well, a trip to the Scottish highlands is not as important as a suffering child," Annette manages a half-smile. "As much as mama wants to be closer to her family before…before…Luc, you know what it is I can't say…She finds it a priority to be here in a time of need."
"She might not get another chance," he adds, trying to find the strength to sit up a bit more, but can't. "Papa knows that, she knows that…we all know it…"
"I'm sure papa isn't too pleased to cut it short, either," she admits, "but as hard as you find it to believe, he cares about you, too."
He rolls his eyes at that.
"Oh, don't give me that!" Annette glares at him, almost ready to playfully smack him in the arm with one of the catalogs on the bedside table. "Though you two may have strong, contrasting opinions of things, doesn't mean you love each other any less. He only wants what he believes to be best for you, you know."
This spiel is not anything new. She's said it, his mother's said it, Combeferre's said it, heck, even Bahorel and Grantaire have said it, and the former of those two has a strong disliking towards the elder Enjolras.
The conflicts started in his early teens, from something as simple as doing the dishes every once and a while to something as major as politics. Both would be red in the face until either his father went out for a walk or he went to his room. Stubbornness ran in the family, and that was clear when both of them would hold grudges for days until his mother had enough of it and basically forced them to let it go.
"Is that why he threatened me when I chose not to go into law?" he responds gruffly. "When I went for a double-major of journalism and political science instead."
"Well, if I'm honest, he wasn't thrilled when I wanted to major in the arts and minor in psychology, either," Annette tilts her head to the side, reaching out for her brother's hand. "He's learned to live with it, though, because he knows he cannot control us."
"He shows it terribly."
"You're just as bad," she replies, a slight smile on her face. He snorts. "Oh please, you barely express your emotions. You keep it all in."
He's just about to respond when there's a knock at the door. His sister allows them in, the door opening to reveal Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Feuilly.
"We got your text," Courfeyrac explains, briefly holding up his phone in Annette's direction. "Everybody's been out there for a while now."
"Not at all surprising," Annette replies, before turning towards Feuilly, "but you should be relaxing, Fabrice. Walking around much isn't going to do your ribs any good."
"So I've been told," he nods in reply, "but somebody has to keep an eye on these two." He tilts his head in Courfeyrac's and Combeferre's direction. Annette snickers at the comment.
"If anything, it's us keeping an eye on you, at least for the next few weeks," Combeferre quips. "Annette's going to be busy enough with Enjolras as it is, on top of other responsibilities."
"I think I can handle myself just fine," Enjolras cuts in. The other four people in the room all glance at one another, and this makes him certain that there must be something going on. No one will say it though.
Finally, Annette smiles and sits down at the edge of the bed. "Well, for a few weeks, you'll be on the mend…I don't care what you think otherwise, but you won't be able to do everything on your own."
It isn't until late the following day when his parents show up, but it might as well have been the same day, with his going in and out of consciousness due to the drowsiness of the medication. He has not even tried to leave the bed, which is something that surprises him. He's usually eager to get up, but these past few days haven't permitted that.
His mother, being the worrisome woman she is, rushes to him the moment the door open enough for her to push past his father, who carries a stern look. She brushes his hair back with her fingers, giving careful attention to every detail of his face. She questions him frequently about how he feels, emotionally and physically. She frets over some of the scars on the skin of his arms, most of which came from childhood. He tolerates it, though, because he knows she'll continue worrying until she's satisfied with his responses and her findings.
His father barely says a word, taking a seat beside Annette, whose focus was on one of her psychology textbooks. He murmurs to his wife that she needs to settle down a bit, that he is not as fragile as the hospital gown and the IV and monitors make him seem. She only has to shoot him one look, and he shuts up. (Many try to argue that Enjolras' piercing cold glares come from his father, but those close enough to him are quick to realize such expressions actually come from his mother.)
There's some catching up to do between this family of four, the children being quite a distance away from their parents due to their studies, as well as their parents' trip. His mother marvels over the various art classes Annette has been taking, from theatre to ceramics to painting, and questions him about his journalism courses, while his father for the most part is quiet, finding more interest in the floor and the wall than his wife and children.
"No matter how much you stare at the floor, Michel, it isn't going to talk to you," his mother says after giving him a light pat on the arm. "If it's those cases you're thinking about, stop it."
"Nainsí—"
"You have been like this since we got on the plane, and acting as if nothing major has happened," she snaps, trying to look him in the eye. "And if it had not made the news, we may have never known, at least for a while, our cells not working at all…You saw the same I saw, that amateur footage…"
Nainsí starts shaking before she can get the rest of the words out, resulting in Michel reaching over and wrapping his arms around her, rocking back and forth as an attempt to soothe her. Enjolras, takes a moment to glance at Annette.
"What footage?"
"Some people managed to record the later events of the rally with their phones," Annette whispers, leaning forward. "Luc, a few managed to…well…"
She doesn't need to speak any further; he understands.
"Mama…" he starts quietly, trying not to startle her, "Mama, I'm here, I'm okay."
Nainsí, whose face is obscured by Michel's shoulder, shakes her head, her breath shaking. Michel, meanwhile, looks up at Annette, doing a double-take between her and his son. His father tries to form a response, but a knock on the door stops him.
At this, Nainsí raises her head, trying to compose herself before uttering, "Come in."
It was the doctor, or one of the doctors, anyway. Enjolras had seen various people in similar white lab coats come and go, not to mention the nurses. However, this one, if he could remember right from his slipping in and out of conscious, had been in here most frequently; he didn't know if that was a good thing.
The doctor introduces himself to his parents, catches a glance at Annette, before introducing himself to Enjolras. After that, he gets right down to business.
Despite all of his listening to Joly about various medical terms and paying attention to the doctor, he barely understands what exactly is going on. His father nods in understanding, while Nainsí's eyes go wide and Annette nearly falls back into her seat.
"…Due to the bullet that struck his back, there is a chance there was nerve damage…" Enjolras hears among the terms he cannot understand. "…still need to run some tests to be sure…"
It's only then does he realize why Annette had been strange a few days prior, why there were those glances between her and their friends…
He has yet to try and stand up.
However, without trying, he can't.