A/N (Essay): So hey folks. I just had this idea, there have been a lot of other AU fics set in other eras. Having studied 20th century France in some detail I decided to take a look at another particularly tense time, not so unlike the 1830s yet far more international in scope.
I've tried to keep as in character as I possibly can and as true to Hugo's original ideas. In my head Enjolras is nobody specific, I just imagine him as being quite pale with long blonde hair although I'm not basing him off of one single performer or rendition, more just my own interpretation. Eponine in my head is however pretty much Samantha Barks, no getting around that one so it'll be her rendition Eponine is based on.
Also of course, due to the fact this story is set 100 years later than Les Mis, the characters are going to reflect the early 20th century, hence why Enjolras is influenced by 20th century ideals and therefore a Socialist/Communist (such ideologies were big in Pre-WW2 France) and not just a Revolutionary Republican. Also Eponine's experiences are a little different from original story since there had been some improvement in the life the poor could expect (it was still rough by our standards but not as bad as in the 1830s), she's also a fair bit more educated (since compulsory state education was introduced in France in the 1880s) although she's still had a pretty rough time of it. So obviously there will be some differences and to ignore these would just be silly.
This is an E/E fic although it won't be particularly fluffy. There will be some M/C too. Musical/Film based by en-large, I've not read all of the brick yet.
Finally there are a few more things I should say.
1. I don't own Les Miserables, since I'm obviously not Victor Hugo.
2. This story is strictly not to be taken as a political endorsement of any fashion in any way shape or form. This story is set in a time when extreme ideals such as Communism, Fascism and the like were very visible in most European countries, including democracies like France and Britain and ways of thinking were different.
3. This story will feature not only extreme politics of both the left and right but war, violence, swearing and (non explicit) sexual references. Consider yourself forewarned. Rated T for now but might put the rating up later depending.
4. If all that hasn't put you off, which I hope it hasn't! Enjoy and please let me know what you think anything that can help me improve will be most welcome!
Chapter One - A Return of Sorts.
It rained that day, not the pleasant cleansing rain that had come rarely in the parched Spanish fields, but a soulless powerful rain that caused one's shoulders to hunch under an overcoat and sent trickles of cold misery running behind a person's ears and down the back of their collar.
The grey sky that hung over the city framed the wide streets and boulevards with a vague eeriness, and turned the usually tame Seine into a loud torrent that crashed between the arches of its bridges and the high stone embankments.
A lone, drenched figure shrouded in an unveiled melancholy stood upon shining cobbles staring blankly at an entirely plain wooden door from behind an upturned coat collar. The silence of the stone in the street was cut only by the running sound of water and the clattering of the same water winning a battle with outdated gutter pipes.
In the distance only the sound of motor cars can really be heard from a parallel running street, this little backstreet however has probably never seen a car on its cracked cobbles. The man also wouldn't be surprised if it hasn't seen another person, today at least.
Blonde hair stuck to pale skin and dripped over equally sodden clothes, yet the man makes no attempt to even look for a more sheltered location. He just stares at the door, his face half veiled.
The man thinks randomly that there is no thunder or lighting and that perhaps, it'd be more appropriate if there were. A small part of him, the little tick of a voice long silenced wills him to smile, but his face remains entirely flaccid, his lips will just not provide such a shape anymore.
The minutes tick by, the rain doesn't let up, if anything the washout gets deeper. Its cacophony however is nothing to him in fact he finds it a welcome change. There are many things that could fill this man's mind. For a start he hasn't eaten in nearly a day, not since a quick croissant and lukewarm coffee on the ship that landed in Calais late the night before.
Also, his only worldly possessions at this moment are the clothes he stands up in and the contents of a battered, dirt streaked kit bag at his feet. It's also as saturated as he is. None of this is to mention that the only money he has is the roll of notes in his pocket and even then, they're Spanish Peseta, not Francs.
However, he just can't bring himself to feel anything about any of this. All he can hear beyond that which his actually reaching his ears from his surroundings are the gifts his subconscious presents him, the screams of those who'd fallen but had the lack of fortune not to die in the process. Also the pounding of heavy artillery that he'd come to fear, the popping of rifle fire that sounded so innocuous and the vicious unmistakable bark of machine guns.
He can smell it too, the slight smoky tang in the Parisian air from the coal and wood fires used to make homes and workplaces slightly more comfortable on such an afternoon could be mistaken by placebo for gunpowder. It's also the least offensive of all the smells he's come to recognise. It's alien being home.
He stands for a long time, his joints stiff, his eye's no longer really seeing what's in front of him. There's nobody around at all not just here but on all the streets he walked down to get here, anybody else who has to venture out today is making sure to get back as quickly as possible.
It's cold too, not just because of the weather today, but because the first hints of winter are now lurking in the dark cracks of stone, telling a story of bare trees and icy pavements to come. He thinks then that perhaps it's an omen of everything that he now feels is inevitable.
His fist clenches, he feels his nails dig into the soft flesh of his palm, a staggered breath escapes his lips, his shoulders fall and a few drops of the rain on his cheeks suddenly feel warm. Or is that just his mind playing a trick on him?
All ways he's in turmoil, the worst being he knows exactly why but can do nothing. Put plainly he's terrified and that's not something that comes naturally to him.
He'd been fearful before in his youth, as a child his timid disposition had been a engrained part of his nature, but as he'd aged both in body and mind he'd been seduced by an all consuming passion for a very special mistress.
"Patria" he murmurs with no obvious emotion on a cloud steaming breath, its a name he's not said in some time. His first and so far only 'true love', a symbol, Patria, everything she represented, the people, the nation, justice, fairness and the fight against oppression. Despite not existing in the flesh, to him she'd been the fairest of them all and it'd been his own burning love for her that had pulled him by hook and crook from his shell, leading him through the years to his current path.
Yet now he knows she lays metaphorically bruised and beaten at his feet while he looks on in horror and is entirely powerless to intervene. These thoughts are as consuming as fire, waves of emotion crash hard against the shores of his stability and he isn't entirely sure if the shivering he feels is because of the temperature now.
The sound of footsteps splashing through the torrent that currently passes for a street awaken him. He doesn't know how long he has been standing here now, void of awareness of his surroundings. The footsteps speed up in tempo as they got louder.
His head finally turns and he sees who he'd been hoping, at least in some vague way, would arrive. "Master Enjolras!" the portly middle aged woman he now faces cries in loud relief upon confirming who the stoic figure actually is. There is no mistaking that forthright posture nor the very presence the enigmatic man exudes.
"Mademoiselle Chevrolet" he nods, his tone comes out again emotionless, but not from intention, merely because there is nothing else he can muster right then. His old landlady whom he's not seen in as good as two years he is pleased to notice hasn't changed much. Greying brown hair pulled back into a tight bun, the same camel overcoat that falls around her considerable girth to her ankles and the slight whiskers on her chin are exactly as he remembers them.
"You said my old room was still available?" he continues, presenting a creased envelope bearing the stamp of an international postmark from his pocket to the approaching woman, his tone doesn't change.
Mademoiselle Chevrolet is obviously not satisfied with the greeting he's offered, or at the very least didn't pick up on exactly what state of mind he's in for she begins to scurry over to him and throws her arms around him in a warm gesture that Enjolras now remembers being her trademark.
She is kindly, there never has been a word that fitted a person better, she's a true woman of the people. Not many boarding house owners allowed avowed socialists onto the premises either because of their own political beliefs or out of fear of any trouble it might bring them.
Mademoiselle Chevrolet was not like that, she was a socialist herself, in action at least. Political statement was something she seemingly held little interest in, yet she would never turn a fellow human being aside if she didn't have to. It was why Enjolras held such a soft spot for her and forgave her slightly over personal mannerisms and, sometimes, exasperating insistence that he and her other lodgers, also by en-large young men, or so it had been when he'd last lived here allow her to cook for them on a regular basis or did their chores without complaint or extra charge on top of the rent.
It'd made him feel guilty before, the idea makes him downright uncomfortable now yet he can't find it in himself not to return her well meant embrace, although his grip around her shoulders is far looser than her own around his waist. Her warmth is comforting on a purely observational level he thinks.
When she finally draws away she rounds on him in a heart beat "you've gotten too skinny" she admonishes aiming a violent prod into his ribcage, he takes an involuntary step back grunting in surprise. "And you're absolutely soaked, honestly! How long have you been standing out here?" she cries stepping toward him again staring accusingly "honestly, somebody would think you 'wanted' to catch your death."
Ouch… thinks Enjolras at the tinderbox that statement was… He has no will or thankfully time to contemplate it, "why didn't you knock?" she says loudly in exasperation. "I did" he offers calmly and it's not a lie, "but nobody answered so I guessed you must be out."
She throws him an unimpressed look "and so you thought you'd just stand out here and quite literally soak up this 'fine' weather did you?" He just looks her in the eye, he knows how stupid it sounds but what he says next offers a good explanation. "Being honest Mademoiselle, I had nowhere else to go."
Her expression softens at that and she scoops up his sodden bag in her brawny arms alongside the basket he now notices she already carried and all but starts pushing him towards the door. "Well now you do so I won't hear anymore excuses" she says but her tone has taken on a new edge of sympathy.
Finally its then he gives in for the first time to anything since he'd arrived in the street. Within a moment they're both out of the rain and standing in the dim, relative warmth of the hallway, the plain wooden door now closed again behind them.
"For god's sake" Mademoiselle Chevrolet is still going on in her typical fast semi exasperated voice, "your bag's soaked too, does it really not bother you?" she fusses "I'll have to draw you a bath as soon as possible." Enjolras sighs, that sounds nice, his mind indulges the idea of being immersed in hot water, it's only at that thought he starts to notice how tired he really feels.
Mademoiselle Chevrolet's continuing stream words are now only vaguely registering. "Can't have knocked hard there 'are' others in, I'm pretty sure Thenardier doesn't usually go out for another hour or so" she continues. Whoever that is Enjolras doesn't know, probably another lodger who's moved in since he left. He's secretly a little glad they didn't hear him.
Madame Chevrolet's not being at all obnoxious, or at least she's not trying to be as she goes on, he knows that. Although she is slightly patronising, but then he's fairly sure she has a mothering complex, even though Sigmund Freud he is not.
The psychologist whom he now randomly remembers reading a couple of months ago in a newspaper had fled Nazi controlled Germany for the relative safety of London, has published some fascinating, if slightly disturbing theories. But applying one of these said theories to this well meaning, if mother-hen-clucking woman isn't something he intends to get into.
Mademoiselle Chevrolet still most likely conforms to one of them he thinks his last on the subject, although he in no way means it badly.
"See if I can find you some dry clothes" he hears her say as she quickly bustles into the kitchen, a wave of warmth from the room radiates out, he can't deny it's pleasurable, having walked in the rain for what must've been some hours since his train had arrived at the Gare du Nord at around midday.
Upon arrival he'd, been not so much content as merely inclined to wander the familiar yet uninviting streets in his little bubble before attempting what could be, in a pitiful way described as a homecoming.
"Mutton stew for dinner" Mademoiselle Chevrolet continues reappearing, minus her basket. One might've been forgiven for thinking her oblivious that her words were falling on deaf ears, however Enjolras knows she is all too aware as she approaches him and slips his coat off of his shoulders, he's not sure how he'd forgotten he was still wearing it, and hangs it separately from the dry coats that line the simple set of pegs in the dingy hallway.
"Oh really, your shirt and waistcoat are soaked too" she clucks slightly impatiently upon looking him up and down again. Enjolras's can indeed feel them clinging to him. "It's no trouble Mademoiselle, I have known worse" he says simply.
She eyes him for a second with a questioning gaze before she seemingly decides better of it and dodges his implications, Enjolras isn't ungrateful.
"You're in your old room, I kept it free for you like I promised" she finally says.
She really is a sweetheart. Something Grantaire had so often sloppily proclaimed when he'd visited in his usual drunken haze, those had been better times and Enjolras forces a lid on the thoughts as quickly as he can. Now is not the time.
"I'll let you in and then draw a bath" Mademoiselle Chevrolet continues more for her own benefit than his as she potters towards the stairs and beckons him to follow. He doesn't need prompting twice. She continues rambling absent minded now; he smiles at this it's comforting in a way.
"Got a new stove since you were last here!" she sounds genuinely excited, Enjolras nods politely along as he follows her up the wooden steps. Nothing much had changed not only with her but with the place itself he is oddly glad to see.
The faded white plaster on the walls is still grubby looking, the wooden boards of the floor in the corridors creak under his weight where he remembers them doing so while the smell of people mingled with dust and a hint of damp is still entirely present.
To somebody accustomed to luxury, it might've seemed grim or as he'd heard his father say many a time in his youth 'like a rat hole', but to Enjolras it's been home for a long time and he wishes he could bring himself to be happier to be back.
"It runs on paraffin and does the job so much faster than the horrible old thing we used to have I tell you" she laughs, now she's started on the small talk she won't stop. He offers agreement when it was sought as she explained why she'd invested in a new stove and an affirmation of his sympathies when she tells him Maçon, the houses fat yet affectionate old tabby cat had died the winter previously.
He might've been much sorrier to hear that if it hadn't just sounded like yet another bit of nasty news. He had been fond in his own way of the old tom but it suddenly seems trivial compared to everything else that he's gone through these past couple of years.
The room in question, is one Enjolras had occupied since 1932 when he'd left the home of his fundamentally ideologically incompatible parent's in the bourgeois Saint-Germain-des-Prés district with just a few clothes, books, personal effects and his pride until just under two years ago.
After running away he'd spent a brief stint living on the charity of other kind idealists before he'd been directed to this house and this same room, a room that he now realizes he has indeed lived to see again.
The attic room when he'd first arrived had been plagued with a terrible case of draft and creak to the point where the residents joked of haunting.
Enjolras however had made do, seeing it as an education of sorts. An education in how the proletariat lived for the truth was, in all honesty compared to what vast numbers of people around the world were forced to live with, it wasn't that bad.
As Marx would've termed him, he is well and truly a class traitor, except despite being from the upper classes, if and when the red revolution was to occur, Enjolras himself would've been there to play his part in it's success.
They climb the final flight of stairs and the door to the old room with its nostalgic glare comes into view.
Mademoiselle Chevrolet hunches down at the lock and then in a motion Enjolras himself has done thousands of times gives the door a slight pull outwards and then a rough shove inwards to open.
Familiarity stretched out in all its plain glory. The smallish space, only a few meters across in all ways with sloping ceilings stretched out before him. Both comforted by it and yet with a heavy heart he stepps across the threshold.
If his meekness shows Mademoiselle Chevrolet doesn't seem to notice. Doubtless she would've said something if so, it is just her nature to spell out what she see's before her and be blunt about it in the process. But in the years he's spent dedicated to a now seemingly tattered cause, his poker face has become impeccable.
To that end he simply looks around. Seeing his old room again is like observing a masterpiece just brought out of storage. What made it what it was before is still present and to be observed, but the ravages of time have faded it and robbed it of its original vibrancy.
As he looks around the floorboards from near the door creak in a nostalgic sound. He turns, Mademoiselle Chevrolet has pottered back into the doorway and is smiling at him, a warm smile that he appreciates but can't return.
"Welcome home monsieur" she beams before turning and walking towards the stairs, at the top she turns back for a second "I shall put some pans of water on the boil immediately, can't have you catching cold now."
Enjolras bows slightly "thank you mademoiselle for your continued kindness", it seems appropriate but she waves him off. He had intended to inform her he would pay her as soon as he could get his money changed but she is gone in a flash of a faded green skirt and grey apron before he can open his mouth to continue. Her footsteps retreat into the distance leaving him again entirely alone.
He stares for a few seconds at her absence before closing the door silently and leaning against it. His kit bag lies in a small gathering puddle on the floor in the middle of the room. The bed, his bed, is covered in a large white sheet that looks to be coated in dust. The desk at which he'd once often sat bowed writing essays for his law degree looks unmoved since he last saw it.
He wonders if he opens the desk draws whether he'll find some of his old things that he hadn't taken with him in 'thirty six.
Sure enough there they are when curiosity gets the better of him, the odds and ends he hadn't thought would be useful where he'd then intended to go.
A slightly battered silver pen sits atop of some yellowing books, the top one of which although battered, it's cover scarred from old age and being well travelled, clearly recognisable as the Communist Manifesto which is placed atop an equally ragged copy of The Revolution in the Mind and Practice of the Human Race by Robert Owen.
He bends down looking at them, wet clothes squeak as they rub against his hunched form. The silence of the room is broken only by the sound of the rain on the roof.
All around him the atmosphere is now pervaded by the memories of cold winter nights and glorious lazy summer days in younger years when in hours he had to kill, he'd spent his time in this room with Marx & Engels, Rousseau, Robespierre, Plato and the like.
The ideals, the eloquence and the prospect of a better world had seemed attainable then. Sure, he remembers thinking that it wouldn't be easy, but also that things could only get better if he applied himself. The bile of bitterness stings him all of a sudden and with a violent jerk he slams the draw shut with an angered hiss.
It was the jerk of his sudden motion, the tensing as a result of it which causes it; his leg takes that moment to seize up with a debilitating cramp. He should have seen this coming considering. Yet all the same with an agonised cry he falls backwards upon the bed becoming enveloped a billowing cloud of dust.
'Oh yes how could I have forgotten?' He snarls to himself.
Sneezing harshly, he can however only flail pathetically until the pain has passed and thank whatever, be it the God he so fervently didn't believe in or some other transcendent force when it finally eases off leaving him sighing in relief.
The mattress is still soft he notices, his breathing is heavy, his heartbeat raised, he feels fundamentally tired all of a sudden. This makes the bed all the more comfortable. Even cold and dusty, it's a huge improvement compared to sleeping in a dugout or in open country as he'd become used to 'there' as his mind termed it.
Sudden lethargy makes him reluctant to move again and so he shifts to merely laying on his side, affected leg held at a comforting angle, gazing at the opposite wall while memories stir.
For a brief moment, he nearly panics at the thought of returning, but when he recognises the sound they conjure in his mind as merely voices and nothing more he is calmed and allows himself to sink back into them for an escape.
Yet not only for that but also another reason, and all he thinks about that before he stops trying to think all together is was how selfish it of a reason it actually is.
Two Years Earlier
It'd all started on that day, a day he'd never forget.
The 17th August, 1936 had been largely a normal day as he'd crossed the threshold of the Café Musain. The tobacco smoke from cigarettes and pipes hung like a cloud as Enjolras had entered and he'd felt it being instantly to claw at his throat, cigarettes were something Enjolras had never taken to, much like conforming.
Although considering where he now was, being non-conformist came with the territory. The infamous Café Musain had a reputation which far outshone its relatively small physical area.
It wasn't specifically seedy, nor was it a den for the smoking of opium, the drinking of cheap knock-off brandy or illicit sex that never closed like other equally infamous 'establishments' in the hidden world of Parisian backstreets so often were.
Yet, it was a place spoken about with caution, a place it didn't do well to be seen if you weren't part of a specific world or at the very least didn't wish your name to become associated with it.
The interior design wouldn't have given anything away if a person had unwittingly wandered in off the streets. Wood constituted the floor, stained from decades of drunken spillages of wine or stronger drinks. Heavy coloured hard wood made the bar and the pillars which rose around the dark lacquered tables.
The hearth that while silent and cold that day, often burnt brightly, still provided the main source of warmth and light from autumn through to spring year in year out also would've given away any hint of the seemingly simple places untoward reputation.
Yet as Enjolras crossed the threshold and scanned the dimly lit familiarity of the café's lower bar he knew that there genuinely were people, in no small number, who would purposely avoid him if they knew he'd come here even once.
However, it was that very thing that had originally enticed him and persuaded him to return again and again until he became almost an institution within another.
The reason for the infamy of the place?
It was fairly simple; it was a favoured haunt of all political leftists who called Paris home.
If Marxist politics, plotting the people's revolution or drunkenly insulting the bourgeoisie was your thing, it was the first and only place in town to be.
Naturally, when at the age of just fifteen, as his affair with radical politics had really ignited, he'd longed to make his way across the city to hear what those whom also believed in the overthrow of the oppressive classes of which he'd so ashamedly been born into and the creation of the People's Republic had to say.
Still, he'd been eighteen when he'd finally like a moth to a flame had his chance to visit, while in his first year studying at the university.
Now, twenty one and having graduated with a first class law degree of which he was, rightfully, entirely proud, the café was like a second home. Comrade Enjolras 'the class traitor to the good guys' as they'd affectionately nicknamed him had been welcomed into the fold.
Yet, it hadn't been that easy, for a long time he'd been distrusted, shunned and derided. Still, he held nobody any ill will for that, in fact he entirely understood for he himself had become suspicious of such people in the exact same way.
It hadn't been until he'd almost been arrested on Bastille Day, 1934 when he and some of his fellow revolutionary minded students whom frequented the café and held similar ideals had jumped the barriers of Champs-Elysées Military parade and with red flags held high then began weaving amongst the cavalry loudly, and perhaps badly, singing the Internationale that the regulars here came to accept him as the genuine article.
It'd merely been a stunt that day. A stunt with a vague hope of inciting some popular cheer, but also, perhaps attracting the cause some publicity while instilling a potent message of the future to those whom still grew fat and rich at the expense of their fellow man. On that day however, those people had won in the end.
Enjolras and his troublemaking comrades had been forced to split and run when the streets filled with the sounds of police whistles and angered shouts. He'd spent several frustrating days following lying low in his room awkwardly hoping none of his comrades had been caught.
Unfortunately, with a fair amount of guilt he later discovered when he'd finally ventured blinking from his grotto, having spent five days reading or deep in thought when neither sleeping or wondering, surprisingly calmly, if he would be hearing the clomp of police jackboots on the stairs that poor Joly had been captured in action.
Joly a medical student blessed with a both a heart of gold and a will for revolution yet also hypochondria had been caught and questioned indelicately by none other than Javert himself, a man whose name he had come to loath.
Inspector Javert, the over-zealous, authoritarian and strictly counter-revolutionary figure whom Enjolras and his comrades liked to characterise, perhaps slightly unfairly as 'the last Tsar of Paris' hounded anybody he believed to be involved in revolutionary activities, or was in his eye's, a traitor.
Although in fairness Enjolras had heard stories, that he didn't disbelieve, that Javert hounded anybody he thought guilty of even a relatively minor offence. The man from all accounts believed any act of 'criminality' instantly rendered an individual the scum of the earth with no chance of redemption.
Still Joly had been released within a couple of days due to lack of evidence of a chargeable offence, albeit with several nasty bruises from where they'd restrained him as he was arrested and entirely convinced he was suffering from a fatal haemorrhage in his torso. Yet somehow, just somehow he'd managed to lead Javert away from the scent, and luckily, none of them had been seen by him since.
When he'd seen Joly's injuries however, he'd for a moment, only the briefest of them, regretted what they'd done. It'd been fleeting though, for then had come the anger at how a republic three times founded on liberty could treat its citizens so badly for advocating improving the lot of the vast majority of its people.
'Not to mention on the orders of those who'd never known the wrath of hunger and degradation!' He'd angrily announced in a small time speech he'd later given about the events of that day and the lessons it had imparted on him.
'Especially considering that our beloved people were the first in Europe to overthrow its tyrannical upper class in the name of justice!' That had gotten a rousing cheer from all those whom had listened.
It was these feelings though he found he especially shared with this small group of his fellow students. Comrade Enjolras had become a familiar speaker in debates at the café following his acceptance and they were always amongst the crowd.
The flame of revolutionary passion burnt within his very core and in them too for it had been them he'd conspired with on that hot July day. It'd started out more as an idea before going serious and then going ahead, Enjolras had known several of them had seen it as a bit of a joke, he'd hoped their eye's had been opened after.
Perhaps they had, for before that, they'd met randomly in-between and after lectures and talked, initially sticking to politics and staying single minded on their obvious common grounds. That day had changed things though, they'd naturally started to congregate more often and their connections had branched out into full blown friendships.
The bonds he'd formed with these fellow young men had solidified into brotherhood and Enjolras had become the authority figure, the mentor and de facto leader despite never once having asked for it. Initially jokingly the small group, which had originally numbered less than a dozen, had formed the 'Les Amis de Les travailleurs français' or 'L'TF' as they largely called it.
It was no official organisation, more once again a joke, at least to everyone except Enjolras himself, that had turned serious. Admittedly their meetings still often turned into drinking sessions, or at least for most except Enjolras whom barely ever partook out of a lack of interest. But the politics of revolution were nearly always the topic of the day, even if women, studies and friendly banter often added extra flavours.
That day had been no exception. Back in his domain on the bright summer afternoon he'd approached his friends with a face of cast iron, something he held near enough permanently.
It'd been Grantaire who'd piped up first upon recognising Enjolras's trademark red waistcoat, never worn without the rosette style pin badge they'd fashioned for themselves based on the style of those worn in the French Revolution except entirely in red pinned to it.
His voice carried a slur like it always did, he'd been at the wine most likely for hours now despite it being merely around 3pm. "Our fearless comrade has finally joined his fellow workers!" he cried dramatically to much amusement, although the few sniggers that occurred around the table were at his expense and not his 'wit', still he either didn't notice or care.
"Have some wine and enlighten us on where you have been for the last couple of days" he'd continued loudly and entirely confidently.
Of course, Enjolras had been expecting such a greeting, it was only natural for he had indeed been absent from their meetings for a couple of nights. He tried his best to think of an answer quickly that wouldn't be too blunt, for the decision he'd made and he'd come with the intention of announcing was not a thing to be taken lightly.
For now, a time in which they spent planning their parts in the inevitable revolution on the horizon would come to an end. Enjolras had put his mind to something far more immediate.
"Apologies" he said simply, his voice clear and unwavering "I've been thinking about something that I now feel I must do if I'm to advance our beloved cause."
Several of his friend's brows furrowed, Courfeyrac, a curly haired, chiselled jawed longstanding confidante of Enjolras's gestured to the empty chair next to him.
In Enjolras's assessment, he was perhaps the most outgoing and certainly the most charming of their numbers. Long famed for not only his skills of articulation second only to Enjolras himself but to the number of women he seemingly effortlessly gained the affection of.
What would he think? Still Enjolras didn't waver, if Courfeyrac and the others didn't support his decision then so be it.
Enjolras took the seat quickly while simultaneously pushing away the wine bottle Grantaire attempted to hand him with an assertive look that said everything he thought without a word. The wild haired, unshaven drunkard merely shrugged and took another swig. Enjolras internally rolled his eyes and turned eyed to the rest of his friends one by one.
Courfeyrac he now noticed had a folded piece of paper in front of him, he was probably writing a letter to his latest girlfriend. Grantaire was, of course drinking like a fish. Combeferre, a philosophy graduate and perhaps less of a communist than a socialist educationalist sat expectantly looking at Enjolras.
It was a look shared by Prouvaire, the youngest of their ranks who also held a romantic flare not unlike Courfeyrac but whom much like Enjolras himself, was a staunch admirer of Leon Trotsky, a fact that could easily get one into hot water amongst the pro-Stalin folk who also frequented the establishment.
And finally of course Marius with his youthful freckled faced and looking as immaculately dressed as always. He was a young man whom Enjolras probably held the most mixed feelings about. The problem with Marius in his opinion, as much as there was one, for despite being a little naïve, or so Enjolras thought anyway, he did possess a heart in entirely the right place, was that he could never exactly make up his mind 'where' he stood.
Not so unlike Enjolras, Marius had come from nearer to the top than most, a member of the rich Pontmercy family which he too had rejected in the name of his beliefs. However those beliefs seemed to change often.
He'd never once heard Marius proclaim loyalty to the socialist cause although he'd often heard him express his outrage at the lack of support for the poor and beleaguered of France. Enjolras supposed it was good enough at face value, at all rates he was a good friend and if Enjolras had been more sentimental that would've meant a great deal, but he couldn't quite quell the doubt he felt in his friend's commitment.
"By all means 'Jolras, feel free to enlighten us" Combeferre asked interestedly. Enjolras was known for taking his time to answer but he'd been silent for several moments longer than was usual even for him as he attempted to pick his words.
"Yeah we've been coming up with theories" said Joly with a hint of a grin, Enjolras could've groaned, he knew the sort of thing that was coming. Sure enough, "mine was you'd suffocated under a sea of your own books" Joly continued.
"Hah, I still preferred my idea that he'd finally run away to the Soviet Russia" nodded Courfeyrac talking to the others but shooting Enjolras a youthful teasing look which only made Enjolras's eye's narrow in a glare.
Seeing this however only made it worse for now their tones became far more boisterous. Combeferre raised his hands "No no!" he laughed shaking his head "it's like I told you, you guys are thinking too inside the box! He's fallen for some rich piece of skirt and been hiding at her place, that's what I bet it is." Several suggestive smirks went Enjolras's way.
Of course Grantaire waded in then, Enjolras was only surprised it'd taken this long.
"Pfft like 'Jolras here has a heart to lose to any broad, my bet is he just decided to 'research' how real people live, went and got really pissed and picked up a classy 'lady' for a good romping."
"Now Grantaire that's not what everyone does, even if that's just an average weekend for you..." winked Joly, it was no secret that the medical student had often had to look after the drunkard following the many fights or unknown drunken injuries he'd turned up with. Everyone at the table roared with laugher. That was of course, except their erstwhile leader.
"Gentlemen this is getting rather silly." Enjolras snapped.
"Oh well then why don't you just out with it? Honestly the suspense is killing me" Prouvaire who'd just been laughing along with the others until now winked in response. "But seriously, don't tell us you've had a change of ways and now support Action Française?" he teased.
That line had gotten him death glares from all except Grantaire whom was still giggling in a way which even managed to sound like drunken drawl. To name Action Française here was comparable to waving a Red Flag outside the Waffen-SS Headquarters in Berlin, to say it was a bad move was an understatement. Fortunately apart from them the place was fairly empty.
Still, on that he didn't need to choose any words carefully, "if 'that' ever happens by all means feel free to shoot me if I haven't myself already" hissed Enjolras through gritted teeth. The fascistic monarchists of the Action Française movement offended him enough through their very existence; the thought of joining their ranks was just downright ghastly.
Enjolras sighed and decided that eloquence was perhaps not the best path today. The table had fallen into silence following a now uncomfortable looking Prouvaire's remark. But his friends were obviously in a teasing mood and therefore being blunt and to the point would work best he judged, this would go on all afternoon, evening and likely tomorrow otherwise.
"Everybody" he began and silence fell instantly, Enjolras might've been an easy target for lampoon but when he demanded attention he got it, no questions. "As we are all too aware, the Spanish Republic is under threat." The dark looks that wiped away their previous cheer said they'd all read the newspapers and knew the story well enough.
In 1931 he'd still been living with his family, this before the vicious arguments had begun and before he'd left to make his own way, when he'd been told that the Spanish people had united to overthrow their military government and forced their King to flee into exile before proclaiming a Republic.
He remembered how he'd angered his worried traditionalist father by making quite clear how pleased he was by the news. Since then Enjolras had deeply admired the Spanish state and it's highly democratic socialist/anarchic orientation.
"Of course… it's terrible who'd have thought anybody in Spain could ever support those Nationalist scumbags" hissed Combeferre, voicing what everyone else who came to the café had said on the subject.
It was Marius's turn to pipe up then "agreed" he sighed "I'm just waiting for 'Herr Hitler' and Mussolini to jump in. They've been looking for an excuse to start killing our comrades abroad since they got done persecuting them in their own nations."
Enjolras looked to Marius and their eyes met, there was nothing dishonest in his gaze Enjolras judged and he nodded along adding bitterly "I too doubt it'll be long."
"And of course our 'beloved' government and the British are scared of pissing those two bastards off and of the revolution itself. So they won't send help to the republic" Courfeyrac growled.
Enjolras nodded "they fear the revolution not realizing the more they refrain from decisive action the more important one becomes." His tone had grown in pitch; the heat of passion was running within him now. Everyone at the table could see Enjolras was about to launch into one of his fire eyed speeches and all awaited it, their gazes not leaving his face.
"As you rightly say nobody outside Spain officially does anything to aid the republic, even 'comrade' Stalin does little" he arose from his seat with a scowl. Stalin to his mind embodied everything about a revolution gone wrong, just like King Louis Philippe I in the 1830s, installed by a popular revolution but after doing nothing to advance it as promised and becoming a tyrant themselves like those they'd initially been there to replace.
Others in the café were now turning to watch, Enjolras could feel himself buzzing slightly now. "The true Spanish state" he continued "that believes in liberty, democracy in it's true form, as in the will of it's people and most of all the restriction of those who seek to use those people merely for their own personal gain!"
Grantaire began drumming on the table with his hands while several cheers were uttered from those at the table, even Marius joined in although he was far more subdued than the others.
Enjolras felt the smile of vindication in his heart as he went on "the just Spanish Republic is now threatened by a reactionary uprising, Franco, their fascist leader cares only for maintaining power where it's always been and forcing the Spanish people to live in fear after all they've achieved."
The general cacophony at their table only increased to the point it might've lifted the roof off the place.
"But comrades, hope is not lost, for as we speak our brave brothers and sisters from around the world who believe as we do rally to form International Brigades of volunteers to help fight to defend the Republic and the cause" he knew they saw where this was going now, the sudden hints of discomfort on his friends faces was evident.
Courfeyrac's face fell, Marius in anticipation seemed to turn white, Combeferre froze in his spot but Enjolras was firm. His mind had been made up two days ago, he would carry through, if his friends didn't have the stomach then so be it but he would inform them none the less.
"And so, I feel it my duty to join them to fight this evil! Spain gives France hope and if we would lay down our lives to free the oppressed of France how can we deny the same to those who've already been brave enough to try for it?"
He took a moment to look each of his friends in the eye after having said that, a non verbal challenge it most definitely was. He would've never demanded his friends fight, but he would certainly put their minds to the subject and have them consider it, all ways he'd be arranging passage to Barcelona as soon as he could, alone if needs be.
Silence reigned over everyone at the table. Enjolras merely stood assured in his stance. Grantaire he saw took a deep swig of his bottle. "I do not expect you to join me if you do not wish too but know I would be proud to fight alongside any one of you" he took a moment to look directly at Marius as he said that, he knew the young man would be the least keen.
But then, nobody looked particularly keen, but he also noted nobody looked surprised. He'd said all he had to and so merely stood waiting for one of them to speak.
It was Courfeyrac who did "Enjolras are you serious?" he said with a tone of completely earnest incredulity. He'd expected as much, looking his old friend straight in the eye, he saw the man shiver slightly, his gaze seemed to have that effect on people if he tried yet he'd never been exactly sure why, more he'd just known it did and what he had to do for it.
"Yes Courfeyrac I am entirely serious" he affirmed keeping his delivery deadpan. Again silence hung around the table and its occupants several of whom he noted exchanged glances.
"Enjolras, I don't doubt you've put a lot of thought into this before telling us, but I feel the need to ask for I've read it enough times in the accounts of people to wonder, do you actually know what you'll be getting yourself into?" asked Combeferre hesitantly.
Enjolras turned to his comrade "I believe I do, I know enough of the Great War and how terrible it was, I don't expect it'll be any better and considering technological improvements, probably worse…" he paused, it wasn't a nice admission all ways.
"But in the name of liberating the peoples of the Earth I am prepared to swallow any fear of death and take my place." He said it so confidently, so assuredly for the plain truth was he didn't doubt, death did not frighten him but the thought of Spain falling to fascism did, it really was that simple.
His fellows of the Les Amis still looked disbelieving, he noted that Grantaire actually hadn't raised the bottle he now clutched with white knuckles for what must've been a couple of minutes as he gazed wide eyed and intoxicated at Enjolras.
"Enjolras, are you sure this is what you want to do?" asked Marius softly, his inflection carried a different tone to the others on whom there was already seemingly a resignation to the facts, on Marius though he thought he still saw doubtfulness.
Enjolras sighed internally, if there was one person at this table he was expecting grief from over this, excluding Grantaire since the man nearly always gave him something to be quietly exasperated with, it was Marius.
He turned to face him, the cogs of his brain already working furiously on a way to respond to his friend and convince him, it came, he knew what he'd say and he opened his mouth to speak.
But, before he could produce a single utterance, a strange sensation came over him as if somebody laid a hand upon him and began physically shaking him.
"Monsieur Enjolras" says a familiar voice. It has a faraway quality, as if he's hearing it from underwater. He finds himself in a strange dark place for a few blinkered moments before his eye's slide open and he's looking at his old desk again.
Mademoiselle Chevrolet is standing over him, her podgy hand resting on his shoulder, it's only now he realizes he's been asleep. It makes sense and he arises groggily rubbing at his eyes, how long he's been down he has no idea but he doesn't feel well rested.
"Honestly Monsieur" Mademoiselle Chevrolet begins fussing again, "the linen isn't clean and you're still wet from outside" she pauses for a moment to make her exasperation even more apparent with a shake of her head. Enjolras merely notes that she is indeed correct on both counts and stands up once more, then realizing that he'd even neglected to remove his boots before he'd laid down.
He hears Mademoiselle Chevrolet talking to him; her tone is still that of motherly irritation and edged with a hint of world-weariness. He turns and apologises but she brushes him off and begins pulling the old sheets from his bed.
She talks, but as she does so but he doesn't quite hear her, his mind slips back to the dream he just came from. It made a nice change from the ones he's become used too; they're darker and far less pleasant.
He thinks of his friends and guilt begins to well up, what happened 'was' his fault and he knows it, the memory of his assertive self that day only adds to his dejection. His friends, they were his friends and now… He doesn't want to go there yet, he's still not ready.
Fortunately, once more Mademoiselle Chevrolet saves him from having to for she begins stripped his bed, he listens to her chatter once more for the few moments it takes until she turns back around.
"I've drawn you a bath, the bathroom hasn't moved since you were last here and I'll see if Monsieur Mercier downstairs has a nightshirt you can borrow" she says with a smile as she bundles the dirty sheets into a ball.
Enjolras doesn't recognise the name like that other she mentioned earlier, what was it? He can't remember, still both must be new tenants he guesses, but still he feels slightly uncomfortable, he's grown unaccustomed to Mademoiselle Chevrolet's kindness, in Spain he'd done his own chores or gone without and that was that.
"You're too kind to me" he says, his voice is tender. She seems to notice and for a second he see's concern in her eyes as he looks at her, his head bowed slightly while damp blonde hair frames his defined jaw and nose.
"Nonsense." She brushes him off with a wave of her hand and a hard-knock stare "you can never be too kind. Or, so my dearest mother taught me and if that's not true then I don't want to know what is" there is nothing left for Enjolras to say, he thinks she has argument quelling and deflection of doubt down to an art form and he quite agrees with her words.
She begins again to walk away again pausing only in the door to say "better hurry, the bath won't stay hot forever" she takes another step before adding "oh and don't think you can get out of dinner before you go back to bed either."
Enjolras shuffles uncomfortably but nods, how could he ever be as ungracious as to say no, really? She smiles slyly, knowing she has won and turns again, disappearing down the stairs.
Enjolras takes a moment to stretch, sigh and realize that he feels clammy now not only from his damp clothes but because of having slept in them too, however short the period it was, he can't deny, a hot bath does sound wonderful.
He sets out remembering the bathroom to be at the end of the second floor corridor, he heads down the stairs and notes Mademoiselle Chevrolet is now nowhere to be seen as he reaches the right corridor, he also with a wince gathers that the terrible ache that comes after cramp is yet to ware off.
Its dark here, no windows except one over the stairs, a large old fashioned arched affair, are present and natural light is at a minimum. To add to this it's dusk outside and from the sound of it, the weather hasn't improved. There is electrical lighting, but Enjolras doesn't feel it right to turn it on considering he's not the one paying for it.
All the doors that line the corridor on either side, four in all are closed. He hears nothing that he isn't the cause of as he approaches the bathroom door, which is why when with a sudden loud click one of the bedroom doors on his right swings open and a young man with a powerful stride appears through it in a swish of a weather stained trench coat he nearly jumps.
The door behind the boy whose face is obscured both by the dark and a low pulled newsboy cap slams and in the sudden darkness the young man apparently doesn't notice Enjolras.
It happens fast, in the blink of an eye pretty much, Enjolras doesn't have room in the relatively confined space of the corridor to move aside in time and the two collide painfully.
Enjolras stumbles backwards hitting the wall with some force, his leg thankfully does not act up again and he springs into a combat position on instinct before realizing where he is. The young man on the other hand doesn't do so well and falls flat on his arse with a loud thud.
"Ow shit" he curses and Enjolras finds himself taken aback for his voice is not masculine at all. As the boy then looks up sharply to observe whom he hit the two see each other properly for the first time.
It is there Enjolras realizes 'he' is not a boy at all but in fact a young woman, as best he can tell she's in her early twenties, so not much younger than himself and he definitely doesn't recognise her face.
She looks at him oddly for a second as if to ask him what he's doing. He's confused momentarily himself before he becomes aware of how he's standing, hunched, muscles tense while trying to hold a rifle he no longer possesses.
He springs back into a more regular position, not quite aware of how odd he really must look right now. Such a stance has become second nature to him when something out of the ordinary occurs; he completely fails to realize that embarrassment would be usual at this point.
"Do excuse me Mademoiselle" he says quietly holding out a pale hand. Her dark eyes observe him for a second and he feels well and truly uncomfortable once more.
She however ignores his hand and hoists herself up inelegantly but with a notable lack of fuss. He see's she's rubbing at her lower back and he considers asking if she's okay, it would definitely be appropriate however he also see's the look she's giving him, it can best be described he thinks as one quarter confusion, to another disinterest and the other half contempt.
Enjolras has seen what happens to people when they're hurting badly, it's not pretty, nor like so many other things, something he wishes to think about. But, he knows from it that there can't be much wrong with this woman from her silence. Even the most stoic character will start to scream when in enough pain he notes with a wince, he's sure she has seen it.
Her posture is now strong, almost as if offering challenge. Her shoulders squared slightly, a dark eyebrow rises for a second before it drops into an expression that simply seems to say 'actually never mind.' It's not anger he see's exactly, at least not the overt aggressive type, more like an irritation, the slightly jagged rate of her breathing which echoes in the pungent silence also sounds annoyed.
He also notes that her cap has fallen off, probably as she fell and it's revealed a mass of dark hair. Also now he see's that despite her man's hat and coat, she is in fact most definitely entirely feminine of feature and dressed like as such beneath her outerwear in a simple long skirted dress with a belt and dark boots.
Whoever this girl is though, she obviously doesn't want to hang around and make friends, the slightly nasal noise of indignation she makes when he guesses he doesn't get out of her way fast enough for her liking sums it up all too well. This to Enjolras is fine; he is hardly in a mood for introductions himself.
"My apologies again" he says simply as he finally stands aside to let her pass, he see's absolutely no need to be impolite. She however takes a further moment to scrutinize him, or so it appears before something seems to fall from her look, the contempt seems to drop from her eyes but that's that or if it's not, the rest is unreadable.
She strides past him now, eye's forward on where she's going, but as she passes Enjolras hears her. Although curtly, he can't mistake her words, spoken in a rough accent that sounds entirely working class "thanks and sorry too" before with a light-footed clomp of boots he's now certain are too big for her she's gone.
Enjolras blinks at the sudden emptiness for a few seconds; the atmosphere has completely changed to one of stillness once again.
He thinks that was unexpected and slightly strange. But it's lost from his mind within a minute, for as he prepares to slip into the inviting tin bathtub, his thoughts are, as is normal these days, a million miles away and they stay like that for a long time thereafter.
A/N: Thanks for reading, I'll update again soon but until then review or some such and don't feel the need to be shy about it.
Also side note if you're interested in any of the history or have any general questions about the fic feel free to ask and I'll try my best to give you a decent answer.
'Les Amis de Les travailleurs français' roughly means 'Friends of the French Workers.'
Action Française – Was a far right French political party/movement (which still exists in a fairly insignificant way today) that was powerful in France before World War Two. It supported restoring the French Monarchy and later became more like a Fascist party and to some extent aided the Nazis during the occupation in WW2.
