Disclaimer: the frenchboys & the novel ain't mine.
A/N: I did this a while ago for a thing on livejournal, and even though it doesn't depart much creatively from my usual drabble, I ended up actually liking it. So I hope you will. : (And, erm, yeah it would be nice to actually get reviews, so that I know whether or not anyone reads my stuff. Thanks.)
With Coffee
Snow outside. Crisp, white flakes sticking to the ground and a few battering against the windows, hitting the glass and sliding down; Marius watches, while he is staring at them, brow furrowed over clear blue eyes, and Marius cannot tell whether he is bored or transfixed. It is a strange marriage of those two expressions that is written on his face now; Marius has never seen such an expression as that before.
Although, he has never seen anything quite like this man before.
The two of them have been sitting there, burrowed into the two aged, familiar wooden chairs on either side of the table, for some several minutes. Marius caught his eye on the street. They exchanged a "good day" and sat down together, realising they were going the same direction, like friends; they are friends, aren't they? He supposes they are friends. Gingerly picking up his chipped, white china mug off the table, the heat rising from the coffee in it, he quickly glances sideways at Enjolras. Almost a cue. The other man is snapped out of his thoughts without either of them moving, and he is speaking to him for the first time since they came in, also gripping his mug. Finally.
"Where are you going, Pontmercy?"
These questions; every time, it seems, that he speaks to one of these revolutionaries, one of Les Amis de L'ABC, he is hit directly in the forehead by a simple question that is so essentially simple that he cannot find the answer. Do they not know the answer? He is sitting still, at the moment. The only one of the group who ever asks him real questions is perpetually curious Jean Prouvaire. Prouvaire asks obscure questions about life and makes allusions to greek mythology and things of that nature, which he cannot answer any better than the other variety that he is pelted with.
So he shrugs and picks up his coffee again, taking a sip, then replies, "What do you mean?" He is confused.
"Do you consider yourself...with us, do you..." Enjolras breaks off. "...never mind, Pontmercy." In unison they look down, awkwardly, take a drink of coffee.
This is also why Marius does not like these questions that he, they, all of them ask him...why do they condescend? It irritates him, the cool demeanor of this revolutionary. He knows that he, Marius Pontmercy, is not one of them, and he can hardly take solace in the fact that he, Marius Pontmercy, is sitting having coffee with one of them and being scrutinised as if he's auditioning to become a member of their group, their society. But he still wants to answer, though he doesn't. Silence again.
And there's a flurry outside, now; it is quite strange for November. A smattering of laughter can be heard across the room, warm and soft, unlike the weather. Enjolras sighs, gets up, pulls on that crimson vest, meets his eye; calm looking pityingly upon bemused.
"It was nice talking to you, Pontmercy."
And Marius is utterly confused again.
-fin-