.
red is his colour
.
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February 1830
.
"You know, democracy originated from Ancient Greece."
Enjolras doesn't jolt, per se, it's not like he'd been unaware there were others in the library. It's not a private wing, not like the shelves upon shelves of books within the grand manor he grew up in. That world he was born into, filled with perquisite, excessive privileges as the working class within the slums of the city starve in their thread-bare beds.
It sets his teeth on end, the burning injustice that is suffered not just throughout Paris, but the entirety of France. His countrymen with their gaunt faces and their concave stomachs. All that money spent supporting the United States of America during their rebellion against the English has subsequently weakened his own country.
France is poor, there is no other way to put it. The price of bread is high, the workers' wages low. Even now, years following the American Revolution, there's still a heavy layer of discontent in the air as the people of France stare out to the West and recognise that revolution, that change is possible. That if they just reach out far enough, fight hard enough, it is something they would be able to hold with their own two hands.
Some days, Enjolras can feel it; it's like sand, kissing at the curves and creases of his hands as it slips between his fingers. So close, ideals within his grasp, yet so very elusive.
His eyes flicker up, landing on the source of the voice as a heavy book crashes upon the table with a solid thump.
A woman, arms crossed and an amused smile upon her face, cocks her hips to one side to better shift her body weight onto one foot.
Threading the pen through his fingers, Enjolras considers the multitude of books upon the desk he has claimed his own for the day, law notes scattered across each which way. He, he just doesn't care for them anymore.
What difference would that make? None, none at all. The working man would not have the money to pay him, would not waste such money on defending themselves in the court of law when it could instead be spent by a wife, a sister, a mother, in order to feed their starving family.
He's just one man and he cannot take on the world alone. Not through this, this is not the way.
He was born too late, too late to be a part of something greater, to have been involved in the true revolution.
The cries of angry men had already been drowned out by the rolling roar of the rich over the poor, the deep beat of the clergy and nobility now only just resounding louder than the rising screams of angry men.
It will not be long until something gives in this disharmony; Enjolras can feel it within his bones, bleeding into the marrow. The whispers are already within the air, that one precious word that has called to him for as long as he can remember.
Revolution. An idea of enlightenment, of progress. Change this country and its people desperately need.
"Not sure why a law student would be looking at democracy," the woman continues, sliding into the only other chair at the table, the one that'd been purposefully pushed beneath the surface so as to mark his clear desire for solitude.
Her hands fold over one another, chin resting upon interlinking fingers as her elbows flank the hastily deposited casebook.
"Are you not supposed to be working for king and country with all those tidy little qualifications acquired from your studies?"
Well well well, someone who speaks ill of King Charles. What a surprise. Not.
Offering the lady a bland smile, Enjolras thumbs the corner of his open book, working the page edge back and forth, though taking care to not leave a definite fold. No need to ruin a perfectly good book and have the university library waste money on another copy. Money that could be better used elsewhere, coin that could be used upon bread to fill a child's belly.
"Democracy is an interesting concept. I may study law, but that also means I understand it's limitations in regulating and determining the actual flow of power," Enjolras says, scratching out another note upon the very concept he finds himself critiquing, mind swirling with the sheer injustice of it all. "It's especially apparent when you when consider the power of the law against the influence of powerful patrons bent on protecting their individual and familial interests instead of those of the common man."
Another quick scribble, pen scraping against paper. He waits, waits for the woman to walk away, waits for her to mention his dissatisfaction with the status quo sounds dangerously close to revolutionary mindsets, to treason.
A moment passes, then a moment more and yet still the woman remains and Enjolras rewards her with his total focus for a mere breath.
She's looking at him, not with the confusion or the discomfort that so many others showcase upon the revelation of his ideals, but with a near soft understanding in her eyes.
"Do you ever wonder how it got to this?" she asks, the joining of her fingers dissolving, so that she can better cushion her cheek in the curve of her palm, elbow upon the table as one of her hands runs down the spine of her tome. "At what point in history was it decided that kings and queens had the right of it, that there were separate class levels? You only need to look upon history to recognise regimes do not last forever, always a dissatisfied majority overthrowing the one that came before it. It all centres around the core principle of a man not wishing to be entrapped so thoroughly, be that physically or by his circumstances…" she trails off, the lower flesh of her mouth sucked in as her teeth toy with the skin there, her eyes sliding off to the left.
Nevertheless, the words spin through Enjolras' mind, rolling back and forth, nipping at the heels of his dreams of a brighter future.
"But what experience and history teach is this, that peoples and governments never have learned anything from history, or acted on principles deduced from it," Enjolras quotes, the words having hung heavy within his head ever since he read Hegel's work.
Nodding, the woman smiles at him, as if he is the first to ever respond as such, the first to acknowledge her questions upon human nature. To acknowledge her intelligence, despite her status as a woman.
One only needs to look to Joan of Arc to understand a woman has the potential to be great. An exceptional few, but there stands to reason that another such as France's heroine could come again.
It is not just the working man that finds himself suppressed, Enjolras realises with a pressing frown.
"I'm Lucille Boisselot."
"Alexander Enjolras."
.
March-July 1830
.
Lucille Boisselot proves interesting company. Certainly stimulating, intellectually.
She's there the next day, sitting before the table he favours with her own collection of concise notes spread tidily around her. Her gaze sweeps over each sheet, as if a general surveying the troops, deciding upon which to send into battle first.
There is a lecturer by the name of Boisselot, Enjolras recalls. His daughter then. Certainly, too young to be the man's wife; the age gap far too improper and her ring naked of a wedding band.
For a moment, he dallies, wondering if the interaction is worth his favourite table.
In the end, he decides in favour of sitting with her; it's a simple enough equation. The company of one he knows at his preferred table, or risking another and a chance of sharing with a person less respectful of his personal space than she.
For the first hour or so, they sit in companionable silence, only the sound of pen nibs upon paper between them. He can't quite remember which of them brings it up, only the quiet gives way to a discussion upon the current state of their country.
That Boisselot has noticed all the poverty that lays heavy outside of their class bracket is interesting, but she questions deeper than the surface she has skimmed.
How many learned men, how many genii have they missed simply because the working class haven't been educated? Because status doesn't not equate to a brain, that's obvious in just how many have brought their house and family to ruin throughout the years. He only needs to flick through a history book for proof of that.
They're crippling their country, Boisselot murmurs and Enjolras finds himself in agreement.
The working class, are after all, the backbone. If they stopped farming the fields, stopped selling the livestock, the clergy and the nobility would starve all the same as those they lord over.
The discussion spirals, enticing him further and further in, until a librarian takes note of their presence just as he's closing the room off for the night and has to evict them.
Even so, still they talk as they traverse the corridors. (He'd been right, Boisselot has accommodation upon the university grounds. Her father works here).
.
.
From there, through there is no verbally acknowledged decision, they both orbit the very same table, both keep coming back to one another's company each day, until before his eyes, a month of being acquaintances with one another has passed them by.
Lucille Boisselot isn't so much a patriot as she is a woman who believes in the concept of progress. In the betterment of mankind simply because they as a race are capable of such a thing. Why linger in a situation that can barely be acknowledged as acceptable when they could be striving for so much more?
It alines nicely with his own ideals. That of freedom, of the working man's rights as both labours and as fellow men.
She speaks of change, of potential, but it's clear she flounders at the application.
That's where he would come in though, Enjolras thinks. Where she has no idea where to start, too busy focusing on the smaller things (on the people, on looking up to the future and not seeing the steps she is supposed to be ascending to get there), he has an idea.
An association of revolutionary French republicans.
It'd be the way forwards.
It's only affirmed months later when an uprising sees Charles X summarily relieved of his title of king and a new one installed. If men can work together to put one fool over another atop the throne, then why can a great gathering of people not work together for the betterment of France?
His body shakes with restless energy, riding on the cresting waves of revolution that are still rolling across the many shores of France.
But to the lower class, a change in king means little. They are still starving, still struggling to make enough coin to purchase bread, still never quite able to fill their empty bellies.
It makes his heart bleed.
.
.
He's not the only one dissatisfied by the state of the world around them. There are others, fellow students who look upon the country they shall inherit from previous generation and they find it wanting.
They don't know what to do about it though, continuing on through their life as discontent flowing through their innards like the Seine cuts through Paris.
Enjolras however, he can feel his country screaming. Each breath he breathes is in time with France's own and he's choking.
It's not difficult to gather those who feel the same; they follow after him, attend the speeches he holds in the hazy Parisian bars, nod in agreement with every point he makes.
And he can see it, the stirring of Revolution a steady churn compared to the sheer floods, the thunderous downpours that engulf him, that encase him so thoroughly that he can no long tell up from down. It is at the very core of his heart, this palpitating desire for the betterment of his country, of his countrymen.
If the Kings of this country cared even half as much as Enjolras feels he does, there would be no need for men like him.
He meets Lucille in the library as always, works through his next speech with her, allows her way with the written language to influence his words.
'It doesn't matter what vocabulary is put in here,' she had once told him, 'only that you keep pouring your soul behind it'.
Enjolras is a Frenchman, he lives and breathes alongside France, he's proud to call this country his home.
But that doesn't mean it couldn't be better.
His country has given him so much, now it is a case of what can he do for his country.
.
November 1830
.
"Come to one of the meetings."
He does not yet have a proper term for them. They're so far past mere 'meetings' now, but so far from a revolution, not quite yet a rally either. It's the closest terminology he can label them with though, so it is that he calls it.
Lifting her head from where she's currently circling part of his notes in red ink, Lucille cocks an eyebrow, a little smile twitching at the corner of her lips. It dimples the smooth flesh of her cheek, so painfully not working class by the tell-tale healthy glow of her pale skin.
"It's taken you far too long to invite me," she murmurs, arms stretching out across the table, rolling her shoulders and lengthening her spine. They've been sat here for much too long already, as always.
It's strange he, who finds people so dreadfully ignorant and downright near painful to deal with at times, can be so comfortably content in Lucille's presence.
"They are not exactly held within establishments you would consider well behaved," Enjolras points out, one hand whipping through the thick mess of his golden curls, pushing it back and from his forehead.
Lucille hums, the sound coming from low in her throat.
"There'll be no waltzing at this establishment, will there?"
"No, no waltzing," Enjolras murmurs, lips twitching begrudgingly at the very notion of inviting a lady to dance the waltz. His parents would see to it they had no son to boast of at all if word ever got back to them. "It is a bar the working class frequent however, so there are a few... ladies of the night skulking about."
"Oh. And pray tell, have you ever indulged?"
At that, Enjolras does flick a shocked glance to his companion, surprised by her blasé tone.
But no, Lucille is simply curious, there's no tease in her voice or her expression. Perhaps that is what pushes the truth out from behind his teeth.
"I don't see the appeal of it."
"Of amorous congress?"
Enjolras nods, chancing a glance up from his book.
It is not exactly something he should be discussing with a woman (so incredibly inappropriate that if Lucille's father knew the current topic of their discussion he'd ensure Enjolras would never see her again in the very least, potentially have him expelled from the university altogether) but he wishes to acquire her own opinions upon the topic.
He knows his fellow students (the few he has spoken to) believe him mad, to not be drawn to a woman, to not be utterly taken by the carnal lust that seems to entrap so many of his classmates.
Regardless, Lucille has spoken upon the concept of intercourse before, if in a roundabout way of discussing the necessity for offspring among men and women.
"I don't understand it either," Lucille confines, teeth scraping over the chipping flesh of her lips, the neatly trimmed edge of her nails working up and down the shaft of her fountain pen. The invention of that particular writing intensely had only come into existence a scant three years ago, but Enjolras finds it so much easier to use than the quill pens of his childhood.
"I've heard tales of women fallen from grace just for a night between the sheets with a man they believe themselves in love with, but," she pauses for an unnecessary breath, turning to look at him and in the candlelight her eyes are coal black, "while I find myself curious, it's from a purely academic perspective of what sensations drive a person to such things."
That Enjolras understands. A purely theoretical viewpoint, it makes perfect sense.
"Also, I believe my father is wondering when you plan on proposing."
Startling at the unexpected change in topic, he stares at Lucille, mentally willing her to elaborate, quite unable to voice the question himself.
"It's the only reason he's allowed us to continue meeting with just the librarian in residence as our 'chaperon'. He thinks you have matrimonial intentions."
The sly smile- no. The sly smirk upon Lucille's face proves she knows that to be as false as the sky is green. She, just like Enjolras, is here for the exchange of ideas.
Had she been born a man, perhaps it would not just be him rallying those brimming with discontent. Perhaps she too would be able to command the same attention as he.
"While we're on the topic, the big wig physicians are pushing contraceptives now, instruments to lower the risk of conception," Lucille expands when his face provides his ignorance over that terminology.
"Sounds like a hoax."
"Who's to say," Lucille murmurs with a shrug, peeling back the loose strands of her hair, the baby-fine strands sticking to the summer sweat on her brow. The candlelight is burning low, casting long shadows across the room and it is late enough, Enjolras thinks, to head home now.
"Shall I accompany you back to your rooms, or will your chaperon be satisfactory?"
"I'll take the chaperon. Good night, Enjolras. I'll see you at your little gathering tomorrow?"
"Of course."
.
.
Sitting in this smoky bar, surrounded by liquor and with women of... ill-repute weaving in and out, Enjolras has never seen Lucille look so intrigued and yet, so maddeningly out of place as she looks upon the people crowding around them.
Maybe he should not have brought her to this particular meeting, this particular bar after all.
He sees the way his fellows linger to stare at Lucille, how their brows furrow as they take in her feminine form and for the first time since they spoke of democracy the day they met, Enjolras tries to see what they undoubtedly do.
Her dark hair is long, thick waves that frame her pale face. But her equally dark eyes are sharp, sharper than any woman who is just here looking for a quick coin or a foolish husband. He doesn't understand how anyone could look lustfully upon her when Lucille's eyes indicate that a staggering amount of intelligence resides within her head. He cannot understand why anyone would be interested in her reasonably pretty features when she has such an incredible brain full of such fascinating ideas within that skull.
When he has finished his speech, Enjolras edges into the chair beside Lucille; a quick glance at her notes shows she's not just been listening to his words, but annotating them too, expanding upon them, noting down what she thinks he could build upon. It's beyond helpful, bringing up points that had crossed his mind during his appeal to the masses, but had been lost in the rolling tumble of his words.
He retracts his previous thought; if this is the kind of outcome he can look forwards to, then he shall be dragging Lucille along every single night that he can manage.
She glances up at him, ink stained fingers having left smudging trails across her jawline and neck, too focused upon making her notes to worry of maintaining her appearance.
He's never really paid attention to Lucille's eyes before. He'd registered they were dark, but he'd not noticed the colour. They're blue, so much darker than his own, the deep navy of the lower ocean, framed by thick, black lashes. They don't sparkle or twinkle or glimmer. There's no magic shining there.
But the little crinkles of skin that forms at the corner of her eyes, the way they soften as she listens to him speaking... and she's always listening, like there's something of importance to his words, and as validating as that is, there's something more to the way she looks at him compared to all the other students at this gathering.
Apollo, that'd what they've taken to calling him. It is the name Jean Prouvaire, the poet among them, has anointed him with and for whatever reason, they believe it applicable.
Apollo. The sun god.
Yet, Lucille does not squint as she looks upon him, her eyes wide and knowing as she takes in all that he is and all that he isn't. She knows his mind as he knows hers.
And that is, perhaps, what makes her such easy company.
If he is to be the sun, perhaps Lucille is to be his Mercury, the one closest to his being, the one who aids him with the eloquence of his speeches, who manages to order his thoughts and feelings coherently, so that they may be better communicated. She remains a boundary he can retreat behind, when the people become too much.
He wants to help the working class, wants to see France better, to see his country become something more than it currently is.
But there is a difference between rallying people behind the cause and actually interacting with them.
Perhaps Apollo is all too apt, for Enjolras seems to burn far too much, searingly so.
People appreciate his warmth, but he scorches, turns skin red and causes pain with overexposure.
Only Lucille, who has basked in his presence for far too long, seems capable of withstanding the sheer heat and light he exudes.
The Mercury to his Sun.
.
.
"It was a good speech," Lucille muses, arms folded around her latest notebook as he guides her through the night darkened streets of Paris.
His eyes are always on their surroundings, his pistol sitting heavy against his hip as they progress further into the heart of France's great capital.
"A great speech," Enjolras corrects, his heart clenching at the sight of another beggar.
It's a woman this time, thin hair, gaunt cheeks with a jawline sharper than a straight razor.
"It was good and your help made it great."
"You're selling yourself short, Monsieur Apollo."
A small face peeks out beneath the futile shelter the beggar's shawl offers and Enjolras can ignore it no longer.
His hand dig deep into his pocket, retrieving enough coin for bread and Lucille knows him far too well, for she halts them by the woman before he can.
Pressing the money into the mother's dirt-ridden hands, Enjolras waves her thank you's off even as injustice burns deep in his bones. There should be no need for thank you's, every person should be entitled to the chance of earning a wage, of being able to work and feed their children. It is what their rising group, tentatively titled Les Amis de l'ABC, is all about.
"You were talking a fair amount with Combeferre."
"Well, I do have to look towards my future prospects," Lucille mutters, a bitterness tainting her words, "and a fair portion of our thoughts run parallel to the other's." The thought of that is... distressing.
Of course, Lucille shall one day be wed; it is the status quo and her father is far from an unknown. Were it another, Enjolras would not care.
However, unlike all of his other acquaintances, Lucille is female.
As soon as she is married, it would mean an end to their discussions, her change in status would mean they'd never be 'left alone' again. Their discussions would be no more. He would have his speeches, his dream of a greater France to strive for. It is not as if his world would stop turning without her.
But it would be off kilter.
He has become used to Lucille's presence, the steady assurance that she is right there, ready and willing to speak with him on any such topic and give him viewpoints he may have never considered.
His brain is swimming, faced with this new problem, this new upset to his well-established routines and he gets too far into his own head again, that point where he can never be dragged out, where the only effective remedy if for Enjolras to work his way through the big wall the issue has formed.
Only this time, he's forcefully ejected from the labyrinth Daedalus has constructed of his thoughts.
Lucille slips her hand into his.
Enjolras doesn't flinch, per se, but his eyes do abandon the street before them to instead look at the sudden contact.
It's not like those fingers are intertwined, it's just palm to palm, her thumb on the back of his hand and his brushing the top of her fore knuckle.
Lucille is looking away, her book tucked under only one arm now and he doubts she's as uninterested in his reaction as she is trying (and succeeding) to appear. As if she is daring him to pull his hand free.
He doesn't.
Her fingers are such fragile things, for all that they clutch at a pen while trying to shape the France of the future. To construct a better concept of what France could be.
After a moment, Lucille's eyes dart to his, as swift as the river's waters and Enjolras holds that contact, a single moment in time as they continue to walk back towards the university.
He does not intertwine their fingers.
But, he does not release her hand either.
.
February 1831
.
It's not a relationship. Not really.
Well, perhaps it is best acknowledged that it is not a relationship orchestrated towards the intentions of man and wife, of matrimony and of wedding vows.
Enjolras isn't quite sure it can be acknowledged as a romantic relationship (certainly not some form of torrid love affair as he hears his peers whisper about) and that's something he is perfectly content with. He is, after all, married to France.
Lucille knows him, she's aware his love for France shall always come first, that he is a man defined by his purpose. She understands for she is not so dissimilar to he.
But now there is a layer to their interactions that was not there before. That never mentioned boundary regarding physical contact seems to have dissolved, and Enjolras is unsure how he feels about that.
Lucille appears just as conflicted, despite the fact it was her who took the first step in this regard.
When he taps her shoulder to gather her attention she jolts, the one time he had placed an arm around her shoulders to guide her through the streets of Paris, she'd shivered in surprise. It's new to both of them, that much is clear.
He's not particularly comfortable when she leans against his side and Lucille is quick to realise that and abort the motion, just as he never again lays his arm across her shoulders.
Curling his arm around her upper back is apparently acceptable though, not that he understands the difference there.
Enjolras has never had to read a person's body language before, has never had to look for clues or indications that he is making a person uncomfortable. It is something new, something he does not instantly excel at. It makes him hesitant, a sensation he is unused to, and that leaves him desperately trying not to flounder.
When in doubt, when he finds himself believing there should be some form of physical contact (what a strange urge that is to experience) then he defaults to the very first thing.
Hand holding. Something he has not partaken in since he was a child, and as a young one at that.
But the press of their palms as they greet one another in the morning, their fingers entwining as they move through the city streets, the back of their knuckles brushing as they lay their arms side by side upon that university table... it's all comfortable. Familiar.
He doesn't mind it in the slightest.
Lucille seems to take pleasure in the contact as well, her fingers curling around his, thumb occasionally stroking at the back of his hand. Before every speech, her hand will clasp his and give a gentle squeeze, the encouragement she never voices.
It'll make him nervous, she'd proclaimed once, even if they both know it is a lie.
.
.
There is, however. A moment of madness.
It is not a singular event, but sometimes as he lays in his sheets at night, the candlelight having long since burned out, and he wonders if this is what marriage would be.
Who is to say what a true relationship is? Who is to say how much a man and woman must interact within their most private settings?
He knows Lucille's father only continues to allow their interactions because he believes them smitten with one another, believes that marriage is within the future. The future he perceives is far different than the one Enjolras and Lucille catch glimpses of, the promise of a better tomorrow.
Her father and his father also, they both only see the continuation of the current, an unchanging landscape in which so many suffer so that they might continue their comfortable existence unhindered.
But Enjolras can read the air, can taste the civil unrest that permits it. Sometimes, as rare as a full moon alongside the sunshine, he toys with the idea of placating their beliefs.
It would see them capable of spending their time with one another unchaperoned, it would mean he could seek counsel for his mind with her own whenever he wished it.
Nonetheless, he never acts upon these thoughts. He is, after all, already married to his country.
Lucille doesn't remind him of France. He loves his country, wants to see it grow and be better for it.
It is that what Lucille makes him think of; a future. He sees the future France could have, can hear it in the words she speaks, the thoughts she whispers to him between shelves upon shelves of books.
She's optimistic, but it's a different breed than what he himself feels.
When Enjolras looks upon the world, he sees them at dusk, the long night stretching ahead with the promise of dawn in the distance.
Lucille does not await the dawn, instead, she glances to the stars above. The far-off promises that they may one day reach.
What they share is the night's sky they reside beneath, the both of them looking for their own brand of light together. She's his companion, his fellow intellect that has realised how dark this world is. And... it's nice. To not be alone, to have this... friend beside him.
What is the point in becoming legally married when they are as close as they could be, heedless of an official ceremony? Does marriage not dictate that a man shall take a wife to be his one and only woman? For he cannot see himself acknowledging any other female; it is not as if he approached Lucille until he first place.
She came to him, their discussions evolving into an actual appreciation for one another's presence and mind.
Were marriage that simple, were life that simple, then perhaps that is what would happen. They would be married and that would be that.
Maybe in that future they dream of, a future where there would be no cause for revolution, where every man (and woman, as Lucille so insists) has their rights and knows it.
That cannot be; his cause burns ever bright within his chest, a fire that stokes the revolution he knows with bone deep certainty is approaching.
Were he to ever take a wife, then Lucille it would unquestionably be.
But that is not what he is destined for, they both know it.
And Lucille, well, she's made it clear she has no need for a man within her life, that she only puts up the pretence of looking for a husband to keep her father happy and ensure he doesn't begin such a search himself.
No, it is an unconventional relationship they share, but in all honesty, they are unconventional people.
It suits them, and that is all that matters.
.
June 1831
.
The July election is due to happen soon and only tax paying citizen eligible to vote.
Enjolras rolls his pen through his fingers across the wooden top of the desk, back and forth, back and forth.
Because what is the point? Why elect a new figurehead to rule over a civilisation structured by lies and suppression? It doesn't matter who wins, there will still be people starving in the streets, still be homeless and disease and poverty and everything that is wrong with his beloved country.
"This is perhaps the most lacklustre I have ever seen you," Lucille informs him primly as she seats herself, dropping a small gathering of notes upon the table top and offering a small smile as an afterthought.
Enjolras flicks his gaze up to meet hers, a stern frown upon his face before he returns his attentions to the pen, it's momentum from the inverted rolls occupying most, if not all, of his attentions.
"Enjol..." Lucille trails off, breathing in through her nose, the sound sharp and audible between the tall towers of bookcases around them.
"Alexander Enjolras!"
Her voice cracks through the air, lightning on a still night and Enjolras snaps to attention far faster than he has ever done before.
"The full name? Honestly?"
"As I've said, I've never seen you all but wilted before, are you a man or a pansy?"
Scoffing, Enjolras straightened his spine, sitting tall, head tilting back to consider the woman now sitting to his left. Lucille's brows are furrowed, her lips pursed.
"That's much better. Now tell me what has stolen your sunlight, daffodil."
"The election. It doesn't matter who's installed, none of them are ever going to support the rights of the people like this country needs."
He strategically ignores the absolutely terrible nickname, praying it is once again a passing fancy that Lucille will drop. It's not the first she's christened him with and undoubtedly it shall not be the last.
"What you're saying is that there's a need for change," she whispers quietly, tone soft and her eyes gentle.
As always, Lucille is leaving the topic open, leaving him to begin and break open the topic. Like cracking open a boiled egg, only they both get to enjoy the runny innards.
This time though, this time he waits, leaving the knife in her hands.
Sure enough, she strikes.
"People will die in a revolution."
"People die daily. I would much rather die a meaningful death than see my life end without furthering the cause. If everyone thought the same, perhaps we would already live in a society where such a thing is no longer necessary."
There's that twitch to her lips again, that one where she's already smiling but it isn't sufficient enough for what she wants to showcase. As if she wants to allow it to evolve into something more, not the cheerful grin that would be used to showcase genuine amusement, but something that would provide substance to the tenderness that softens her eyes.
"Maybe it is time I took to the streets," he whispers beneath his breath, running his hands through his hair, pen king forgotten.
"You'd have to gather the Les Amis de l'ABC first. You're not just fighting this crusade alone, remember?"
Thin fingers (fingers with only the slightest callow upon the ring finger that her pen rests against) weave through his own, palm to palm, Lucille's knuckles flat on table and his own resting atop the joining of their limbs. That little squeeze, the gentle gesture of welcome and encouragement he has found himself having long grown used to comes again, the press of flesh against flesh.
And it is nice, nice to have some structure and some reassurance, to have Lucille listen and nod and just stand by his side, by the ideals they share. She has never leant into his side, not since the first time.
But this is different, this moment has Enjolras tucking her against his ribs, one arm around her back as he presses his cheek to the crown of her hair, their fingers no longer intertwined but with more contact between them than there has ever been before.
At his side, Lucille is tense, her muscles tight, before she suddenly becomes boneless, melting and relaxing and becoming at ease.
Alarmingly enough, he realises that this is the first time he has ever known her to be so free, another boundary they have stepped across, that has been broken down.
Despite it all, Lucille's heart pounds, thrumming through the delicate structure of her ribcage in a strong tempo, echoing the thunderous drums of discontent, of passion.
Of revolution given a flesh form.
.
He wonders at what rhythm his own beats.
.
September 1831
.
The first time, the people ignore him, only a few too bored, too displaced within the streets stopping to listen.
But he persists, he returns again and again and again. As the weeks progress, he begins to draw a crowd, Les Amis de l'ABC begin to draw a crowd.
They sport rosettes, Enjolras has become so used to carrying a soapbox everywhere that his arm feels off without it in his grasp. He keeps going, striving towards that France in his dreams, that France hidden in Lucille's words.
He stands and he speaks, he calls out to the people.
It all comes to head when a passing officer spots them and stops to listen.
That soapbox is lost to him now, Enjolras concludes as he sprints down the streets. The pistol hidden in his belt knocks against his hip as he flees, unwilling to end up with an acknowledged pardon upon his record when his father is forced to bail him from jail. Cannot have an acknowledged convict in the family, after all.
Lucille races along beside him, dress hiked up in one hand, booted feet slamming against the pavement as they twist into a little side street.
There's a beggar there, one of the many he must have helped for the man is swift to offer his aid in return, shuffling them back behind the swath of unwashed fabric that covers his 'home'. The guard continues past with nary a glance to the beggar.
This is why he fights for the cause, for people like this man, who despite being at the bottom of the world can still offer an act of kindness.
Capturing the man's hands in his own, Enjolras bows over them, his thankful smile met with the gap-riddled grin that the old man's mouth forms.
"You have my thanks, Monsieur."
"And mine also."
Releasing the man's hands, Enjolras captured Lucille's instead (cleaner, fairer, so familiar) as they exit the alleyway. He still draws his breath swiftly, chest expanding and contracting, a mirror of Lucille's own motions. Tucking her wrist between his forearm and ribcage, Enjolras twists his head around to better gaze upon Lucille, noting her hat has become askew during their flight.
"How will people ever believe you a man to follow if you cannot keep your blasted cravat straight?" she fusses, smoothing out the piece in question, dainty fingers working the dark material until it lies correctly atop his white linen shirt.
From the sudden rush, her cheeks remain flushed, the blood is still pouring through his ears like torrents of rainwater slamming against the shingle roofs. If they are being chased, it is perhaps because they are dangerous.
No, it is because their ideas are dangerous.
Enjolras clings to that elation, an incredible sensation that screams of progression as he meets Lucille's eyes, finding the same optimism for the future reflecting there.
It's uncertain just which one of them moves, if it is perhaps one or the other or both, but his lips draw across hers and her lips draw across his.
A brief meeting, a hesitant greeting that is as innocent as it is short. But it is such a perfect summary of their acquaintance, so just and right even if Enjolras knows he could go his entire life (however long or short that may be) which such an intimate gesture again... it is still pleasant.
"We should go," Lucille whispers, hot breath ghosting across his lips, the autumn chill already beginning to set in the air. "That man shall soon figure out the has been tricked."
"Then we have no time to waste."
.
November 1831
.
They meet in the Café Musain, a little place the cause has adopted for their own.
Lucille is the only woman allowed to join the men in the back room, and while many watch him with judgemental eyes, it cannot be argued that she does not contribute. That she too is one of them, one of them who sees what they see, who stands were they stand and feels that same dissatisfaction. If they were to try and bar her, Enjolras would contest the decision.
For is that not what they fight for? An end to the suppression, is it not?
It is during this time as they sit as speak quietly after their full table discussion, that Lucille finds herself addressed by the likes of 'Iris'.
They obviously think they're funny, interlinking their names like that.
Apollo and Iris. One who cannot be present without the other and that certainly isn't a taunt directed at him.
After all, rainbows can only appear beneath specific circumstances; without the sun, there would never be another rainbow sighted within the sky. They consider her an after image of himself, pretty but something only brought into being by his intervention.
They're so terribly wrong; even if Lucille had never approached him that day, had just passed him by, she would have still gone through her life as this incredible, revolutionary-inclined woman. Mercury just orbiting, only ever in the vicinity of the sun as she moves throughout the space they occupy. Lucille does not follow in his wake, it is just that they coexist together.
Perhaps Lucille believes herself better off in his company, perhaps she is right to think so. After all, he doubts she can be this free with her opinions in the company of another, doubts she can give voice to the incredible thoughts that whistle through her mind with others. Even if so, they would never appreciate it, appreciate her as Enjolras has come to do.
Sitting atop the railings of the landing staircase, Enjolras keeps his hands threaded through Lucille's, the back of his hand resting against the top of his thigh, the tips of her fingers just kissing against the coarse material of his trousers.
Perched upon the edge of a taller than normal chair (a cheap, home-made bar stool that could never have been constructed by a well-practiced carpenter, for it tilts and refuses to rest straight), Lucille is by his side as she always is during these meetings. Her eyes watch the students as they socialise, her cheeks hollowing as she purses her lips.
"What are you thinking?" Enjolras asks, knocking his knee against hers, a gentle tap that easily ganders her attention.
"Just that it is strange, witnessing this socialisation between students."
"Be thankful your father cares so little for forcing a chaperone upon us these days."
"Truthfully, I think he sees us as married in all but name now."
That has Enjolras rolling his eyes skywards, disbelief slowing the motion.
"No, I was thinking it is an odd twist of events that I am here to observe this. Meeting you was a turning point in my life in that it has opened doors I thought closed."
The words stick with him, spiralling within his brain even as Lucille takes her silence again and he finds himself speaking to each of the Les Amis de l'ABCs as the night continues.
.
.
At his next rally, at his next speech to the public where he does not yet call for revolution but instead continues to highlight all that is wrong with the current climate, he takes Lucille's hand and draws her up onto the soapbox. Throwing open another door she had once thought locked.
She takes to it well, with barely even a stumble and she knows his speech (has looked it over so many times that the words can never honesty be called his own now, not his alone) that there is no moment of startled wonder between where he leaves off and she picks up.
More people gather now, if for the novelty of a woman speaking publicly or because they had seen Enjolras himself pull her up to join him, he cannot say for sure. But it draws a crowd, an interest runs through them, more kindling thrown onto the fire, fanning the flames.
It is no wonder the national guard have such an easy time of finding them; they are probably throwing up all too many smoke signals by now.
He abandons the soap box once again, Courfeyrac gathering up as many of the leaflets and posters as he can before their entire group are forced to flee for the nth time.
"Utter madness, Apollo, utter madness! Getting a mademoiselle up to speak!"
"It drew a crowd, did it not?!"
His words come out from between hard breaths, sharp gasps as his lungs work to draw in more and more air. The smile will not leave his face, will not disappear as the adrenaline floods his veins, soaks into his every bone and muscle. This burning excitement, this living on the edge of the cliff moment; if revolution is the ambrosia of wine, heady and strong, then this is its watered-down cousin. Just enough to get him tipsy, but not so much that he may get well and truly lost in his cups.
Lucille laughs, her head thrown back, the aesthetic of her pale neck arching and momentarily stealing his focus.
It passes though as her hand slips into his and his longer legs eats up the distance before them, dragging Lucille along as he goes.
.
June 1832
.
He's not entirely sure when Marius shows up, not sure who drags him along to the group meeting or even what meeting it is.
But he does know the man fits right in with them.
He regards Lucille with confusion-fuelled friendliness, too well brought up to question her presence but not so well-adjusted to life's oddities so as to hide his bemusement. He brings fresh ideas to the table, living among the lower class, a pretence at being poor that grants him an understanding many of them lack.
What Enjolras does have an understanding of is that the only man to have ever fought for the working class, for the people that need him the most, is ill. Close to his death bed, some would say.
Enjolras' rallies increase in quantity and quality, he would argue.
Lucille disagrees, she says he has always been this inspiring. The rest of the Les Amis agree.
Perhaps that may be the cause, but Enjolras feels renewed, born again with more fire in his chest than ever before. It boils and burns, rolls through his entire body, a hot flash of dry summer lightning striking again and again and again.
He feels the weight of Lucille's gaze upon him, her eyes heavy, though from what he does not know. He can feel a change coming; if ever there were a chance to raise a rebellion, now would be the moment.
The death of the one person he looked out for the working man, rallying upon the day of his funeral would be poetic.
A part of Enjolras prays the man does not die though, does not succumb, this lone man who would still be fighting their corner.
.
As before with his mother's failing health, prays do nothing.
God is a comforting lie and if man wishes to truly witness change than he himself must implement it.
.
The general dies and the drums of revolution beat ever louder.
.
.
"What are you doing here?!" Enjolras hisses, aware his hands are pressing tight red marks into upper arms but past the point of care.
Lucille looks up, hair shoved beneath a man's hat, devoid of her usual dresses and hats; it's no wonder he missed her in all this madness.
But now, segregated from the rest of Paris behind their tall barricade, it's impossible not to notice they presence of the only person he has ever felt utterly comfortable with.
Wide eyes, the blue of blooming lobelia flowers, stare up at him and there's no anger or outrage there. Just a clear misunderstanding.
"There's a revolution going on, centred around some of the ideas that have been nagging in my brain since I was a young child and you think I was going to remain uninvolved?"
He forgets, of course he forgets. Enjolras has long been aware that his favoured company, that Lucille, is female. It would seem the woman herself forgets though, forgets that this is no place for one of her sex, ploughing on throughout her life because her father has allowed her more liberty than most and because Enjolras himself has spoken to her as if they were equals. On an intellectual level, that is true.
Lucille challenges him like no other, pushes his thoughts further, forces him to think deeper.
But her body is female. She is weak. Gender cannot be assigned in accordance with the mind, he knows this, because otherwise there would be many men he knows who would be better off parading around as a 'weak and useless' female. Gender is assigned by the anatomy of the body, that is all there is to it. Men fight in wars and battles because they are built stronger, not for reasons of the mind.
He knows Lucille will not waver in the face of blood, knows that despite her weaker arms and shorter stature she could make this work. Knows that with her beliefs she as welcome here as any other. But there is always a risk to taking part in the good fight, a risk in standing up for those who cannot stand up for themselves. Enjolras is startled to realise he does not want her here, does not want her to witness what will surely amount to a great deal of bloodshed.
"Lucille-" the rest of the words (words he doesn't even know) lodge in his throat, choking him more surely than any other substance, tangible or intangible, has ever manage.
"Lover's quarrel," one of Les Amis mutters; Enjolras cannot tell whom the voice belongs to over the roaring of blood in his ears, the thunderous echo that has made its home inside his head ever since he lifted the red flag mere hours ago.
They're not lovers, it can hardly be called that, it cannot. But it cannot be dismissed, he cannot ignore that he cares for Lucille.
He's not sure how, not sure to what extent, but when the Revolution is over, when they have come crawling out the other side with victory sweetening their lips, perhaps he shall have an opportunity to find out.
And it will be 'them', because it is clear the dark-haired woman has no intention of ever going anywhere at all.
"Can you fire a musket?" Enjolras grits out, forcibly releasing his hold upon her arms to draw his hands back, fingers clenching into tight fists as he scowls over her shoulder at nothing in particular.
"I can figure it out as we go."
It's a promise, a hopeful guess at what the future holds for them.
Only…
Only the people don't rally.
The people don't rally and suddenly they're the only barricade left. They're the only barricade left and the people won't even open up their houses for his fellows to escape.
Enjolras stands in the middle of it all, a captain aboard a sinking ship and he just knows he will be drowning far too soon.
For the first time, Lucille's hand in his is unwelcomed, a black reminder she is here, that she has thrown her beliefs and her dreams behind this doomed cause of his and now they are all going to die. He can sense it, sense it in the banging of hard fists against closed doors, can see it in the fearful eyes that rove across their encampment for an exit, for an escape route.
Blue eyes do no such thing though, a small hand remains in his and Lucille doesn't look at him.
"I'd rather go down fighting," she whispers, destroying what short, sweet hope had formed that she'd hide, remain out of it all until it was all over. That she could claim herself a civilian caught in the cross-fire.
But no, they're a bit too a like in that respect. Lucille won't change, won't conform her way of thinking just because it would keep her alive and unhurt. It'd been what they bonded over, this dangerous line of thinking, a path that led them to this dead end.
He had thought Paris awakening, and yet here she is, still slumbering on.
"It will happen someday."
"A dawn we will not ever witness," Enjolras concludes, drawing in a tight breath, the air of the dying night sitting cool within his lungs.
Lucille squeezes his hand, that commonplace encouragement that had always been her unspoken encouragement and Enjolras lifts their adjoined hands, planting a kiss to her steady fingers.
.
.
It should have been obvious he would die such a violent death; after all, there is no long life for a revolutionary. Just a sharp, sudden end.
In the very least, they will die draped in red, Enjolras thinks, lifting the flag clenched tight in his right hand, Grantaire's fingers in his left.
The material flows over Lucille form, a shield as ineffective as the law itself would be.
Her fingers dig tight into the torn cotton of his shirt, palm flat against his side.
She looks good, he thinks, draped in that red fabric, embraced by the symbol of revolution.
.
Lucille always has said red is his colour.
.
.
.
.
Her lionhearted Enjolras who holds so much love for his country that it bleeds form his every motion, has him scorchingly hot and bright, the sun in every sense of the word… has his one final solar flare.
Apollo is what they call him, and Lucille believes them correct.
So blindingly bright, and his death is as violent and sudden as it would be to blow out the sun.
He's gone before Lucille's eyes, everything that makes him terribly great snuffed out like a flame, his corpse nothing more significant than a wisp of smoke. Leftover sweat gathered in the hollow of his throat glistens in the dying candle light, throat drawing breath no longer.
Her torso screams, bullet-riddled but Lucille still finds the strength to press their adjoined hands to her lips, chapped flesh to cracked knuckles.
Mayhap Enjolras, her 'Xander, was wrong.
She is not Mercury after all.
She must be Iris, just as they said. A rainbow lingering only moments after the sudden absence of the sun. Without him, what he represents and emits... she has no chance of carrying on without him. Her golden sun.
Was it love between them after all?
Because Lucille would never have imagined it so warm.
.
.
Watched Les Mis, loved Enjolras' character, gonna read the book next.
Enjoy.
Tsume
xxx