It was a bustling night, and Enjolras jauntily skipped into the cafe, spotting his revolution buddies spread around tables and doing presumably cool things. He gave a polite nod to the owner, who glared ahead, before making his way to his main companions. He walked slowly, giving time to present himself in an according manner. He knew his friends' reactions would be over-the-top upon seeing him, so he gradually entered the scene to give his eardrums time to prepare.
Stepping into their line of vision, about five young boys gasped with delight, while a shorter, uglier one threw himself in the air in delight. But before Enjolras had the time to do his normal "bow head, shrug, and maybe throw in a backflip" routine, an unrecognizeable, but nearly familiar name was joyously cried. The few boys who noticed him, sitting happily at their table, called the strange name, "Blondjolras."
A split second later, a blond gentleman stole his aforementioned routine. In fact, the blond gentleman was nearly the same height as Enjolras, had the same boyish charm, and even wore a strange vest, this one blue and covered in trumpet-shaped patches. This boy is who the others were calling all along, and he strutted to them with a gait Enjolras thought he trademarked.
"What the fuck?"
The short, uglier man looked at Enjolras, clearly having heard him, but looked away as if he wasn't a person.
"Are you fucking serious?" Enjolras grew visibly upset.
"Yo!" A tall redheaded boy wearing a dumb flower crown stood up to challenge him, "What's your fuckin' problem, son?"
"I don't have a problem, I just wanna know who the fuck stole my name, my vest, and my signature walk! All that shit cost me a fortune!"
"Look, you little shit." The flower boy stood up to reveal his pink skirt, dolphin-printed tights, and 6-inch platform kitten heals. "Ain't nobody gonna fuck with Blondjolras while I'm around."
"Blondjolras?! Who the fuck is Blondjolras?!"
A calm, fattish boy with black hair stood up to break the two apart. His voice was low and he sounded like his mother was related to Eeyore. "Whoa, whoa, whoa." He patted the redhead. "Simmer down, Jehan."
"What the fuck ever, man." Jehan punched a wall and jumped out a window.
"Now." The fat one addressed Enjolras. "Who might you be?"
"...Don't you remember?" Enjolras held in tears. "It's me...! Enjolras! You don't remember my name?"
"Well you don't make any effort to remember our names."
"Touchee."
"No thanks."
"Anyhow, you didn't answer me." Enjolras pointed to the weird blond boy. "I asked who the fuck this is."
"Well that's Blondjolras."
"You remember his name!"
"Hey, listen. Blondjolras is different." Blondjolras began to climb on the table, holding a weirdly long wooden pole the approximate width of a streetlamp. He displayed minimal struggle with this massive hunk of wood. "He's kind, he's a leader." The pole was unraveled to reveal a blue flag the size of the table. "He's just not like other men."
The ugly guy clenched his fists. "I love you Blondjolras!"
"Fuck..." Enjolras sat in the nearest chair.
"What is it, kid?" The calm one didn't sit with him.
"I just thought... I would be the one to change France forever. It looked like Blondjolras has got that covered, though." Blondjolras held a large steak in his hands, biting it ferociously and smirking while others cheered.
"Listen, no one likes a neurotic, narcissistic copycat who serves as a symbol for a certain revered ignorance found in a fictitious yet historically accurate group of young revolutionaries."
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"I'm not talking about Blondjolras, mate."
Enjolras fumed. "Hey, hold the phone! How can I be a copycat if I bought this shit first?! This shit's an Enjolras original OK?! I hand-sewed each and every-" The calm one was nowhere in sight. "-spangle..."
Enjolras found himself in a predicament. On one hand, he wanted people to like him again, so he considered redoing his entire look in order to not be a copycat. On the other hand, Enjolras was extremely stubborn, had zero francs in his pocket and thus could not afford a new look, and the only look he could even think of was going steampunk, which he found incredibly tacky and preteen.
He then did what most over-compensating men ages 15 to 55 would do, confront the problem without any inkling of foresight. He approached the table Blondjolras stood on and flipped it over, knocking him off, as well as the short, ugly guy's drink.
"My juice!" The short guy screamed.
"Shut up." shouted Enjolras right in his face. He got a close look at this man's features, who was verging on tears. "Hey, your beard hairs are really thick."
"You monster!" He shouted in a way Enjolras couldn't tell was an insult or not.
"Indeed!" Blondjolras adjusted his broken nose, addressing his near twin. "Friend, what is your fight with me?"
Enjolras spat. "What, you some kinda Charles Dickens song-o-gram?"
"Friend, I believe you knocked over my stage."
"Stage? It was a fucking table, asshole. Get over yourself."
"I only wish to spread the Revolution across the country, say, the world!"
"Yeah so did I..." Enjolras looked out the window. "Once..."
"Well, what got in your way, friend?"
"Oh you know... people change, friends leave, parties fail... sometimes only one person can ruin everything..."
"Only one person, you say?"
"Yep. Sometimes a real jerk can clomp his way in and turn your life's work into a barren desert with no hope of an oasis... I once saw revolution, now only pain and suffering."
Blondjolras stroked his face, visibly upset. "I am so...disturbed to hear that. To think you could be going through such a tragedy to your own integrity. Why it's so awful, I almost want to die right now!"
"I wouldn't object."
"Listen my friend, I have done as you said. I have been quite the jerk recently, what with my standing on table and all."
"You got that right, buddy."
"I really want to make it up to you. I know things can never be the same between us,but instead of being jerks separately," Blondjolras got very close to his face business. "Let us jerk together."
"You'll share the table?!"
"What are jerks for, my friend?"
The two jerks put the table in its proper place, standing on it and grabbing their respective flags. They twirled them in the air gallantly, amongst the applause of many young boys throughout the cafe.
The short, ugly guy stood up, throwing a pair of panties at the two. "I love you, EnBlondjolras!"
Blondjolras kicked him in the face, partially blinding him. "Get your wretched filth off me, drunk stinky man!"
Enjolras smiled and put his arm around his new tag-team companion. "You're such an asshole!"
"Not bad yourself!"
All was well. That is, until the front door to the cafe swooshed open, creating a cool draft throughout the entire building. A few boys caught a whiff of heavy cologne on the breeze, stopping their cheer immediately. The cafe hushed to a chilling silence as a large figure swooped into the doorway, slowly making his presence known by standing majestically.
"No..." Enjolras recognized the man immediately, the expensive Italian scent spreading faster than any phermones could ever wish to travel. He shook his head in defeat.
"It can't be..." But Blondjolras knew just who it could be. The oversized white pirate shirt opened to reveal a slightly hairy, but not too animalistic chest. The lack of a vest, making it look like he got out of bed five seconds ago. The trail of roses floating in the air behind the man, even the sudden dim, seductive lighting in the cafe.
"Oh yes... it can." His voice grumbled deeply like an eighty year old puma in heat. The mystery man held up his own flag, with a pole comprable to a Parthenon column, and a deep mauve flag the size of the room.
EnBlonjolras gasped at the man simultaneously, crying out for all to hear. "Not Don Juanjolras!"