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April 1830
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The first meeting Cosette attends, rain is pouring down from the heavens upon the dirt-laced streets of Paris.
She has an umbrella up, one designed personally by her own hand for maximum efficiency, Gavroche holding tight to her arm as they walk the streets of Paris.
She knows Valjean is around, the protective papa as always, but right now she's much more interested in getting to her destination. It is a sector of Paris she has never been in before, though there are a fair few of those. Always too busy, lost in her headspace, in the metal between her hands, the pen between her fingers.
"It's a cafe," Gavroche explains, turning big eyes on her when she hums an acknowledgement, "nothin' posh, but it is where they meet up. It's warm there, kinda like ou- your house."
Eyebrows puckering at the abrupt change of word, Cosette comes to a halt by the door, twisting her umbrella until it's all retracted back in, Gavroche pushing open the door in the meantime. Valjean is there, allowing her to enter first as he lowers his own umbrella.
"I shall remain in the background, Cosette."
"Right. Thank you for letting me come, Papa."
The smile he gives her is bittersweet and she wonders what Valjean sees as he looks upon her. Her mother, the woman he so rarely spoke of? The mother who he had refused to describe the death of, but clearly felt some form of responsibility for?
Chewing on the tender flesh of her inner cheek, Cosette lays her umbrella against the side of the wall, right by the door.
There are two young waitresses scuttling around the place, an elderly woman stood behind the bar who eyes Cosette critically.
Gavroche's grip on her arm is loose, present but soft; he's eager to get involved.
Sucking in a deep breath (and thanking happenstance that she ended up in an era where there corset was nothing more than support for the breasts), Cosette approaches the counter of the bar with a smile on her face and a gamin on her arm.
"What can I get for you, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, er, can I get the house wine please? And whatever watered-down beverage you've got for Gavroche as well?"
The older woman hums, looking between Cosette and Gavroche, lips pursed as one of the waitresses goes about procuring her order.
Cosette dips her hands into the pocket of her dress, retrieving her coin purse.
"Is it the backroom where Enjolras and his fellows meet?"
To say the woman stiffens up would be an understatement, eyes turning on her with a frown that shows her teeth.
"He won't accept your proposal, Mademoiselle," she mocks, head shaking from side to side, as if she hasn't utterly blindsided Cosette.
Who said anything about a proposal? The only proposals she has ever offered Enjolras is the thoughts she puts forwards on human nature and, his favourite topic, revolution. Though it's fair enough that she thinks such a thing is her intentions; Cosette is not blind. Enjolras is beautiful, far more than any man has the right to be. The face of an angel, taken right from the chapel ceiling, heavenly to look upon but ultimately, made from stone and always out of reach. Physically she cannot attain those lofty heights. But her voice, her thoughts can bounce through the open air to reach that gorgeous visage.
"Ah, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent."
Twisting, Cosette grins as her eyes land upon Combeferre.
"Enjolras said he had extended an invitation; it is a pleasure to see you accepted."
"I think the pleasure will be all mine, Monsieur."
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Cosette spends the meeting sat at the back, out of the way and against the wall that candlelight counts quite seem to cross completely. On the adjacent wall, a sprawling map of France under the republic is pinned, leading one to wonder just how often the boys frequent this place.
Observing the meeting is much like looking upon the solar system. Enjolras (aptly nicknamed Apollo by his fellows) is the perfect representation of the sun. Burning so brightly, so passionately, but they never get too close. They draw on his energy, make it their own, let it fuel them; they remain in a set orbit, twisting around Enjolras' presence, their very being influenced by him.
It's never been more evident than right now, how they hang on his every word, pipe up with ideas and questions of their own. How eager they appear for the new France that Enjolras insists is within their grasp. Liberty, freedom, it all rings clear in every word Enjolras speaks.
She can understand why his speeches get their blood pumping; her own is boiling. It's almost as if she's suddenly hyper aware of every vein and artery within her body carrying the lifeblood around, the ease of such a process she has taken for granted.
There are hundreds, thousands of men out there in Paris who have weaker hearts, beaten down by both physical and emotional factors. Receiving so little energy for they have no food to consume to fuel themselves, the constant dejection of being trapped in a never-ending cycle.
Perhaps Enjolras could awaken the lot of them, could inspire those hearts to beat a bit faster, work a bit stronger. Could implore those minds to fight, fight for all the rights and ideals he has locked within his head.
All that cold hard logic, a marble statue walking among the living; Apollo Belvedere, fresh for the vanquishing of his first foe and eager to notch another arrow for the next.
Cosette sits and she listens and she learns.
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Despite having extended a personal invite, Enjolras does not approach her at the end of his big speech, leaving Cosette to make her way over to him as the Friends of the ABC's begin to socialise freely with one another.
The drinks flow, having previously been dammed behind Grantaire. The man must have enough alcohol in him to be classified as a lake; every time she's glanced in his direction he's been in the process of downing a bottle. His alcohol tolerance (and his chances of liver disease) must be insane.
Plucking up the half-finished glass of wine, Cosette saunters across the room towards Enjolras, fairly confident in the company she currently keeps. They're all students and, most tellingly, all part of Enjolras and Combeferre's group. Men of ideals and good will. She will not have to worry about robbery or rape or death among them.
She doesn't recognise the man currently speaking with Enjolras, but that is no surprise. She only knows four of the men present here, and even then, two of those are people she met in passing.
As she comes to a halt beside him, Cosette swirls the last of the wine in her glass, the taste nowhere as refined as what she is used to. But it's got a bitter sharpness to it, something that sits as finely upon her palate as the current conditions of Paris' poor sits fine within her stomach.
That is to say, very far from fine indeed.
"Mademoiselle Fauchelevent."
Enjolras greets her with a respectable dip of his head, a gesture she happily returns.
"Monsieur Enjolras. Your speech there was exceptional. I have made some notes on points and ideas I would be willing to discuss at a more agreeable time, if you're amiable to such a thing?"
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"So, when are you going to marry her?"
The look upon Enjolras' face is of the kind that could freeze fire, a chilling cold that sheers down Combeferre's spine with nought but a glancing blow.
Grantaire, the drunkard, doesn't even shiver.
"Marry who." Enjolras carefully pronunciates, each syllable voiced painfully slow and clear enough it can be heard even through the fog of Grantaire's most recent bottle.
Combeferre swallows once, saliva scratching at the innards of his throat with the sudden change in atmosphere.
Grantaire's words have come about much as a lightning bolt, striking with little warning other than the general cover of grey clouds. Though their intoxicated friend is far from comparable to Zeus, he has voiced what they have all been considering, the thoughts that have created a blanket overcast of their group ever since Mademoiselle Fauchelevent had swept into the café, having left a mere ten minutes prior to this… sure to be explosive discussion.
The matter of fact is that Enjolras is twenty-three years old, the only son of a rich middle class (at the very top of their class bracket in truth) family, and he spends a fair amount of time with the lovely Mademoiselle.
Despite their focus on improving the rights of the working man they do like to gossip; it can be assumed that Enjolras would spend time with such a little lady for one reason only, no matter how they have all taken note of his… uncommon lack of interest in the fairer sex.
Yes, she's a little young, but in the face of her vast intellect, Combeferre oft forgets she is eight years Enjolras' junior, a fire still growing, still being stoked.
He's not the only one guilty of that either; it is hard to take the lit match that meets the barrel of gunpowder that is Enjolras head on in debates, and categorise her with all the other... vapid girls he knows. It's not just something- there's not a single special thing about Cosette. She is instead special in her entirety, no sole trait to lord above others of her gender. She plays upon a different board game altogether, chess among a vertible flood of checkerboards.
It's no wonder she enticed Enjolras in so easily, so willing to discuss revolution and all other strange and incredible ideas.
He knows his friend is deep within his beliefs, knows that Enjolras has never waded in the shallows. The cause is his ocean and within that expanse, Enjolras is a lone flagship, drawing them all in to form his armada.
The only question is, how long until they looking upon the cresting sun and find war in its place? Combeferre had though it would be soon, had been able to taste its approach upon the wind.
But then Cosette had barrelled into the world of Les Amis, had buffered the sails until Combeferre is no longer sure of north from south.
"Why, Mademoiselle Fauchelevent, of course!"
Grantaire's proud slur tears Combeferre back into reality, finding the drunkard half hunched over the table to continue staring at Enjolras, one hand supporting his unsteady head.
"Ya could make some terrifying little sprogs, chanting 'bout Revolution or change or maybe they'll even build somethin' clever enough to put us on the moon! What'd'ya think 'bout that, huh?"
Jabbing the bottle in Enjolras' direction, Grantaire giggles, the final damming evidence that he is well and truly three sheets to the wind. As if his determination to pick a fight with Enjolras wasn't a clear enough indicator.
Combeferre can only continue to watch, horrified awe in his stomach, as Grantaire proceeds to dig himself a deeper and deeper grave. With the blackening of Enjolras' mood, it might very well end up a mass grave.
"You go on an' on about your progress and change, but you're chasin' after 'er, aren't ya? Not that I can blame ya, what with 'er-"
The sound of a pistol going off is accompanied only by the shattering of Grantaire's bottle, his chosen poison hitting the floor a mere second later.
In the terrified silence, Enjolras calmly placed his pistol upon the table-top, meeting the suddenly-near-sober Grantaire's startled gaze.
"I think, Grantaire, you have had quite enough to drink. Mademoiselle Fauchelevent and I are academic peers, nothing more."
Well... well, Combeferre highly doubts he'll be making a comment on that kettle of fish anytime soon if this is the reaction he can expect.
.
In truth, it's a relief to return to his apartment later that day; none of them had dared to breathe too loudly after that little display.
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May 1830
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May brings the promising warmth of summer, a tender kiss of the heat to come. It's in the wind, weaving through his hair, brushing against his skin, ruffling the excess material of his sleeves.
There are his fellow students (all studying various aspect of law) crowded around and talking animatedly among one another; even Marius, the odd duck, is among them.
There's no desire to go and join in with their talk, with their discussion on how the law is weighted, a loaded deck of cards accessible only to the rich and wealthy. It's-
"-just listen to me!"
Cosette Fauchelevent.
Perking up at the fierce tone, Enjolras quickens his pace, rounded the utmost northern building to find the source.
The young woman is standing with her hands balled tight, knuckles bone-chillingly white, a stark contrast to the deep red fluster of her cheeks.
Her… opponent is not a person Enjolras recognises by face alone, but the cut of his suit and presence of an armed escort is indicator enough that the man is important; that he's most probably a politician. Like so many others, he stares down at Cosette with the same casual disregard as all those who do not know her, dismissing her as if she has no right, no intellect with which to put her ideas forth, to present them in a coherent, reasonable manner. Already he has decided that she is nothing more than any of the other women that parade around Paris.
He's so incredibly wrong; it's a method of dehumanisation, stripping a person of their identity and slotting them into a crowd. Oh, this is a woman addressing me. Just a silly, stupid woman.
How is that so different from judging a poor man, a man who's of the working class, who belongs with the collective. Branding a crowd nothing more than a mass of hungry stomachs and greedy hands. Enjolras can see it in the old man's eyes; 'what is this woman doing away from her herd? Why has she dared to approach me as if she has any right to speak?'.
As his legs eat up the distance, it is not the near-summer sun that heats Enjolras' blood.
He gets there just in time for the man to scoff, weighing up Enjolras as if he is in any way responsible for Cosette Fauchelevent at all.
"I suggest you keep your-" a pause, as wrinkle-framed eyes dart down to their left hands, to the ring fingers that are bared and free of adornment, "-'companion' under control, Monsieur."
Cosette's jaw clenched only half as hard as her hands do, and he wonders how this fool can look upon her and see nothing of worth, how he cannot spot the flash of teeth and the true grit of ambition she bares so freely.
"His companion?" she repeats furiously, fingers digging into the excess material of her dress, the fine fabric crumbling like cheap dough beneath her anger.
It's a fruitless attempt to prompt an apology though; the fool has already turned away from them, departing from the university grounds to the nearest street.
Cosette watches with the same burning anger Enjolras so often finds his stomach churning with. It's in her eyes; were it not for them, her still features would not give a sole clue to her mounting sense of injustice. Righteous injustice.
"I have to stand here," she breathes, eyes never leaving the retreating figure, "stand here and allow them to dismiss me as they saunter off into automobiles I built, as they grow fat from inventions I created to make life easier for all."
Yes, Enjolras imagines such a thing would make one quite bitter. What words can he offers the lady as recompense? His plight, it is not just for the working man anymore. It is for the working class, for the ladies of the bourgeoisie class whom are so often overlooked, seen as nothing more than broodmares, property to be claimed in the name of man. Why would women be any lesser than them?
"I just don't understand why I bother sometimes," Cosette confesses, a sinner before a saint, disbeliever before the devote. "Why do I bother when they don't appreciate it? When they don't even think to treat me as a conscious human being capable of significant thought?"
"It's thankless work," he agrees, seating himself upon the wall, "but if no one does it, if everyone thought like that, then we would never see progress."
Cosette's eyes flash, staring up at him and there's a near dejection there, an expression he has never witnessed upon her face and has no desire to ever witness again.
The words slip from his mouth before he can think to stop them, to temper himself in the face of Cosette's potentially fragile mental state.
"Do you still believe that true progress can ever occur without a revolution?"
"…no."
It's a quiet whisper, barely audible, but as with any form of discontent with the state, Enjolras picks up on it right away.
"Would you be willing to talk further on this?"
"Do you really think I'm in the right frame of mind for a discussion right now?" Cosette grumbles, arms folding across her chest, dress now free of the hands that'd held it so tightly. There's still marks, creases in the otherwise pristine fabric that remains the only physical evidence of her anger.
"Is that not the best time to speak? When our thoughts and feelings are raw, when the concept of injustice is simmering ever close to the surface?"
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They head to library, sitting in companionable silence. Their table is free; the student body has diminished in the face of the harvest season's steady approach, young and able men heading home to aid wherever they can. Not that bourgeoisie men would be doing the physical work of course; they would instead be managing, ensuring the working class are completing their jobs. Ensuring the workers know their place.
There's a sharp tap as pen meets table, the utensil weaving between clever fingers.
Cosette does not hold her pen correctly. It draws Enjolras' eyes for a moment. Until another 'point of interest' forcibly barges into his life, as if they are not clearly set up for some form of academic discussion.
"Ah, Enjolras. How are you today?"
He follows along with the necessary pleasantries, taking note of Cosette's soft, near amused snort (a stark difference to her temperament mere minutes ago) as Lumbran turns to the visually similar woman on his arm.
"And this is my sister, Rosine."
Why do they always insist upon flaunting their sisters or cousins to him?
From the corner of his eye, Enjolras notes that Cosette's shoulders are shaking.
Lumbran's sister is a bird-like creature, her features the kind that would grace a Joseph-Marie Vien painting. About as delicate as a painting too; Enjolras wouldn't even need to put forth a true effort to tear through this woman as surely as he would tear through canvas.
It is not words he offers the woman who smiles so demurely at him; instead he offers her a glance that showcases exactly what he sees in her, what he considers her to be.
A distraction, a waste of his time. A creature not worthy of his attention.
Either it is a particularly cutting glare or the sister (the name he has already forgotten, it is not something he shall need to refer to in the future, after all) is made of canvas weaker than the norm.
Tears spring to her eyes, gripping closer to Lumbran's arm. Lumbran who tries to return his irritated look. But he cannot understand the true depths of Enjolras' annoyance for the interruption he has brought. Time wasted, time that could be better spent on thoughts of the revolution, time he could have spent further enticing Cosette to his way of thinking.
"We'll leave you to your little… oddity, Enjolras." He rather gets the feeling that Lumbran shall not be bothering him again in the future; a pleasant outcome at last. Not a total waste of time then.
Though by 'oddity', he must surely be referring to Cosette.
The young woman has a hand to her mouth, rosy cheeks rounded with humour as she watches the duo depart.
"You're really swimming in it, aren't you?" Her lips, (the natural pale pink skin untainted by the red stain of lipstick) are twisted up into an amused smile, a warmth sweeping her from voice. Enjolras sends her the same glare that had Lumbran's dear sister running, but it prompts laughter from Cosette.
"They're always doing this," he finally discloses; he'll quickly round off this current topic so that they may begin unpacking the far more favourable discussion of revolution and progression.
"They're trying to see if any of those female relatives are capable of catching your eye. They must consider you a good prospect."
"Good prospect," Enjolras drawls in irritation, already well aware that she speaks of marriage.
Cosette huffs; in her distraction with teasing him, she has dropped ink from her unattended pen upon her notes, masking three words entirely.
"You're young, handsome and rich," Cosette points out, quirking her lips into a parody of a smile; it's twinged with an uncharacteristic bitterness. "you make a good prospect for any woman; it's no wonder they're trying to shove their sisters at you."
"I have no desire to marry," Enjolras murmurs, returning to his blank notes.
He doesn't have time to waste on the ritual that is married life, nor does he desire the... comfort of a woman in his life. He has France, has his beloved country to save. A woman would expect him to put her before everything else and, and that is not something Enjolras is capable of.
France shall always come before any other priority, before a wife, before his personal morals, before his own life. If he must kill a man to drive France forwards into a new age of enlightenment, then so be it. If it comes to it and he must die for the cause, his life is something he shall gladly lay down without hesitation.
"Yeah, well some of us don't get that option, Enjolras." Cosette's bitter tone snipes through the air swiftly, but she ploughs on without giving him a chance to truly process her words. "Anyway, I believe we have more important things to be talking about."
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Soft summer sun catches Enjolras' golden curls; has them gleaming molten in its light. With his high brow, sharp cheekbones and cutting eyes; he looks wonderful. Beautiful.
She can see why so many women try their luck, despite Enjolras' reputation for brutal rejections. And they are brutal rejections; she'd seen the glare he'd offered that lady last week; it'd been more than cutting. It'd been severe, exceptionally harsh and certainly not the kind of look a man is supposed to offer a woman.
Perhaps that is why the two of them mesh so well together; Enjolras offers no sugar-coated words, no softened blows just because she is a woman. It is the same kind of attitude he offers every woman he comes across; as if there is no such thing as the fairer sex, just a sex that has less to offer the world than men. He treats a person based on their abilities, on their skills and knowledge and their depth as a person.
Unfortunately, society has dictated that women of gentle, submissive demeaners are what is desired, so that is what most have become.
Mayhap that is why when he turned his glare upon her, all Cosette had been able to do was snicker.
His disdain with the female species is far outweighed by his desire to talk to her on all things revolution, on the progression of their promising country.
Shifting her feet about, Cosette aches for a society where she could happily kick off her boots and sink her bare toes into the grass she sits upon. As things are, she can't risk flashing her ankles (utterly absurd) and so must leave her boots on and allow her feet to cook in their boots.
They are all sitting on the university's second most prized lawn, Cosette's fingers threading through the multitude of freshly picked stems as the boys pour over their notes.
As actual students, the Amis all have exams approaching at the end of the month; Cosette does not. She's not a student, not a lecturer, she's just... attached to the university, though not officially. Perhaps that is something to look into.
Rubbing at the red rose petals, Cosette smooths out the last stem of the flower crown, passing it back and forth between her fingers.
Then she drops its light weight on Enjolras head.
Grantaire, already spotting a woven daisy circlet, grins.
"Revolutionary red; good choice."
The look Enjolras sends her is on a similar level of disapproval as Grantaire so often gets with that well-rehearsed 'put the bottle down'. It has Cosette's lips twisting upwards in a smile before she ever so begrudgingly returns to her papers, a grimace upon her face.
"Struggling with a new invention, Mademoiselle?"
Eyes rolling skywards, Cosette shoots Grantaire a scowl.
Just out of hearing distance but clearly still in sight, Valjean offers her a concerned look, one Cosette rapidly waves away with a gloved hand. God, what she wouldn't give to be able to strip off half these layers. Even then, she wears her lightest dress, tiptoeing upon the edge of propriety with the lesser amount of fabric, even if it does cover everything of importance.
"Hardly. It's not another handful of marriage proposals. Seeing as I've made so much money off of these inventions, these things keep flooding in for the dowry they think I'll come with."
"You won't come with a dowry then?" Enjolras asks, his voice more curious than she'd have expected of him. A quick glance at his face proves the man these people have christened with a god's name is not interested in the state of her dowry, but rather were that money is going if not to her future husband.
"I'm investing it all, under my… grandfather's name of course," because no man would entrust the money thrown his way by a young woman, "to open new factories and shortly, another public school."
"To help the working class," Enjolras concludes, a smile brightening his face and Cosette's breath catches in her throat.
Objectively she's always known he's attractive; every so often the sun or the candlelight will catch his face and send it into sharp relief, highlighting all those so handsome features. But this… he is nothing short of Adonis right now; that smile bringing forth beauty that would effortlessly attract the attention of multiple gods.
She should look away, should stop staring, it's not polite.
It takes far more effort than it should to return her gaze to the papers in her hand, not that Enjolras appears to have noticed. He's returned to his conversation with Combeferre, that smile gone now, but Cosette can still picture it, the image burned into her mind, leaving her blind to whatever else had been happening in the background during that moment.
Apollo, he's aptly named; it had been like looking upon the sun, leaving nothing but bright spots searing her retinas.
When she looks up, Courfeyrac is staring back at her with open surprise, his eyes darting to Enjolras before they return questioningly to her.
Cosette swallows hard, looking away as her shoulders shrug. What is there to say? That Enjolras is the most open-minded man she knows? That she finds his intellect nearly as attractive as his appearance, if not more so? That within him she can see opportunity that she had otherwise not perceived herself as capable of achieving?
It's true that some women in this time period do go on to become spinsters… but Cosette has never dreamed of a life alone. She knows herself well enough to recognise that she longs for companionship, for a person to rely upon and to be relied upon in turn.
"Why don't you just marry one us these fools then, Mademoiselle?" Grantaire grunts, pulling a flask free of his waistband to take a bountiful swing from; Cosette highly doubts it's water in there. "I'm sure they'll treat you right."
He grins, wiggling his eyebrows and Cosette smiles back even if it feels like as fragile as porcelain.
"I have considered it," Cosette confesses, instantly stealing the entirety of the group's attention, much to Enjolras' visible annoyance.
The look he shoots at her isn't the same one he offers the sister of what's-his-face, but it's a clear display of his irritation.
It's still preferable to the way Marius perks up ever so slightly in the background. He's not really a key-component of the group, more situated upon the fringes, but he's still present. He still wears one of Enjolras' rosettes. He still agrees with all their ideals. It's just… he doesn't appear to see her, just her outwards appearance. Marius has made no move to otherwise get to know her, and while something is tickling in the back of her mind, Cosette brushes it off as another moment of inexplicable dejavu.
"Oh. And how have you weighed us all up then?" Courfeyrac asks with a grin, looking quite intrigued by the sudden topic of choice.
Running a hand down the side of her face, Cosette removes the chain of white roses that've been sat atop her head, steadily plucking one flowerhead free of its petals.
"Well I went by what I know of your characters, of course. Then by who I get along with the best, and most importantly, who wouldn't try to call my inventions and experiments to a halt."
All the boys hum, Enjolras rolling his eyes skywards and looking particularly uninterested, evidently wanting to return to their previous discussion. Perhaps that's what pushes her into saying it, what has the words slipping from her lips, joking as they are.
"Ever thought about getting married, Enjolras?"
All the other Amis laugh, hooting and Grantaire elbows the blond in question with a sly grin, a gesture that it met with obvious contempt on Enjolras' side.
She'd almost feel bad for bringing it up, if it weren't for the fact that the idea takes root in her brain, that it all snaps into place with a brutal efficiency that she'd never have predicted otherwise.
Enjolras enthuses over her explorations of human behaviour, he agrees with her inventions and where she invests the money she makes from them. She cannot think of another man who would do such a thing as sincerely as he.
The only issue with all of this is that Enjolras so clearly does not have any desire to marry whatsoever. She has never seen him so much as look at another woman, not beyond a recognition of what class bracket they belong to.
Is she really considering this? Pursuing Enjolras with the intent of marriage? Certainly, pursue is the right word to use in this case, for she'll never get anywhere without any kind of pursuit from her side of things. Is she truly considering this? It would seem so.
Tilting her head to a side again, Cosette sized Enjolras up, pursing her lips.
Enjolras is a being of logic, he doesn't run on emotions, not like the rest of the population. The marble man She cannot quite remember who dubbed him with that particular title, but it's apt in its description. But even marble, when put under enough pressure, can crack. Even marble, under the right conditions, can erode. She'll be fighting logic with logic, because that's the only thing the leader of the Amis understands.
And hell, what's the worst he can do? Tell her off for attempting to stand up for herself, for chasing after what she wants in life? A companion who understands her, who's reasonably open minded? The kind of person that's been driven to near extinction in this dog-eat-dog world; that's what she wants.
Looking upon Enjolras, Cosette's jaw tightens.
There's no harm in trying, after all.
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September 1830
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Cosette Fauchelevent is watching Enjolras.
Normally Combeferre wouldn't notice this too much, only... Grantaire pointed it out. Grantaire of all people, the drunkard among them, was the one to point it out.
Now that's he looking, Combeferre can see that the Mademoiselle's watching isn't so much 'watching' as it is observing. Analysing.
Not so much a fox stalking a rabbit, more a politician stalking an opponent. Looking for an opening with which to level a cold, analytical strike.
Honestly, it's a bit worrying.
Enjolras and Mademoiselle Cosette's views aline fantastically, so why she's regarding Apollo like that, he has no idea.
But it sure is unsettling.
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"Mademoiselle."
Enjolras doesn't question her presence, but it is a very near thing. It is not as if he has been expecting to find Cosette Fauchelevent waiting for him outside of the lecture theatre.
It is the start of a new academic year, the warmth of summer steadily migrating in the face of winter's approaching march.
Cosette has prepared as such, some form of jacket draped over her shoulders, made of wool. Knitwear with a delicate pattern of light pink intertwining with cream. Among their darker colours, she sticks out terribly. She does, however, appear quite warm.
"Monsieur Enjolras," Cosette greets, a shallow dip of her head. He does not even bother to glance around for her grandfather (though why she occasionally addresses him as 'Papa' is a question that certainly holds his curiosity), aware the hulking figure shall be lurking somewhere nearby.
Instead, he allows Cosette his attentions; it is not as if he had much more planned with his day, barring tonight's meeting of course.
"Could I perhaps interest you in a discussion regarding the Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, along with their straining Poor Laws, Monsieur?"
Britain? He has not truly considered their neighbour across the channel before. Or rather, not with any significant depth; only ever comparing their political climate to France. Perhaps he should; they do, after all, have a legislative body that, if not entirely removed from the crown, has a far from insignificant sovereignty regarding English laws.
Before Enjolras can offer up his affirmative, a shoulder knocks against his own, succeeding in jostling his person into a near collision with the petite Cosette.
Lumbran offers him a snide sneer as he saunters past them, whispering something to his equally swinish cohort and they both chuckle.
Enjolras, however, does not miss the way said cohort's eyes lingers upon the jewels around Cosette's neck, how the fool considers Enjolras' fellow believer of forethought and progression with greedy intentions. It forcibly stokes the memory of Cosette's bitter comments upon marriage and her not so positive chances of avoiding such a fate.
"I'll take that as a yes," Cosette mutters, slipping her hand around the crook of his elbow before he can think to protest the contact. Her fingers express a gentle squeeze against the muscles of his forearm, a sensation that forcibly returns Enjolras back to the present, away from Lumbran recent sneers and Cosette's past bemoans.
"The library, Monsieur?"
Uncomfortably reminded that it is not just another advocate of advancement upon his arm, but a woman whose company he currently keeps, he recalls Grantaire's assumptions; just how many of those within the university have seen himself and Cosette together and assumed them courting? How many potential suitors has his presence vanquished? Does Cosette welcome such an effect, or would it displease her? She's far too intelligent a woman to not notice the correlation of his presence as the probably not insignificant drop in the number of suits she's presented with.
Ultimately, she must seek the company of himself and the members of Les Amis out so oft to act as a dam against the flood of would-be suitors.
Mystery solved, Enjolras strides down the corridor, absently noting how Cosette's steps quicken to keep to his purposeful pace.
It is the last he wishes to think upon it for the day.
.
.
Somehow though, their conversation is led astray. By some twisted mechanism of fate, they have once again found the droll topic of matrimony the currency with which they speak. It is perhaps the first time he has declared to never marry (the undertone heavy; a silent promise to never fall before a woman's much whispered of cogent charms) and found not pity or disbelief, but a calm acceptance in his company.
"Is falling for a woman's charms and marriage not two separate things entirely though? Otherwise we would not have the issue of mistresses and fallen women," she sneers the final two words, a grimace settling upon his face and Enjolras almost, almost, wishes Marius was here.
This expression would in the very least prove Cosette is far from the beautiful angel the younger student proclaims her to be, that she is just as human as the rest. Perhaps that would finally get that lovestruck fool to shut up about her and get on with helping towards a better France.
Enjolras is already in contact with some less than pleased soldiers, now knows where to acquire better guns, knows which gunmaker to approach. A better use for his parents' money, Enjolras cannot imagine. But the opportunity for revolution is not yet ripe. Even so, he can be patient.
"I'm not blind to all my faults, Enjolras," Cosette continues, barrelling onwards with her topic despite undoubtedly knowing it holds little of his attention. If she does not finish speaking soon, he'll have to excuse himself from her company, postpone their discussion until she's gotten whatever this is off her chest. While reasonably interesting to hear of society through the eyes of a woman, this is not the content he was expecting their conversation to include.
"I'm aware I look down upon other women. I can't help it. I'm self-aware enough to recognise the chances of meeting another woman I can bond with are incredibly low, hence why I've reached out to yourself and the Amis. The first group of men I've met that are perhaps forwards thinking enough to allow me into their fold, even if only on the outskirts... I fear in my need for intellectual conversation, my standards have dropped significantly."
Cosette offers a small smile as she finishes her words, her lips tainted with a near bitter twist. Make no mistake, no matter how she strives for progress, that does not detract from how very disappointed (and how very angry) she is at the state of the world and its treatment towards women. It's clear in the thin lines upon her brow, the ones that appear only as her eyebrows drop low to rest heavy above her eyes.
"I'm an oddity and well aware of it. All these other women that have had access to some form of education, they've also been conditioned to believe themselves below men, that they should be thankful for their good fortune to be born to those high-class families and question the world no more. And I am expected to fit into this mould, marry a man and then just, just settle down. Are you sure you don't want to marry?"
Enjolras jolts at the abrupt question and he's not the only one. Monsieur Fauchelevent startles also, near tearing his papers in half.
"I am positive, Cosette," Enjolras snaps out, gracing her with the same glare that Lambran's sister received.
This time it works upon her; Cosette flinching back even as her jaw muscles work, teeth undoubtedly gritting together.
It is however, to Enjolras' dismay, not the look of defeat.
The low "I see," that Cosette mutters sounds far too much like a promise than a simple statement.
It's discomforting.
But she at last decides to focus on the topic at hand and for that, Enjolras is thankful. In the very least, the only woman in his acquaintance can understand the necessity of logic overruling emotion, that much is clear.
.
October 1830
.
It's not as if she's been subtle in her intentions. She's dropped hint after hint (well, for the early 19th century that is) but Enjolras still hasn't quite clicked on.
It's to the point Cosette is near out of options. How is she supposed to get though that halo of golden hair? How else is she supposed to open those ridiculously blue eyes to the reality?
It is true that Enjolras can easily get by in life without her; she is no necessity and she's reasonably certain Enjolras is (despite his incredible charisma and devotion to the cause) an introvert. He's a shining beacon of brilliance; yet he struggles to connect with the common man. She's never seen him show open affection as others so oft do. Well, often in comparison to the lauded Apollo of Les Amis. There just seems to be no softness to him, hard as stone... a man of marble.
But Cosette shall press on, if anything, she shall force her way into Enjolras' considerations through sheer willpower alone.
The vast majority of women here may be incapable of seeing outside of the set expectations for them (through no fault of their own; it is walls built to contain them, walls they have seen all their lives and just assumed the edge of their world), but Cosette is not.
Her walls are clear, glass in every sense of the word and she just needs a point, a diamond that will allow her sharp tip to break through.
Enjolras is that glass; he's what she needs to break in order to get out of society's box, to never be entrapped again.
Is she doing this because she loves him? No.
His company is enjoyable, his conversation thought provoking, his face pleasant. But it's the opportunity, the promise of progress he represents that has Cosette set in her goal.
In this day and age, marriage is far from a romantic happy ever after. More a marriage of concepts and alliances, a binding of family and money.
Between herself and Enjolras, there is a theoretical agreement on the state of France and its stunted potential for progress; a match between them would be a good one.
She just needs to make him see that. His blatant ignorance (purposeful or not) of her advances towards him is a significant hurdle to overcome...
Perhaps it is time to consider that 21st century thinking once again. She shall have to be a little more forwards from here on out.
.
November 1830
.
Enjolras gasps, hands spread wide on the table top as his eyes snap to the only possible source.
Cosette sits across from him, smile wry despite her near perfect expression of innocence.
As if her foot had not just run up the length of his shin.
Combeferre is still talking and Enjolras is very much aware of Monsieur Fauchelevent's presence right now, more so than he has ever been before.
The tip of Cosette's foot (she's not wearing a shoe, has to have taken it off because her toes are curling into the material of his pants) presses against the edge of his shin, tracing up his inner calf now and Enjolras' snaps his leg back in shock. It slams against the table and he grimaces, pain surging up the limb.
That damned smile is still irritatingly present.
"Enjolras?"
"Forgive me, Combeferre. A simple miscalculation."
"Everyone has their off days," Cosette agrees as if she isn't solely responsible for his sudden retreat.
It is only through sheer force of will that he doesn't jump out of his skin when Cosette's toes brush against his knee next.
This is, this is so incredibly far from proper behaviour he doesn't have the slightest idea on how to react.
He should be focused, should be capable of following along to Combeferre's thoughts on the king and current monarchy, but he cannot do that when Cosette's toes are starting to circle higher than his knee.
Even more irritating, she seems utterly engrossed within Combeferre's speech, nodding along and offering her opinions on the topic as if her actions are nothing more than an afterthought when it's all Enjolras can focus on.
That slow motion, toes digging into the tender flesh of his inner thigh, no matter how close to the knee that pressure may be, it doesn't matter; it's maddening.
He's never been touched so, so inappropriately before.
Even worse is the fact his body is betraying him, is reacting to the touch.
When her other foot, thankfully still adorned with a shoe, nudges against his own, well, enough is enough.
He moves one hand beneath the table, grabbing the offending limb by the ankle, forcing himself to focus on Combeferre's words and not how strange the shock of bare flesh feels in his grasp.
Cosette stills in his hold, the smile finally leaving her lips in exchange for a perfect poker face. All motion has halted and Enjolras allows a sigh of relief to leave between his lips, drawing his hand back.
Only her toes catch at his finger, giving a squeeze of greeting before her retreat, heel of that bare foot resting atop him knee. By the grace of god though, she remains blessedly still now, seemingly turning her full attention on Combeferre.
But Enjolras is very much aware of the contact that exists, that deceptively little foot seems to weigh more than anything he's ever carried in his life. He just needs to get through this meeting. He just needs to calm down.
He needs Cosette to stop doing whatever that was. Whatever this is.
.
.
"What was that?!" Enjolras hisses, rage rumbling in his every nerve, heart pounding in his throat.
Cosette folds her arms, refuses to back down, to bend or even showcase that she has done wrong in any way, shape or form.
"You're an absolute fool," she grumbles, one hand tugging at the waves of brown hair that frame her face.
What Enjolras doesn't understand is how he has become the fool in this situation. He hadn't been running his foot up the length of another's leg, after all.
"Can't you see we're not going to find a better match for each other?" Cosette growls and of course this is about marriage.
Enjolras would laugh were he not so outraged and appalled.
She's been trying his temper for days on end, has lit that fuse and tonight, spurred on by her actions during that discussion, he's finally at the point of an outright (and well-deserved) explosion.
Already Combeferre and Courfeyrac are looking over, Monsieur Fauchelevent too. The first two, of course, had witnessed his brawl with Allumiere four years prior; they're both well aware of Enjolras' limit. It's a wonder they never noticed earlier.
But he cannot lose his temper here, cannot rip Cosette down to size because verbally she gives as good as she gets; physically and everyone would pull him off her and rightly so. He is a man, Cosette (despite her tendency to 'experiment' with metal) is a woman and thus, weaker than him. Though given the way she carries herself and refuses to admit that, Enjolras is rather certain she'd be just as eager for a physical fight.
Gods, he left his father's home in order to escape these kinds of talks, the pressure of carrying the family line on.
"Listen, I need to marry and soon. I've already got fools lining up at the door and I'm only two months shy of sixteen, so to speak. This way, we both get what we want. You don't stop me from chasing my dreams, I don't worry about your mistress."
"Mistress?" Enjolras snaps, tone quiet even as he shoots a quick glare towards the rest of the Amis. What have they been telling her?
"Patria," Cosette expands, huffing as she folds her arms across her chest, "it's not ideal for you, and I know you can happily go on without getting married at all. But I can't. My Papa won't be around forever and the second he's not there to protect and provide for me... The Les Amis are the best of a bad lot, and you've been top of my list for a while. Because the rest acknowledge I'm here, but they don't listen." The last word is stressed particularly hard, Cosette's features collapsing in a moment of weakness that startles Enjolras. "Not like you do," she finishes, wrapping up her little speech with a grimace, teeth digging into the tender flesh of her lower lip as if trying to cage the sheer fragility of that sentence.
This is utterly absurd.
He's been peripherally aware of a woman's place in society, but he'd never quite registered what exactly that would be for Cosette. He'd never placed her within the same box as the others, never considered that even the little summer storm that'd swept forcefully into his life would have to someday bow to the expectations of society. Had never considered her to be in a less privileged position than the rest of the Amis, never considered her as anything but one of them since she began attending the meetings. She is after all, far from poor and suppressed, not like those Les Amis fight for..
There's a sadness in her eyes, one that shouldn't make its home in one who strives for a future as bright as the one he too sees on the horizon.
"Marius is-"
"He doesn't see me," Cosette cuts him off, "he sees this pretty little idea of a beautiful wife. It's why he always looks so god damn startled whenever I come out with something particularly articulate. I can't live like that; I've been there once already, doing what I had to in order to survive. I won't do it again. I'd soon throw my own grand Revolution and die fighting. Look, it doesn't need to be some glorious love story. Just a marriage in name only. Nothing else changes. Our debates, your revolution, my inventions, it all stays the same... please don't make me beg, Enjolras."
She holds his gaze for a moment and the storm seems to have died. There's no more sweeping winds or rolling clouds, just a perfect stillness, even as the dry air crackles with the promise of lightning if the right ignition is lit.
He dithers, for if he is Apollo, then what could they possibly name Cosette? She embodies too many of the Greek gods (the smith, the academic, the lightning bearer) to ever settle upon one.
In truth, he does not know what sits at her core, has just come to know her as this never-drying fountain of big ideas.
She's Pandora's box. All the thoughts and ideas that pour from her, each one causes him more and more work, forces him to think hard, consider longer. Yet, he revels in it.
The question is, does he wish to be the fool to open it, to unlock all that lies within?
Is it hope that lives eternal within the base of that box? The whole myth escapes him, but he recalls it being rather apt, that though all of the evils slipped free, it was the purity of hope that remained caged.
"I will consider it," Enjolras says, a deep sincerity laced within his voice despite his distaste for the idea.
Unfortunately, Cosette makes an exceptionally valid point.
Should her grandfather die, that will leave her alone. A young woman all alone with an inheritance the size of which Enjolras can only begin to guess. She would be ripe for the picking; a Bourgeois man, a royalist could marry her and burn through all that money on lavish, unnecessary trinkets, all the while chaining Cosette down. No more inventions, no more research, no more rousing discussions.
While Enjolras would like to believe his fellow man would not be stupid enough to dare limiting Cosette (oh, the advances she alone could make in a society without oppression) ...he knows this world all too well. It is why he fights so hard for change, after all.
"That is all I can ask. Thank you, Enjolras."
.
.
In some respects, it feels as if he has signed a deal with the devil; he has not yet agreed, and it already encloses around his neck, his wrists, those words a metaphoric metal shackled to his ankles as a great big weight, dragging him deep beneath murky depths, never to surface again.
Cosette sits upon the other side of the room as if she has not just thrown him to the river, left him to drown in that water fed by the unshed tears from her eyes, filled with the same deep sadness she had expressed upon her face.
It is as if the water closes in above his head; Enjolras can find no reasonable explanation, no sensible excuse to get himself out of this and he's drowning. He can find no long-term reason that would outweigh the benefits for Cosette and ultimately, for France. He's not selflessly sacrificing himself; France shall always come first within his heart and mind.
But Cosette is an asset in this good fight. The factories she has created, the school houses and her progress in the variety of subjects she studies, it has all lead to progression within France's economy. Not enough to drag his beloved country from the dregs it had currently found itself in (the very reason there has been a rebellion to begin with was discontent with the state, another such movement is unavoidable, it's only a matter of time) but she has made an impact.
For the betterment of his country, he cannot risk allowing Cosette and her creations to become the property of another, one without France's best interests at heart. At worst, she could potentially end up belonging to an extension of the crown; the laughable excuse of a court would never agree with the opinion of a woman when pitted against that of her husband's.
One of the other Les Amis... each one of them is a problem.
Now that Cosette has mentioned it, Enjolras cannot turn a blind eye upon how his fellows treat her. They are respectful, of course, treating Cosette with more intellectual respect than any other woman... but they look upon her as a novelty. It's not an acceptance of her as a person, just an acknowledgement that this strange woman can think like they can. They recognise her thoughts, but not the source.
Even they, despite the steady steps they take towards enlightenment, do not see Cosette as something more than a woman. A gender that Enjolras himself has never honestly considered past how such a thing would hinder her.
Whenever he has looked upon Cosette, he has just seen another of the Les Amis, admittedly one who did not often contribute vocally during meetings. He can see why Cosette has made her decision to ask him of all people first.
How irritating.
No matter how he thinks on this, he only finds himself sinking deeper into the depths, that each movement of his body as he tries to surface is only dragging him further down. It would be better for France as a whole, better for the upcoming revolution… he had once stated he would not flinch to kill for his country and fellow countrymen. Would not hesitate to die.
So why is it that he oscillates now?
Marriage is far from a sin, as it would be to kill another man, no matter the cause. Throughout his life, Enjolras has steadily become more and more disenchanted with the concept of religion, of faith, especially given all that occurs around him.
During that time, all he can think of is the good Samaritan, of those who had the power to aid but did not. God gives them nothing but the means, it is their decision to use what he has gifted.
And now he stands upon the riverbed, bound by his own words of promise and ideals.
.
.
As if sensing that he has come to a conclusion, Cosette lingers far longer than she would any other night.
Candlelight has dimmed, wax dripping into the brass basins below, flames flickering. Already Grantaire is passed out across the table-top, one hand still clutching at the neck of an empty bottle, drained dry by his inability to remain sober.
Grimacing at their resident sceptic, Enjolras makes his way back over to Cosette, claiming the seat beside her but quite unable to meet her eyes, despite knowing his decision.
It feels like defeat, somehow. He'd been so sure he would never marry, that he could devote his life to France and revolution and the general betterment of his countrymen.
But now he has this fluctuation in the plan that he must account for, this upset that has ruined his stability. Yet, he refuses to be the darkness that visits those in need, refuses to be the ignorant that turns away from those requesting help.
It is not as if Cosette is demanding he give up his ideals of revolution, demanding he give up his intentions towards France. Though referring to his beloved country as his 'mistress' is far from untrue.
He would die for his country without hesitation, he knows that with absolutely certainty. It would take extraordinarily intense circumstances before he willingly died for Cosette.
He still cannot even bare to look at her, the ghostly imprint of her foot running up his leg still irritatingly present. He's not sure if he's grateful or annoyed that she begins the conversation for him.
"Marriage is just the joining of two family lines, sometimes not even that comes from marriage, but it's certainly a pooling of material possessions; why can't marriage be a joining of ideals as well? It is not as if many marry for love, is it?"
She's looking ahead also, hands folded primly atop her knees. He doesn't believe it for one second, he knows exactly how far she's willing to go, chasing after something she believes worth it, knows whatever 'proper' behaviour she displays is nothing more than an act.
While he can respect that unflinching drive, Enjolras is far from pleased to have been upon the receiving end of it.
Combeferre bids them a goodnight, the last (barring the ever-quiet Monsieur Fauchelevent and the loudly snoring Grantaire) to leave.
His fellow looks between the two of them with confused suspicion in his eyes. It sets Enjolras' teeth on edge, his muscles tensing and Enjolras cannot sit, not right now.
Instead, he settles for pacing, hands clasped behind his back; is he truly about to agree to this?
"Enjolras?"
Twisting to acknowledge the address, the blond rolls his shoulders back, taking note of Cosette's hand. Raised and a mere inch off from touching his arm, probably to gather his attention.
She has, however, halted the motion before contact could be made. It's a small thing, and he appreciates it.
It's a shame he can drum up so very little good will right now.
Cosette's eyes smooth down from his own, dropping no lower than his chin. She's looking at his lips, staring even as he gives her the same frustrated glare that has driven so many women off.
He doesn't move an inch as Cosette steps closer, rising to the tops of her toes, and presses her lips against his.
There's no sudden epiphany, no unexpected bolt of wonderment or an overwash of emotion; it's just Cosette's lips against his. Skin against skin, a contact that differs from others only in the meeting of two body parts previously unacquainted. It's not... unpleasant, but he cannot understand for the life of him why people chase this.
Cosette retreats, lids peeling back to reveal the dark blue of her eyes.
"See? It's not that horrific, is it?" she murmurs, head tilting to a side as she studies him and, most probably, his reaction.
He cannot quite drum up the emotion he wants, still stuck on the fact he was correct; this is nothing a man should ever lose his mind over. It is a sweeping relief, almost crushing a realisation. It is not some ornate, gilded cage to be trapped within. Not the passionate kidnapping of common sense and logical thought as the books had so often hinted at.
Just lips meeting lips for the briefest of moments.
"Once again, why are you so against marriage then? I thought we understood one another well enough; we could carry on with what interests each other, married in name only and sharing a public kiss once in a blue moon with the odd witness or two to give an illusion of truth."
Logically he knows it's not a half bad idea; it gives Cosette a reason to be seen out and about with him, no dragging her disgruntled father along after her. While he may have protested the idea two months ago (two hours ago)... things change.
The assurance that he shan't lose his mind, shan't become a slave to his baser instincts, is a significant weight removed from his chest.
"Just a rare kiss in public?"
"No husbandry duties, I promise," Cosette says solemnly, a wicked smirk adorning her face a moment later. "Unless you want to, that is."
.
Warning, probably historical inaccuracies, potentially irritating and hypocritical characters, and lots of waffle writing. Enjoy?
Tsume
xxx