HAPPY BARRICADE DAY! Here is my offering to Victor Hugo and his wonderful characters. The first chapter of this was actually last year's story, so this year, I am merely posting the next chapter.
This is where things get a tad OOC. In the book, these two troubled young men love each other (I think) but don't act on it. For this to turn out differently, Enjolras has to make a conscious decision to stop being so bloody cold. He has to let people (Grantaire) in. But his character would never do that! I believe that Enjolras has feelings, deep feelings, but keeps them contained. My story will keep him as Enjolraic as possible while having him choose to let things out a bit more.
This chapter specifically is a lot of inside Enjolras's head; what he feels, wants, and is too afraid to want. Not much action, but… I just love pondering how that great mind works!
As I have done since the day I realized I was beginning to care for the useless drunkard, I attempt to ignore him after our night of… fallen barriers. True to his word, he does not mention the incident to the others, nor to me in confidence. I would think that the large amounts of alcohol wiped all memories of the night from his mind, but there is something different about his attitude. Yes, he still mocks me and my cause, but it seems to be more out of habit now than a desire to irk or humiliate me. His words are no longer laced with that biting tone which expressed how ridiculous he found our plans. Of course this minor change may be my imagination, and even if it is not, it has not affected his drinking habits in the least.
I wish that I could address his drinking directly, that I could set aside my blasted indifference for just a moment and tell him how I cannot bear to watch his self destruction any longer. I wish there was some way to tear down all the barriers I have erected between us and be the steadying hand, the friend, he so badly needs.
Yet I know I cannot. But why? Why must I be so stubbornly cold? To maintain respect, the leader within me replies. Sometimes I despise that voice. I know it is this that has sustained me through all my planning; this piece of me that Grantaire calls "Apollo". It is that stoic man that the others follow, the ideal in human form. If ever Marcellin Enjolras were to reveal himself, they would forget the glory of what they desire. Our future republic would seem mundane and flawed and not worth dying for.
Marcellin. Who was the last person to call me by that name? My mother? A given name would seem a term of endearment for her.
Who is he? What is he like? I have forbidden him normal feelings for so long that I believe I may have smothered him. And I think it may be for the best. In the night, Marcellin is afraid. He worries that he will not succeed and that all he will achieve is the death of his friends. But the marble Apollo has no friends. He has comrades in arms. You see, it is much easier to send fellow warriors to their deaths than friends. So Marcellin is kept caged away and allowed to quake only when he is alone. The others have never- and can never- see him.
But Grantaire. With each insult thrown at Apollo, he makes it perfectly clear that he can see Marcellin underneath. He mocks the man he sees within the living ideal, for he knows that it is cowardice that keeps the emotions hidden. Yes, Winecask, cowardice even greater than hiding down bottles to avoid hoping for the not-so-impossible better tomorrow. I hide, for I am afraid; afraid not of death but of failure. Of failing the people of this great nation.
He is the only person who has ever understood this human part of me, though he only mocks me for it. Perhaps I deserve such punishment for the scorn I show him. I know what he is as well as he knows me, yet I refuse to give him that shred of compassion I know will save him from himself.
What is the harm of being open with him in private? The others will not see my weakness if we continue as we have been- ignoring the moment of… camaraderie… between us, though I know neither of us has forgotten it. I can help him through his despair, show him why the future is worth fighting for.
And if I dared to tell him of my fears, he who knows that I am but a man, perhaps he could-
But I am being foolish. He is a bitter man who scorns our insurrection on principle. Seeing my weakness in caring for him flattered him, which is why he has kept silent Were he simply to see me faltering, to see the great Apollo without his sunlit glow, he would mock me.
"Enjolras. Enjolras? We have news from the men on the Rue de Rivoli."
I blink and look in the direction of the voice calling me. The men are arriving for tonight's gathering, waiting for me to tell them the next step in our plan, and here I sit, wishing I could lay me burdens on another's shoulders. Absolutely pathetic!
I stand and take a deep breath, exhaling away my personal difficulties with the stale air. Straightening me scarlet vest and my shoulders, I approach Comberferre, who had called to me upon entering the café.
"What news?"
"They will join us." Like all the young men do, Comberferre attempts to remain professional in my presence, but he is so thrilled to be delivering more volunteers, he cannot keep the eager grin from his face.
I soften my eyes slightly, so he knows that I am pleased. Gods! Why can "Apollo" not congratulate his comrades on their hard work with a smile?
"Are they armed?" I ask.
"Yes. Fifty-four rifles between them and at least a keg of powder."
Reports of more volunteers trickle in from several other men during the course of the evening. The people have heard us and they will fight by our sides as we risk all for their freedom. If such news does not stir Grantaire from his cynicism, I do not know what will.
But what has this to do with him? Why should I care if the wastrel believes in us or not? I do not need his support, not when I have all the common men of Paris fighting together.
The meeting has ended and the subsequent conversations are breaking up. I see Joly asking Grantaire if he would like assistance home, for the man is far too inebriated to find his way to that filthy room himself. Grantaire consents and I inwardly sigh in relief. Of course, I do not care if he chooses to spend the night in some gutter, but while he remains in the café, he is my responsibility. It has been a long day and I wish to go home, not worry about that fool. Worry? Do I worry about him? I worry about what to do with him, for he is a bother, but concern?
I shouldn't be concerned for him, but I know I am. I picture him drowning himself in that poison he finds so dear, lying unconscious in some filthy alley, beaten from a barroom fight, and a hundred other all too likely dreadful things. At times, I have dreamed of his death, and in the dreams I am crying. I cannot remember the last time I cried. I wonder at these moments, for they have no reason. Or perhaps I simply do not like the reason.
I watch Joly guide Grantaire out the door, for he has drunk away his ability to balance. Before leaving, the hypochondriac calls back to me, "Goodnight, Enjolras. I'll have those names for you tomorrow."
"Thank you, Joly. Be here at six tomorrow; we have many things to review."
Just before they disappear into the darkness, I hear a slurred voice mumble, "'Night, Apollo." I do not answer.
I can hear the bells of the church chiming eleven. I suppose I could finish my schoolwork at home; it is too late to be troubling the owners of the café. Bending down to gather the books that I have placed under my chair, I see a crumpled piece of paper on the floor near the chair that Grantaire has just vacated.
Probably another one of my speeches that he's stolen, I think, but I cannot help picking the paper up and unfolding it. It is not my speech; it is me. Someone has drawn a sketch of me standing on the billiards table, speaking to the group as I do so often. The artist is incredibly skilled, for he has captured each crease in my clothing perfectly. But looking at my face, I believe some liberties were taken. True, each feature resembles mine, but put together as a whole, the drawing is much more… handsome. I am beautiful in this simple ink drawing, strong and powerful as I dream to be, but can never quite master. I am… Apollo.
Realization dawns on me as I see this ridiculous title that Grantaire has bestowed upon me scrawled in the lower right corner. So the drunkard is also an artist? I feel that there is much to this man that he has kept hidden from me.
I fold the drawing carefully and slip it into my breast pocket, fully intending to find a safe place for it when I return home. But shouldn't I really be upset that the Winecask is drawing me while I speak? Shouldn't I be disturbed, disgusted, anything but flattered? I realize as I think the words that that is precisely what I feel. I am proud that Grantaire sees this man within me, pleased that he cares enough to draw me like this.
Cares? What am I saying? Grantaire cares about nothing. And I find him and all that he does rude wasteful.
Yet as I walk home, I feel the paper in my vest warming me, and making me feel more understood by another man than I ever have before.
TRIVIA QUESTION: Where did I get the street name from? **Hint- it has nothing to do with Les Miserables or Victor Hugo, but other French literature that I love** If you know, review or private message me the answer and an idea for a story you want me to write and I'll write it for you!
Please, please review as a Barricade Day present to me!