A/N - Sorry for the long gaps between updates! [Life.] I appreciate your readings, support, comments, reviews, favorites, etc!
"Where the hell have you been?" Courfeyrac yelled at the figure strolling through the café door. "We've been trying to reach you for hours!"
Feuilly snorted derisively. "Probably off with his girlfriend. Probably doesn't even know that Enjolras is missing."
"Huh?" Marius frowned at his friends as he settled in his usual seat.
Combeferre rubbed his forehead and surveyed the room wearily. Sheets of paper and empty Styrofoam coffee cups littered the floor and tables. Laptop cords stretched across the room, intertwined like the strands of a spider web. The room glowed with an eerie blue from their laptop screens. It was late. Combeferre checked his watch. Scratch that: It was early in the morning. They had been working nonstop to locate their friends. It had not taken long for them to deduce that Grantaire, after his grandiose call to action in Combeferre's apartment, had gone off and done something stupid that landed him in trouble. After several attempts of contact, they had come to the same conclusion about Bahorel.
His eyelids fell, satisfying the ache that crawled from his eyeballs to the base of his neck.
"If you cared about your friends even half as much as you cared about your fucking girlfriend, you wouldn't have to ask us where the hell Enjolras is! You would already fucking know that he is probably lying dead in an alley!"
A muffled sob came from the opposite corner of the room.
Combeferre struggled to open his eyes. Courfeyrac towered over Marius, who sat slumped in his chair, looking up at his usually good-natured friend with an odd expression of dazed fright. The rest of the Amis watched the exchange with exhausted disinterest – all but Jehan, who sobbed quietly at a side table.
"Courfeyrac," Combeferre discouraged. He knelt beside Jehan, rubbing the poet's back gently.
Courfeyrac turned; his face fell when he saw Jehan. "Ah, shit," he murmured.
"I can't h-h-help it," hiccupped Jehan, mistaking Courfeyrac's remorse for irritation. He hid his face in his hands, but thick tears ran down his wrists. "At night I try to sleep, but all I can do is compose eulogies. I miss them!"
Combeferre straightened, shouldering the responsibility of resolution in Enjolras' absence. "We're going to find them. Courfeyrac and Feuilly, review Bahorel's contacts again. Look for shady characters."
"That really narrows it down," Feuilly muttered, but he immediately started scrolling through Bahorel's laptop with Courfeyrac leaning intently over him.
"Jehan, work with Bossuet to go over the articles that suggest possible hideouts for the Croisade. A lot of hearsay, I know, but there has got to be something in there that can lead us to them. Joly, you can… Joly?"
"Took a break to take his temperature," Bossuet offered. "He claimed that all-nighters have a tendency to give him fevers."
Combeferre rolled his eyes and returned to his own work, but he could barely read a line before his vision clouded. Exasperated, he leaned back, massaging the stiff muscles in his neck. He paused, letting his mind wander back over the past several days. He longed for Enjolras. He felt a cold dread, one that twisted his stomach into tight cramps. He could not help but to feel responsible for his friend's absence. Every day that Enjolras was missing was another attack to Combeferre's resolve; Combeferre knew that he was failing his best friend, and the worst part was the crushing helplessness that consumed him. He knew that if Enjolras was here, he would know what to do. He hated to admit it, but he did not think that he could take anymore.
A shadow stretched in front of his light. Combeferre looked up to see Marius staring mournfully down at him.
"I'm… I'm sorry," Marius stammered. "What can I do to help?"
In that moment, Marius became the feather – small but significant, ignorant of its impact –landing on the burden that Combeferre could no longer carry. The past week crashed into Combeferre like a wave, drowning him in anger, hate, fear, impatience, weakness.
"I don't know," Combeferre snapped. He stood and strode out into the night, leaving Marius speechless behind him. Combeferre wrapped his arms around his chest against the chill. I shouldn't have let this go on for so long. He tilted his head back to the enormity of the sky. I should have made him talk. When Combeferre grew angry or upset as a child, he would wander outside and watch the stars for hours. I shouldn't have let him leave. There was something about the eternal yet fragile permanence of the night sky that calmed him. Something in that winking globe that melted him until nothing was left but a deep and unshakable peace.
Combeferre released a ragged breath. He was melting now.
"Ferre! Combeferre!" He turned reluctantly to see Courfeyrac waving his arms wildly from the café doorway. "We found something!"
Courfeyrac slouched against the concrete pillar, tugging his hood further down over his forehead. His phone buzzed.
Feuilly: You look like an idiot.
Courfeyrac cursed under his breath and angrily punched his reply: Dammit I thought we agreed to only text if he saw him.
Feuilly: You still look like an idiot.
He scowled and held up his middle finger to his friend. Even from across the street, Courfeyrac could see Feuilly's smug grin. He cursed again and redirected his attention to the crowds milling around him. The image Jehan had found had been blurry, but Courfeyrac was sure that he could identify that narrow face, that shock of black unkempt hair, those small, rectangular glasses…
His phone buzzed again.
Ferre: Bus stop.
Courfeyrac leapt into motion, pushing against the people around him. He felt, rather than saw, the movement of his friends, rising from benches, stepping out of dense bushes, slipping – in Jehan's case – out from behind an art easel with a beret balanced neatly on top of his head. They moved together, a silent rush, converging at the bus stop. Combeferre was there, his hand upon the shoulder of a stranger. Black hair. Courfeyrac's heart skipped. Glasses.
Feuilly shoved to the front, wrapping his fists around the young man's collar. "Where the hell is he?" he screamed.
"Feuilly, that's unnecessary." Combeferre glared at Feuilly until he released the other man. "Vivien has been very cooperative. He wants to talk to us."
Vivien smiled thinly at the group. "Quite the ambush," he joked. He looked at each member of the Amis, holding their gazes but returning none of the nerves or fear or anger that he found in their faces. "I don't know where Enjolras is, but I have some information that may be useful. We'll just have to move to a more secure location…"
"I have already volunteered my apartment," Combeferre finished.
The group was soon settled in Combeferre's apartment. Most of the Amis stood around the perimeter of the living room, looking warily at Vivien, who was settled on the couch, holding a mug of steaming coffee. Only Jehan and Combeferre sat – Jehan with his back against the wall and an afghan wrapped around him like a shawl and Combeferre in a straight-backed chair, a confident and official posture.
"Like I said before, they don't tell me much," Vivien began. "Albin is not a very democratic leader. He made it very clear that I'm hired to get information, not to ask questions."
"Wait," Courfeyrac interrupted. "Hired?"
Vivien nodded. "Yes. I was hired about ten months ago. I have connections and skills that Albin thought would be helpful."
"How much are you paid?" Courfeyrac asked.
"If you don't mind sharing," Combeferre added, shooting a warning glance at Courfeyrac.
Vivien hesitated. "It depends, but usually around 3500 Euros a job."
Courfeyrac whistled while the rest of the Amis shifted in surprise.
"Where does Albin get that kind of money?" Feuilly exclaimed.
"Blackmail, my friends, is a very powerful and profitable venture," Vivien smiled. "Albin would kill me – and I mean that literally – if he knew that I was sharing this with you, but I have a lot of respect for Enjolras and none for Guillaume."
"Guillaume? The university president?" Combeferre's forehead wrinkled in confusion when Vivien nodded.
"I see I have much to share." Vivien placed the mug on the table beside him and rubbed his hands together vigorously. "It all began about nine years ago."
"You're early." Guillaume spun his chair toward his guest. His smile faded immediately.
"Expecting someone?"
"Ah. Combeferre." Guillaume surveyed the young man before him. Disheveled with lines of stress and exhaustion etched across his face, but strong, vigorous, intelligent. Handsome in a neat, square sort of way. Guillaume motioned to one of the chairs angled in front of his desk.
"No need for introductions?" Combeferre asked as he sat.
"I make it my business to keep up with my top students." Guillaume beamed at the student seated in front of him. "Although something tells me that you are not here to discuss your, ah, education."
"I need to know where he is."
Guillaume settled back in his seat, considering the young man in front of him. How much do you know? "I won't insult your intelligence by feigning ignorance. But, on my honor, I do not know where he is."
Combeferre clenched his teeth in frustration. "I can't believe that you know nothing."
The president smiled dismissively. "I know what I need to know."
"As do I." Those words, accompanied by Combeferre's steady gaze – not threatening, but knowing – sent a shiver up Guillaume's spine.
"Are you threatening me?"
"I sure as hell don't blackmail," Combeferre returned.
Guillaume slapped the top of his desk. "What the hell did he tell you?"
"This isn't my battle," Combeferre assured him. "I just want to know where my friend is."
"Sure sounds like blackmail."
"I prefer to think of it as motivation."
Guillaume sighed. They stared at each other silently for a few minutes before he started. "I'm sure you already know most of this. It was my friend's project initially. He had just started grad school here, needed a little extra money. He just needed a guy for a drop. A one-time thing." He paused, regarding Combeferre before resuming. "I couldn't believe how easy it was. How much I could make. Always a demand."
"You supply students."
Guillaume nodded. "I started working with a small group of grad students. I was pretty removed. I was new here. The last thing I wanted was for my career to go down in a drug bust. I served mainly as an organizer for the dealers. As the years passed, they moved on and new dealers came on. I was the constant."
"That gave you a lot of power."
Guillaume nodded again. "It was easy to take over."
"Sounds like some risky business security - buying from and supplying students only to have campus security bust them."
"Only the ones who try to work against us. I protect my own."
"Albin?"
Guillaume scowled, balling his hands into fists. "That son of a bitch. I wouldn't care what he'd have to offer. I wouldn't take him."
Combeferre quickly stifled his surprise. Either Vivien had lied or he had been lied to. Considering all things, Combeferre figured the latter was more likely. But if Albin was not a part of the president's drug ring, as Vivien had claimed, what was their connection?
"You're not the only one who's been crossed," Combeferre ventured. "I was told that you might know something about where he is keeping Enjolras. If you can help me find him, this could be our chance to make him pay. Force him to realize that he isn't holding all of the cards."
Guillaume laughed loudly. "Enjolras has been nothing but a thorn in my side since he's gotten here. Albin has my blessing to do with him as he will."
"So Enjolras' disappearance is your play?"
"I want the little shit to rot in hell," Guillaume hissed.
"That doesn't quite answer the question."
Guillaume shrugged. "I do a favor for him. He does a favor for me."
"So if Enjolras is his favor for you, what's the favor you're doing him?"
A burst of activity from the hallway interrupted them: shrill protestations, a clatter of heavy and staccato footsteps – then the weary groan of the office door. Guillaume swore softly. Combeferre whipped around. Albin stood in the doorway, looking back and forth between him and Guillaume. Combeferre studied him curiously. His pale face sported a series of dark bruises and his bottom lip puffed unnaturally. Albin focused his gaze at Combeferre, as if he suddenly realized who he was. The squint of his eyes and firm lines of his face relayed the full force of his hatred.
Just as Combeferre half-rose from his chair, Albin blinked and bolted back down the hall.