Les Hommes de la Misericorde

(Men of Mercy)

A/N: Hello all! Thanks again for all the wonderful feedback on the last chapter, it is much appreciated as always, and thank you to everyone reading! Just as a note, Enjolras' mother will be re-introduced in this chapter, and his father and grandmother introduced, so I wanted to remind everyone of their names, to prevent confusion: Flora is Enjolras' mother, Aubry his father, and Violet his maternal grandmother. In this, Enjolras' first name is René.

Enjoy!

Chapter 29: Revelations, Understandings, and Reunions

Combeferre doesn't return immediately, which Enjolras assumes means he's had to tend to Grantaire in some way, perhaps he's in counsel with Courfeyrac, or otherwise he's giving Enjolras time to sort out his thoughts before he returns. Regardless, Enjolras is grateful for his bed; his leg twists and wrenches with pain, a throbbing ache in his shoulder. He presses his fingers into the skin around his leg, trying to relieve some of the pain and avoid damaging the still healing bullet wound. Feuilly sits beside him on the bed, eyes following Enjolras' movements.

"What are you thinking?" he asks softly, folding his hands atop the blankets and looking directly at Enjolras, hazel eyes illuminated with compassion.

"I'm not sure," Enjolras says, looking up at him, hands still pressed to his leg. "I am sorry for letting my anger get the best of me, and yet I am still angry. I have not been able to control my temper recently have not been able to channel it into something productive because I have no outlet, no speeches to give, no pamphlets to write. My temper has been hanging by a thread and Grantaire just…" he trails off, removing one hand from his leg and gesturing uselessly in the air. "Normally I feel righteous anger at the wrongs committed every day in this society we want so badly to change, I don't normally simply feel angry at…I don't even truly know."

"We have all been through so much," Feuilly says, and Enjolras sees the ghosts in his eyes he saw several weeks ago in Valjean's home when they spoke of death. "And you and Grantaire even more than the rest, what with Grantaire's withdrawal and you, well, you've been through hell, Enjolras. It doesn't surprise me some of the emotions finally exploded a bit. It will all be fine soon, I expect. You and Grantaire will talk it through."

"You think he will wish to speak to me?" Enjolras asks softly, squeezing his leg harder, unable to hide it any longer.

"I know he will, Grantaire is not capable of staying angry for long, especially not with you," Feuilly says, frowning at Enjolras' movements. "Though even if he is stubborn, you are more so, and too determined by far for him to refuse. I might not have heard the entire disagreement, but as these things go, hurtful things are said on either end, there's a mixture of right and wrong with all parties involved. And if there was not so much feeling between you, I suspect it wouldn't have been such a scene."

Enjolras nods, shifting uncomfortably on the bed, trying to find a position which is not so painful. "You are right of course, as usual. Though we have never fought to this degree, Grantaire has always possessed the talent to spark my frustration, and yet still my certain affection. I never fully understood his regard for me just as I never understood Grantaire himself, though I struggled to do so, I wanted to do so. He did not fight for our cause yet he made his place among us, earned our trust. He is, I think, an enigma of a man."

Feuilly is about to respond, but he's cut off by an audible gasp from Enjolras, who swallows back the sound to no avail as he feels an invisible hot poker prod at his leg.

"You are in more pain than I even suspected," Feuilly says, edging carefully forward on the bed, bracing Enjolras with a firm hand on his arm, eyes mired with concern as Enjolras' squeeze tightly shut.

"It will pass," Enjolras says, but he doesn't quite believe his own words. "My fall made it hurt worse than usual; I find I'm always embarrassing myself since these injuries occurred."

"I'd hardly call it embarrassing, and hardly always. You're not usually given to hyperbole, Enjolras," Feuilly offers kindly, turning to regard him.

Enjolras opens his eyes, jaw set stiffly as he unclenches his hands from his leg, watching Feuilly in return.

"You still refuse to take any Laudanum?" Feuilly asks, the kind words cutting through him as Javert's knife had threatened to do, because he wants to find a way to take the foul medication without the memories submerging him in their grip, wants to find a way to ease the worries of his friends, but he doesn't know how.

"I can't, Feuilly. I don't want it…I don't want to feel…" he stops, looking at his fingers instead of Feuilly. "I can handle the pain. I can. It just takes…time."

Time, Enjolras considers. The word of the moment.

"I know," Feuilly replies. "I know you can. But that doesn't mean you should or have to."

Enjolras doesn't reply, eyes downcast as he shakes his head, almost to himself. He would take the Laudanum to ease Feuilly's worry if he could, but he can't, he cannot feel like that again, so helpless to rescue himself, to protect his friends, his entire body sluggish with drugs, sweat beading at his forehead, his heart beating slowly, breaths shallow.

"Did I ever tell you how my father died?"

Enjolras looks up sharply, not expecting the question Feuilly poses.

"In a robbery, I recall?" he asks, remembering a late night in the Corinthe, a long walk through the streets of Paris under the barely visible stars, Feuilly's hesitant voice slicing through the quiet of the Parisian evening, the city sleeping all around them as Enjolras listened to him reveal another layer of himself.

Feuilly nods. "Yes. But he didn't die straight away. He was stabbed trying to defend our house. We called for a doctor straight away and for a little while, it seemed like he might survive. The knife missed his internal organs, or so we thought, and the bleeding stopped once the doctor stitched him up. All of that I think I told you. But I don't think I ever told you about the pain he experienced. We couldn't afford Laudanum, we could barely afford to pay the doctor's fee and we'd lost what few valuables we had in the robbery. I've never seen such pain." Feuilly says, slow and steady to control his emotions. It happened many years ago, he'd been a child, but it's still a wound and one that will never quite heal, now joined by four new, fresh ones. Feuilly fixes his eyes on the night stand, and Enjolras sees him struggling to remain in the present, sees the past swirling in his eyes.

Enjolras reaches over to take one of Feuilly's hands. Feuilly smiles as the gesture, watching the grief replace pain on Enjolras' face and he knows he's thinking of their deceased friends too and touched, as he always has been, by Feuilly's story. It is one of many parts of Enjolras which draws Feuilly to him, such empathy in a rich young boy who could scarcely imagine the situations which befall his fellow man, could have easily lived the comfortable life the current regime offered him, but instead went the complete opposite route, learning about the plagues of those who suffered, talking to and learning from them, fighting for them and with them, reading the great philosophers and politicians and expanding his mind. He is compassion embodied in a single man.

With a nod and squeeze of the hand from Enjolras, encouragement to continue, Feuilly takes a breath and does so. "He was in agony, for days and nights before he finally died. He could barely sleep or eat or speak. I was so young…I was a child. I didn't understand, and I wanted to help him, I wanted to take that pain away. I knew there were drugs that could do that, and I knew we couldn't afford them. But I didn't, couldn't, understand how that was fair. It isn't fair, and that's why we all fought, why we will still fight, isn't it? I think of my father when I see you struggle, when I see you in so much pain."

Pain of a different kind mixed with a marked guilt storm onto Enjolras' features. Feuilly meets his eyes, holding his gaze, silently pleading with Enjolras to heed him, somehow.

"I don't tell you this to hurt you, Enjolras, or to instill some sort of guilt in you. Far from it. I couldn't help my father and society wouldn't. You have the access to Laudanum, but even more than that, I can hopefully convince you to take it so that you can heal faster," he says, and Enjolras closes his eyes, feeling an emotion so potent, so powerful overcome him that he's not sure it won't burst forth from his body somehow.

With the hand Enjolras doesn't hold Feuilly tucks the lock of hair which has escaped the confines of its tie back behind Enjolras' ear. Feuilly isn't as physically affectionate as some of the other Amis are; he is occasionally tactile, has grown more so as he felt more comfortable around their group of friends, communicating with a quick hand clasped to a forearm, to a shoulder, an affectionate ruffle of the hair; strong, sure and definite moments of physicality from a reserved, but confident man. This tender caress, as Feuilly's fingers linger for a moment on Enjolras' chin, until he opens his eyes again and they hold each other's gaze once more, is his way of begging Enjolras to listen. Enjolras has always opened his ears and his mind to the ideas of others, particularly since he found all of these wonderful friends, who have expanded his thinking and his love for their cause in ways he never knew possible at seventeen when he moved to Paris, on fire with passion and knowledge of revolutionaries past.

"I can only guess what Laudanum overdose feels like," Feuilly says. "And how hard that loss of control was for you, how hard it was to feel what I'm sure was utterly hopeless. But you, Enjolras, you search for the good in everything, so I'm asking you to search for the good in using this medication. It is like a weapon; in the wrong hands it can cause unspeakable damage, but Combeferre's are the right hands, good and sure and true. He won't let you fall under its spell, I promise you. You trust him in all things, please, please, trust him in this. Please, take the Laudanum."

Enjolras eyes are wide, clear, cerulean blue and torn with indecision. Feuilly holds his gaze, his eyes unblinking and resolute until Enjolras' close again, and he nods wearily. Enjolras knows better than anyone that he can be narrow in his focus sometimes, has worked quite hard to broaden himself, opening himself up to the wonderful ideas of his friends, he's succeeded in that; now he sees that those principles should also apply to this situation, because he finds he cannot bear to worry his friends further, knows how much it hurt them to see him nearly die, to see him dragged away, and now to see him in pain like this.

He will face this fear as he has always done, and he will trust his friends now as he always has before. He feels distinctly that perhaps he's regained a piece of himself.

"Alright," he says quietly. "Until I truly don't need it."

"Thank you. Thank you, my friend." Feuilly says, seizing both of Enjolras hands now and squeezing them with all the feeling and relief he has.

"Thank you," Enjolras replies, returning the gesture. "For knowing me so well and helping me see the reason in this."

"See the reason in what?" Combeferre's voice says as he comes in through the doorway.

Feuilly smiles at Enjolras, and rises up from the bed.

"I'll leave the two of you to talk," he says, looking toward Combeferre. "How is Grantaire?"

"Physically well," Combeferre says, taking Feuilly's place next to Enjolras on the bed. "A bit shaky, but that is nothing new as of late, a side effect of the withdrawal still, added to by emotion. But Courfeyrac is sitting with him. Thank you, Feuilly," he says, voice warm with gratitude.

Feuilly nods one last time before closing the door behind him and leaving Enjolras and Combeferre alone.

"How's your leg after that fall?" Combeferre asks, his voice oddly timorous.

"It hurts like the devil," Enjolras says, and Combeferre starts a bit, surprised at his willingness to admit to his pain levels. "And if you could pour me the appropriate dose of Laudanum I would be most appreciative."

"Laudanum?" Combeferre says, smiling just a hint. "You want to take the Laudanum?"

"Feuilly convinced me," Enjolras replies, somewhat sheepish. "He is most persuasive, I've found. Is it possible to start with a smaller dose? I do not…"

"Want to be overcome," Combeferre finishes for him. "Of course."

Enjolras watches Combeferre pour the Laudanum, an amber waterfall of liquid into the clear glass. His fingers touch Combeferre's as he hands him the medication, the security of the familiar touch washing out and fading the memories of the jail from vivid color to a sharp black and white, the memories of the knife, of his own legs falling out from under him, knee crashing hard to the ground. He takes a tentative first sip then swallows the rest as quickly as he can tolerate with the foul, burning taste.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, pass me that water please," Enjolras says, grimacing, washing the taste from his mouth when Combeferre exchanges the medicine glass for one of water. "It is as vile as ever."

"I am proud of you, Enjolras," Combeferre says, sincere, taking the glass back. "I know how difficult that was, the memories and sensations it provoked."

"You are proud even after my outburst?" Enjolras says, but he meets Combeferre's eyes still.

"You think me angry with you?" Combeferre asks, incredulous. "No, you know me better than that. There have been an extreme amount of intense, volatile emotions in all of us as of late, and it's no surprise. You and I sorted out our disagreement, did we not?"

"Yes," Enjolras says, blushing slightly. "Though I still scarcely believe we fought in such a way. We've debated, disagreed, but never like that."

"We were both stubborn," Combeferre says, ever diplomatic. "And we were both coming from a place of worry for each other: that was the root of the problem. Which, I believe, is the same for Grantaire and yourself."

Enjolras nods in agreement. "My temper has been so very close to the surface recently, and Grantaire just…he has always bewildered me so, Combeferre. He pulls me in and pushes me away, beckons me forward and sends me away. Incites my ire and yet also my friendship. There's a connection there, I know it, I just…"

"You are very direct and Grantaire often obscures his meaning," Combeferre replies. "Partly a communication trouble, partly that Grantaire does not realize the potential in himself to the point of self-loathing, an ever present problem Joly often worried over, a problem which may very well have been exacerbated by the loss of Joly and Bossuet who were always very adept with Grantaire. A problem we have all worried over. Grantaire fears you will become him, fears you will lose yourself in your intense melancholy over all of this. I know you will rise again, but Grantaire doubts, and he has never doubted you before, and that frightens him beyond measure, I suspect."

Enjolras nods again, resolved; Combeferre's thoughts echo and reaffirm his own musings now that his anger has ebbed.

"I must go speak to him," Enjolras says, shifting to get up. "I think the Laudanum has done enough work to make my way in finding him."

"A moment," Combeferre says, putting a hand over Enjolras', worry prevalent in his eyes, and Enjolras finds he would do anything to clear that away. "Some of the things you mentioned during the argument, about yourself, about all of this, if you want to talk with me about it I am right here, right by your side."

"I do," Enjolras says, squeezing Combeferre's hand with sincerity. "Finally, I think I can voice them now, I realize that I need to voice them, need to look into myself, Grantaire wasn't wrong about that. I only have a difficult time looking to my own problems when I want to make sure all of you are content, that your lives continue on, because all of you are my heart, you are the future we believe in."

"We will figure it all out, my dear friend," Combeferre promises, and Enjolras feels the contracting pain in his heart ease. "But the best thing we can do is take care of each other, and that includes you."

"Yes," Enjolras says, a melancholy smile on his lips. "Yes, you're right." He sits in silence for a moment, his hand secure in Combeferre's. "I think I will try and speak to Grantaire, see if we can reconcile, or I will not sleep." He pauses, settling his feet on the floor. "My grandmother used to say never let the sun go down on anger and harsh words…" he smiles and catches Combeferre's eye. "But we will speak further. I promise. And…thank you."

"You are most welcome," Combeferre says with a final squeeze. "And be careful with your leg, mind."

"I will," Enjolras tells him, meaning it. "Can't go tumbling down again."

"No," Combeferre says, smiling and shooing him out the door. "It doesn't suit your usual grace."

At this, Enjolras chuckles before heading out into the hallway in search of Grantaire.


Grantaire wants to drink.

Grantaire wants to drink until he can't think, until he can't feel, until nothing hurts and he dissolves into complete and utter oblivion. He'd shaken Courfeyrac off a few minutes earlier, insisting that he should go help Valjean, Marius, Cosette, and Gavroche bring in the packages from Avignon, no doubt containing items to do with the wedding, saying that he was fine, and no, he wasn't craving alcohol. Courfeyrac had looked heartily unsure, but he also knew he could not control Grantaire's actions.

"All will be well between you," Courfeyrac had said, resting a friendly, affectionate hand on Grantaire's arm. "Of that I am most certain because I know the two of you as well as I know myself. Perhaps better. Enjolras is as drawn to you as you to him, and as stubborn to boot. You will resolve this, just you wait."

Sadly but unsurprisingly, there is no absinthe in this aristocratic house's alcohol cellar, but among the copious bottles of wine he locates a few bottles of brandy, seizing one from the rack and taking it back up the stairs, cradling it as gently as if it's his first born child. His feet take him almost unconsciously toward the rather expansive library, knowing that at least right now, none of his friends will be occupying the space, despite how often he can find any one of their noses buried in a book.

He throws himself down in one of the leather armchairs, hands grasping the brandy bottle tightly, but he doesn't yet open it up. He stares at it, guilt already seeping deep into his bones at betraying his friends, betraying himself, betraying the mental and physical anguish he's already experienced. He hears Enjolras' voice in his head, laced with anger, but even more potent, laced with solid disappointment.

Coward.

He's disappointed Enjolras again, disappointed him now in a way more powerful than ever before, because he'd tried. He'd shown conviction, shown, dare he say it, belief. He'd showcased his loyalty, a quality he'd always allowed forth even in his darkest moments, even more than before.

He'd tripped over his own self-loathing.

But still, Enjolras was so goddamned stubborn.

But Grantaire doesn't have time to contemplate just how stubborn Enjolras is, because he hears footsteps approaching, footsteps that are a good deal slower than normal yet they are still footsteps he'd know anywhere. Despite their slowness, despite his inner turmoil, despite his injury and the cane, Enjolras' gait still sounds firm, each step pierced with a surety Enjolras doesn't seem to know he still possesses. Enjolras pauses in the doorway, gazing around at the books before his eyes land directly on Grantaire, the intensity of his gaze lighting through the darkness gathering in Grantaire's soul.

"Come to tell me to put the bottle down, have you?" Grantaire asks.

"I thought I might find you here," Enjolras remarks, ignoring the swipe and leaning against the doorframe, wincing but obviously trying to hide it. His eyes shade with a hint of disdain when he sees the brandy, mixed with an even larger amount of immense concern Grantaire doesn't miss. "Hiding, quite literally, among the literary references you always cloak yourself in. And in the bottle you so recently forswore."

It is a return to type for them, a sort of interaction they have not had since the barricade fell but it feels alien now, wrong and misshapen with all that has happened, this fight most recent of all.

"As you hide behind your rhetoric," Grantaire snaps, knowing his argument is specious; the words Enjolras speaks make up every inch of him. "Are you pleased now?" he continues, harsh, biting sarcasm laced around every syllable even as he despises himself for it. "You very nearly got to die for your cause, were very nearly a martyr. Does it disappoint you that Valjean robbed you of the chance? Is that why you're acting the fool?"

Enjolras stares at him, eyes narrowing slightly, but he shakes head, fixing his face into a neutral expression, but Grantaire catches on the melancholy in Enjolras' eyes, trying to ignore it because he wants to be angry, wants to shout at Enjolras, wants to pound on his chest and scream at him for even daring to try and leave them all, to leave him.

"Nothing to say for yourself then?" Grantaire asks. "The great orator among us lost for words? Do you even care about how terrified we were? How terrified we still are?"

"What in the blazes would you have had me do, Grantaire? Do you not realize that it killed me, knowing how much hurt I inflicted on all of you?" he says, frustrated but keeping his voice low, shaking everywhere now, loose blonde hair framing his face like a drenched halo. "But the hurt was a better option than your deaths. You think Javert wouldn't have arrested all of you? Wouldn't have killed you in his madness if I hadn't gone with him? Is that what you damn well wanted? It's my job to protect all of you. To make sure as many of you as possible live on. We've lost enough."

"For the cause?" Grantaire mocks, but there are frustrated tears in his eyes now, and he's fighting them desperately. "Because that's all that matters, isn't it? Didn't matter that we might lose you as long as it was good for the cause. You…I…"

"I did it for all of you!" Enjolras protests. "Because each of you is an individual piece of my heart, separate from the cause I still love so much, despite all of this. But I'm alive, I'm here now."

"No you're not," Grantaire says emphasizing the last word. "You're acting as if you deserve to be dead, you won't even look at yourself, Enjolras."

"I need time," Enjolras says, voice cracked with vulnerability. "As much as I hate it, I need it. And there's no need for the rest of you to wait to live your lives, it doesn't make sense." Enjolras sighs, closing his eyes briefly before looking back at Grantaire. "Here we are again, at this precipice. I didn't come to fight with you. Quite the opposite."

There's another sharp comment in Grantaire's verbal reserves, but at the sound of the weariness in Enjolras' tone, he relents.

"Sit," Grantaire mumbles, rising and pulling a chair up next to his own. "You shouldn't be standing on that leg after you fell earlier, I don't want Combeferre coming after me; the man's frightening when he's angry."

A smile flickers on Enjolras' face, and he allows it as Grantaire helps him down into the chair, leaning his cane up against the edge.

"We were both right and wrong," Enjolras say, soft but sure. "You're right: I'm not paying enough attention to myself, and you're also right in saying that I'm drenching myself in guilt, I'm…"

"It's…" Grantaire starts.

Enjolras holds up a careful hand. "May I finish?"

Grantaire nods, feeling a sudden impulse to touch Enjolras, but refrains for fear of breaking this fragile moment between them, this tentative sharing of the intimate secrets of Enjolras' soul.

"I am not myself and that frightens me," Enjolras admits, eyes falling down to his wounded leg, and Grantaire's own follow their path. "I have had fears and doubts as has any man, fleeting though they may have been. I have known my purpose for what seems like my entire life and now, as much as I planned, I find myself in a situation I never envisioned and I don't…our friends…"

Enjolras breaks off, resting his head in his hands, fingers lacing through his hair. Grantaire panics, almost wanting to dash off for Combeferre, for Courfeyrac, for Feuilly, possibly even for Marius; he doesn't know if he can do this, doesn't know if he can be strong for Enjolras the way others can, not when Enjolras has always been his strength.

Try, a voice that sounds very much like Enjolras whispers.

Grantaire puts a hesitant hand on Enjolras' uninjured shoulder and Enjolras jolts up, surprised, but doesn't pull away, looking at Grantaire intently.

"I was..." Grantaire begins begrudgingly. "A bit harsh earlier. I don't believe myself wrong, exactly, but my own fears, my own anxieties, got mixed up with the ones I have for you. I know…I know you didn't have any choice but to turn yourself over to Javert, but you do have a choice now, Enjolras. You aren't dead, and," Grantaire swallows hard, pushing forth the bravery he feels in Enjolras' presence, making himself say their friend's names. "Joly, Bossuet, Prouvaire, Bahorel…they wouldn't wish that on you, they wouldn't blame you."

"I know," Enjolras says, voice ripe with emotion he's quite obviously holding back. "I know they wouldn't. But so many men are facing trial, so many comrades imprisoned, and I circumvented that fate. Here I am, free. It feels wrong."

"You're a fugitive," Grantaire says, hating how the words taste on his tongue, hating seeing how they slap Enjolras in the face. "That's not exactly an easy fate. You need to stop punishing yourself for imagined wrongs. This way you can continue fighting on. I know you; you'll find a way."

"Anxiety plagues me and I feel so…crushed," Enjolras says, searching Grantaire's face as if it might hold the answers he seeks. "I feel my spirit within me and yet it eludes my reach. I want to reach it, but I feel as if I keep getting knocked back down by some sort of invisible force. I feel panicked if one of you is not near me, and yet I push all of you away in the same movement."

"You are right when you say you need time," Grantaire says. "And that is where I was wrong, and I should not have snapped at Combeferre. But you must look inside yourself, you must. I understand that it is your nature to think of others before yourself, but Enjolras you have to heed me. We can all take care of ourselves while you recover, and I'm not just speaking of physical recovery. We all need you, it's true, but you need us as well, let us hold you up for a while. Or at least let the others…I am not altogether sure I'm good for much. You will never be yourself again if you don't do this, you cannot be there for us as you are used to being, cannot be the leader I know you are until you confront this. Fully."

Enjolras nods at him, and somehow in that moment, Enjolras looks infinitely more human than Grantaire has ever seen him and yet still so ethereally beautiful it steals the very breath from his lungs.

Grantaire's chest aches with love for him, love for the man Enjolras is, a man who while still so wonderfully human, stands taller, brighter, more hopeful and determined than any mortal he's ever come across, loves him for his flaws and his virtues both.

Silence reigns for a few moments until Enjolras speaks again.

"You are good for plenty," Enjolras whispers. "It's why you sometimes frustrate me so, why we argue and move in circles. Because I see your potential, and you refuse to do so. You placed yourself among us, lived in our circles, and yet I could not find a way to make you believe in anything, least of all yourself."

"I believe in you," Grantaire says, almost in reflex. His breath catches in his chest, but now, he supposes, is not the time to hold back. They are on the edge of something. "You are exceptional, you are utterly unprecedented. I would follow you into the dark, because somehow you would light the way even if you did not know what lay ahead." He sighs heavily, continuing quietly. "I do not expect you to understand."

This time, Enjolras initiates the touch; he takes Grantaire's hand in his own, interlacing their fingers as he often does with the ever tactile Courfeyrac. His touch is fearless, and yet Grantaire sees Enjolras' hand trembling even still.

"I understand," Enjolras says, a dash of the familiar flame sparking in his eyes, and Grantaire gets the sense that he really does comprehend. "I will never forget you shielding me from the National Guard, Grantaire, carrying me through the sewers in your arms. I can never forget how terrified you were when you were hallucinating, how you stood in front of Javert's gun when he arrested me. I know now that you were willing to die beside me, for me, and I am sorry I didn't recognize it before."

"I didn't exactly make it simple for you, did I?" Grantaire responds with a smidge of a sardonic grin, shakily grasping Enjolras' hand tighter. "A skeptic ensconced among believers. I cannot…quite explain why I believe in you, I only know that I do. More than I have believed in anything or anyone in my entire sad existence."

"It is not a sad existence," Enjolras says fiercely. "You are so intelligent, you are loyal, you are artistic. You need only recognize that and use it to pull yourself out of this hole. You always tell me I'm constantly going on about everyone's particular spark in the fire, you have one as well. Don't you see? You are not truly a cynic, Grantaire, if you believe in even just one thing. Even if that thing is a person, is me, is the friendship between us all. It can lead to you believing in yourself, into something more." Enjolras' voice is sprinkled with the fervor Grantaire has so missed, his eyes bright with an almost feverish gleam of passionate belief. "You doubt, but belief is strengthened by doubt through overcoming it."

He has taken both Grantaire's hands now, eyes boring into Grantaire; he looks like he does when he's so far gone into his vision of glorious future he sees for them all that it might explode out of him if he doesn't convince just one other person that that future is there for the taking. But this time, that future is Grantaire and Enjolras is desperate in his need to convince him of it.

Grantaire can't help it: he smiles, his lips curving upward in genuine joy; Enjolras' voice infects him like the same feverish glint he sees in his friend's eyes, he feels his spirit lift as he does every time Enjolras gives a speech such as this.

If only it would stay uplifted when Enjolras's words cease, if only he could find it within himself to share in the light rather than simply basking in its glow.

"I am not well acquainted with doubt, and you, perhaps, not well acquainted with hope. Then let us help other understand and grow stronger, together. Light and dark reside in all of us, Grantaire, in you and in me; one does not exist without the other, they learn from each other. But it is a choice of which you choose to set your focus upon."

"You already sound a bit more like yourself."

"Are you listening?" Enjolras asks, a slice of annoyance re-entering his tone.

"Yes," Grantaire promises. "Yes."

"You musn't put me up in a place you cannot reach," Enjolras tells him seriously. "Or else you will never find your way up. I would have you at my side, my friend, not at my feet. Rise up from that place and stand with me. Hand in hand. Please."

"I want to," Grantaire says, voice hoarse and splintered.

"You can," Enjolras emphasizes. "You have courage, I have seen it. It is your very own brand of bravery."

At this, Grantaire rests his forehead against Enjolras' chest, his heart so full he cannot speak, and Enjolras' hands come to rest on his arms in a gesture of comfort, chin resting atop Grantaire's untamable curls. They remain like this for a several minutes, silent and soaking in this newfound understanding, this bond that's always been resting just underneath the surface finally fully recognized. Grantaire pulls back, Enjolras' hands sliding to his shoulders.

"I know I'm to try and refrain from all the Greek deity references, but if you might permit me one thing?" Grantaire asks.

"What's that?" Enjolras asks, raising one eyebrow.

"Allow me to be the Pylades to your Orestes?" Grantaire responds, a happiness he's not felt since he can remember taking root in his chest as he smiles cheekily at Enjolras. "You cannot rob me of all my references, after all, or I will no longer be allowed to call Combeferre Athena, and you know how much I enjoy that."

Enjolras smiles, the skin around his eyes crinkling, but the familiar blue orbs are steeped in exhaustion. "I think I can do that," he says, one hand going to his leg, lids falling closed.

"You ought to sleep. Come, I will help you back to your bed." Grantaire says softly, shifting to stand.

"No." Enjolras murmurs, sending a shard of sadness through Grantaire despite the softness of his tone. Enjolras rejects his offer of help: this progress he feels they have made in just a few short minutes is a fabrication of his still fevered and unsettled mind.

Enjolras continues quietly, dropping his head to rest on Grantaire's shoulder, thoroughly exhausted. "No. Let's just…sit, a while. Here. I'm alright enough for that."

Relief floods him, tension melting away so suddenly he feels boneless. It was not his offer of help Enjolras rejected, only their parting.

Enjolras is content to rest against Grantaire, and Grantaire pleased to let him as he leans back into Enjolras' warm, slight frame, breathing in unison. Content he may be, but Enjolras needs to rest nevertheless.

He waits a few moments, and when Enjolras doesn't stir, Grantaire rises, lifting Enjolras up very carefully into his arms, less of task that it was in the sewers just a month ago because of the weight Enjolras has lost due to his convalescence. Enjolras feels delicate in his arms, an irony, Grantaire thinks, considering that Enjolras is the most resilient person he knows, is capable of taking two men down at once in a fight with a few skilled moves. But now his physical and emotional fragility need time to heal, so that before Grantaire even knows it, Enjolras will arise from the metaphorical punch, standing up once more to fight again for the future of a people that mean so much to him.

"Grantaire, what…"

"Shhh," Grantaire whispers, feeling tears springing to his eyes, and he blinks them back. "I'm just taking you back to your room; in rather typical fashion, you've tired yourself out."

"I…" Enjolras begins as if to argue, voice heavy with sleep, a thread of pain running through as he winces at a stab in his leg. Even still, he sounds oddly content. "Thank you." He reaches up and grasps the top edge of Grantaire's waistcoat for better balance, arm stretched across Grantaire's chest.

With those few words, he's gone again, lost to the strong sleep particular to those in convalescence. It takes only a few minutes to reach Enjolras' room, and Grantaire eases the door open with his foot, finding Combeferre looking up at him from the bedside chair, Courfeyrac solidly asleep in Enjolras' bed and Feuilly completely out on the chaise lounge, a rarity for someone who doesn't usually care for sleeping in front of others. Combeferre smiles at Grantaire, raising both eyebrows over the tops of his spectacles.

"Oh shut up, Combeferre," Grantaire whispers fondly. "It isn't my fault that our dear friend falls asleep at the drop of a hat these days."

"I didn't say a word," Combeferre answers, watching as Grantaire lays Enjolras down, pulling the covers up and over both him and Courfeyrac before sitting in other chair next to Combeferre, who squeezes his hand briefly before returning wordlessly to his book, the good doctor's other hand going instinctively to smooth out the corners of Enjolras' blanket.

Grantaire finds he's completely forgotten about the brandy; his friends are gathered around him, Enjolras is healing, and that, he discovers, is a much better form of intoxication.


It's early morning when their stagecoach arrives in Avignon, so Flora suggests they stop off for some breakfast and then take a fiacre the rest of the way so that they might not wake a still sleeping house.

"You believe they will all still be abed at half past eight?" Aubry asks, eyeing her with anxiety that is nearly never present in his calm, almost stoic demeanor.

"Well René is healing yet," Flora says, thinking of the letter she'd received from Fauchelevent, the letter simply stating that an incident had occurred and she should come, that René was alive and safe, but it was urgent. There was no more information, Flora knew, for fear of the post getting intercepted and falling into the wrong hands, and worry sits heavy in her stomach. "He might still be sleeping. And rest of the household might just have awoken."

"And it is not proper to call before at least ten," her mother chimes in, finishing off the last of her tea.

"Hmmm," Aubry responds, arching one eyebrow as he thumbs through to the second page of the paper he's reading. "And Americans are usually known for their propriety, are they Violet?"

"It is too early for your teasing, Aubry," she says, a smirk on her face. "You are anxious to see René as we all are…you perhaps even more so as you have not seen him in three years because of your own stubbornness. But you must be patient."

Flora tenses slightly, watching; her mother and her husband always had a close, bantering relationship, but it's been significantly strained since the eruption between René and Aubry three years ago, an eruption Violet felt Aubry was mostly responsible for. Aubry doesn't rise to the comment, however: he'd promised Flora before they left he would keep his temper. She watches his eyes fall to the paper, watches them widen, watches his free hand clench.

"Aubry, what is it?" she whispers, not wanting to make a ruckus in the quiet café.

He doesn't speak but merely hands her the paper, which she takes with frantic hands, feeling her mother hovering over her shoulder.

Parisian insurgent leader Enjolras declared dead by Prefect of Police.

Her breath ceases flowing for a moment until she remembers the letter from Fauchelevent; René is alive: she knows this, but cannot dispel the disquiet in her heart at the sight of the words, and she knows now that the situation is far more complicated than she foresaw.

"He is not dead," she says, voice soft so only Aubry and her mother can hear. "I don't know what's happened, but we need to go now, proper or not."

"What is this, Flora?" Aubry asks, and she feels a familiar intensity so similar to their son's radiating off his person, oddly desperate. René looks so like the two of them, hair the same shade of blonde as Aubry's was in his younger days, before it started streaking with grey, eyes a similar blue to her own, her smaller build, Aubry's height.

"Some called him the 'avenging angel' and 'Apollo,' Aubry says, looking down at the paper again in horror. "Flora, what is this? He cannot be dead and alive. Did they mistake another for him?"

"There isn't time for questions right now," Flora insists.

"We won't receive answers until we arrive, I expect," Violet adds. "Let us go, I believe I saw some fiacres outside in the street. I need to see René' immediately, I need to see his face."

Flora silently agrees, feeling her mother clasp her hand as they pay and exit the café, locating a fiacre just outside the door, her heart feeling as if it splinters more with each beat. Rationally she knows that her son's alive but she's terrified of the state he might be in, terrified of what he's experienced.

It is a mostly quiet ride to the Gillenormand home, surprising, given how much her mother loves chatting, but even she is struck silent by the yearning need to see their boy, their boy who is no longer such, but a young man. A man with so much passion and fight in him that it bursts through every crevice of his being in fiery spurts of love and compassion; it has taken him on a dangerous path through life, a path which has temporarily dimmed the light that always glowed so ferociously within him, and all of them, each in their way, need to see him alive and well before they can truly be at ease.

In what seems no time at all they approach the front door of the expansive estate, and she feels her husband grasp her hand for just a moment looking for reassurance, uncharacteristic uncertainty plain on his face. She squeezes back. No matter her trepidation at bringing him, she is glad he is with her; she's spent a lot of time being angry at him for how he responded to his and René's final fight, angry at his stubborn refusal to come to Paris with her and make amends with their son. Even so, she has never doubted his love for her or for their son: she sees it every time he slips up and asks her if she's heard from René, even though he's insisted he wants nothing to do with their child's life. She sees it in the fleeting glimpses of worry she's caught on his face since the barricades fell, all too quickly replaced by his usual dignified and stoic mask.

They knock, and the door is surprisingly answered by Fauchelevent himself, likely, she suspects, because he expected them and wanted to greet them.

"Madame Enjolras," Fauchelevent says, and she knows by the look on his face that her irrational fears about René's death were unfounded. "You arrived just when I thought you might."

Not dead.

Alive.

Safe.

Hurt, but within her reach.

Breathing a sigh of relief, basking in his open and friendly expression, Flora smiles and greets him.

"Monsieur Fauchelevent, it is so nice to see you again, and thank you so much for your hospitality once more."

"It is hardly my hospitality anymore, but the kindness of M. Gillenormand, who actually plans to make the journey here in a few weeks. But you are welcomed in any case," he says smiling broadly and clasping her hand with both of his and drawing her into the house and holding the door for Aubry and Violet to follow.

"You are far too humble, monsieur," Flora says and turns Aubry. "May I introduce, my husband, Aubry."

"Monsieur Enjolras, a pleasure."

"Monsieur Fauchelevent, I have heard so much," Aubry says, reaching out and grasping Fauchelevent's hand in a firm shake.

"And I of you."

The expression on Aubry's face sours at that and Flora can tell that Fauchelevent regrets his words immediately, instantly sure that René' has spoken of Aubry, a fact her husband seems certain of.

"And this is my mother, Violet Gagné."

"Neé Yarborough, thank you very much. I hail from America originally, Monsieur, in case the accent wasn't a bit of a giveaway."

"So your grandson has told me. A pleasure to meet you Madame… Gagné?" Valjean says, with an unsure smile of greeting.

"Violet, please, Monsieur Fauchelevent. The man who saved my grandson's life certainly deserves to call me by my first name."

"Jean then. Please come through, Enjolras, excuse me, René, is resting in the parlor at present." He says graciously, and leads the way to the parlor door.

They pause outside, and Flora presses a hand to her mother's arm. "Go on, Maman. Go and see your grandson."

She looks up at Valjean, meeting his eye. Valjean nods, and excuses himself, following Violet into the parlor.

Aubry frowns in question, arching one eyebrow and gesturing at the door.

"Because," Flora says, pausing, hesitation stemming from anxiety, not fear, edging into her voice. "I need you to let me go in first and warn René you are here."

"You didn't say that in the letter?" Aubry hisses under his breath. "Flora, why in God's name would you…"

"He's ill, Aubry," Flora cuts in, but she's not unkind. "He nearly died a few weeks ago. He's also been through quite an ordeal that we don't know any details of and I'm sure it's only added to the trauma he's already experienced. I didn't want to add to his worries."

"Worries?" Aubry protests, keeping his voice to a whisper. "I'm not a worry, I'm his father!"

"Yes. And you two have been fighting since he was fourteen years old." Flora returns, voice tight and quiet, but without judgment. "And you haven't seen him in three years, haven't spoken to him. You have to face that fact."

"I do love him Flora, surely you must know that."

"I know. I know."

"Do you?"

"Yes, darling. I've never doubted that for a moment."

"You think he won't want to see me? I...I want to see him."

"You will. Just let me tell him, all right? He wants to see you too, no matter what he says to the contrary. But the love is there between you, both of you have made that clear despite your anger. Anger which stems from your passion, and that is better than cold indifference."

"Flora," he says, his usual crisp tone so similar to his son's strangled with a mixture of frustration and desperation. "First we receive a letter from this man I've never even met…"

"I've met him," Flora interrupts, cutting him off. "He's a quality man. He saved their lives at complete risk to his own. Not to mention that he's opened his home to not just René, but all of his friends." She lowers her voice, utterly serious. "Our son was being hunted down by the police for treason and this man housed him…that is no small matter."

"And I'm thankful, but first we receive this letter from summoning us here, that he's alive but god knows what…and then the next thing I know we see this," he says, clenching the newspaper in his hand. "Declaring him dead. I just want to find out what's going on."

"That's what I mean to find out, but give me a moment and let me tell him you're here," she adds firmly.

"You are more patient than me," Aubry says, a sad fondness in his tone. "I will do as you ask, and wait."

She kisses his hand quickly before turning away, heart pounding wildly as she goes to see her son.


Enjolras is sitting in the parlor with the entire household save Madame Bellard and Touissant, who are busying themselves in the kitchen and about the house preparing for the arrival of Enjolras' mother and grandmother, when there is a knock at the front door, which Valjean himself gets up to answer. The conversation continues around him, but Enjolras' eyes flit to the doorway, straining to hear the voices coming nearer; there's Valjean's, his mother's, his grandmother's, and then…is that his father's voice he hears?

Surely not, surely he is hearing things. The Laudanum has sent him quite mad, he's certain.

"All right, Enjolras?" Courfeyrac asks from where he's made himself at home on the arm of Enjolras' chair.

"I think my father is here," Enjolras says, feeling rather as if his insides might melt in his shock.

He sees the look of surprise on his friends' faces, but there's not time for a response, because suddenly the door opens and his grandmother strides through the room, his name on her lips, Valjean following in her wake.

"René!" she exclaims, her familiar American accent less pronounced than when he was a child from all her years of living in France, but still ever present, as she dashes over to him as quickly as possible, taking a seat on the same ottoman where his leg rests. "Oh René, you are alive! Oh, we were so worried, we saw the paper as we came through Avignon." She pauses, taking his face in her hands and peppering it with kisses, and Enjolras feels his cheeks flush deep red. But he allows it, knowing how much she must have worried, and also knowing that any attempt to stop her will only make it worse.

"Hello grand-mere," he replies affectionately, warm familiarity through him at memories of his childhood and scenes so similar to this. He kisses both of her cheeks in return. He's about to ask her what paper she means, but she speaks first.

"Are you feverish?" she asks, feeling his forehead. "In pain?"

"My fever's broken," he assures her. "There's some pain, some weariness, but no more fever, no more infection."

"Are you sure? You're flushed, and ever so thin…"

"Mamé, I'm fine. I promise." He smiles and takes her hand from his head and kisses it. "Recovering, slowly but surely, under Combeferre's watch. He's become a nearly qualified physician since you saw him last. All of my friends take excellent care of me."

She nods, and wipes her eyes, smiling so completely relieved to find him not only alive, but well enough, up and about, smiling, already protesting her fussing. She'd imagined the worst, her daughter's description of his continuing fever running rampant in her imagination.

"I cannot tell you how glad I am to see you. Alive and whole, well…" she glances down at the leg propped up beside her. "Mostly."

Enjolras has the distinct impression there is a scolding somewhere in his future, she'll manage it somehow. He is granted a reprieve for the time being as his grandmother looks around at the young people gathered around them, each donning a different expression of amusement and curiosity.

"And who are all these lovely friends of yours?" she asks, glancing around the room at all of them.

As Courfeyrac is closest, still on the arm of the chair he begins with him.

"This is Courfeyrac, Grantaire, Feuilly, Marius, Cosette, Gavroche, and you've met Combeferre, of course," Enjolras answers, pointing at each of them in turn. "And everyone, this is my grandmere, Violet Gagne."

"Charmed madame," Courfeyrac says, his grin a bit like a cat's as he sees the traces of lipstick on Enjolras' face. "I'm pleased to meet you, finally."

"And I all of you, I've heard much," Violet answers as Courfeyrac kisses her hand. "Combeferre dear, it has been ages, do let me take a look at you."

Combeferre smiles, rising from his place next to Feuilly and goes over to Violet.

"Madame Gagne," he says, kissing her cheeks when she offers them. "It is wonderful to see you again. I know René's been looking forward to your arrival."

"Grand-mere, what was in the paper?" he asks, putting a gentle hand on her arm and drawing her attention back to him.

He's thwarted again when his mother enters, walking hurriedly over to him, her eyes roving over his form.

"René," she breathes, sitting on the arm of the chair Courfeyrac doesn't occupy, so now he's surrounded on all sides. He silences his need for answers for just a moment as his mother's arms wrap carefully around him, pulling his body as close as possible to her own.

She pulls back, her thumb wiping away the remainder of her mother's lipstick, a half-smile curving up on her lips. He doesn't shy away at the fussing, knowing how much she must have fretted ever since she received Valjean's letter, how much she already worried since the barricade. Since before.

"How are you darling?" she asks, surveying his face and the places she knows he's wounded, eyes darting down to the new bandage around his hand.

"Better," Enjolras replies, taking her hand when he sees it shaking. "Maman, what was in the paper? And is Père here? I thought I heard his voice in the hall."

Flora hesitates for a moment, holding his hand tighter. "He is. He was concerned for you, but I apologize, I did not say he was coming in the letter I sent Monsieur Fauchelevent because I wanted to tell you in person."

"It's all right," he tells her, because he cannot be angry, not when she knows she's been caught between the two of them for so long, wants to help heal the break between them. "But what did you find in the…"

He's cut off once more, his mouth pressing into a thin line as the man in question strides into the room.

His father.

His father whom he hasn't seen in three years.

Almost without thinking he seizes Courfeyrac's wrist from where his friend sits on the arm of his chair, holding tight to it and trying to rearrange his facial features into a less surprised expression, eyes flickering around the room at their entire household surrounding him, watching him in this exceedingly vulnerable, unexpected moment. They'd been laughing just moments before, and now the room fills with a thick, stifling tension.

He casts another glance at his mother, who looks apologetic, but nods at Aubry in an encouraging manner.

"Père," Enjolras finally says, letting go of Courfeyrac and making to rise from the chair.

"Don't get up on my behalf René," Aubry says, waving his hand, his tone not altogether unfriendly. "Sit, I know you were rather badly injured."

"I'm fine," Enjolras replies, allowing it when Courfeyrac helps him up out of the chair. He stands, but today has not been his best, and his stance, even with the cane, is unstable.

"Sit, son, just sit," Aubry says, looking very much as if he wants to touch Enjolras, but withholds.

Enjolras, for his part, suppresses a snort; 'son', he hasn't been this man's son for three years, but bites his tongue and relents, sitting back down with Courfeyrac's assistance, trying to keep the peace, trying to save his mother more strife.

"Maman didn't say in her letter you were making the journey with her," Enjolras says, relenting, heeding the inner voices telling him to remain polite, awkwardness filling him as the worlds of his chosen and blood families collide, tension between him and his father amplifying the feeling. "She only mentioned grand-mere. I wasn't…expecting you."

Sensing the awkward air, Courfeyrac speaks up.

"We'll all let you catch up, shall we?" he asks, squeezing Enjolras' forearm, a silent question of whether or not he wants them all to stay or go.

"I do believe I smell breakfast," Enjolras says, squeezing Courfeyrac's arm in return. "So you all go. We'll join you later."

Enjolras hears Courfeyrac exhale; it's clear that he doesn't want to leave Enjolras alone with this, but also doesn't want to budge in on such a reunion, wants to make this sudden uncomfortable situation as easy as possible. He squeezes Enjolras' arm as he looks up, meeting Combeferre's gaze in silent communication; they will not venture far. Marius shoots him an encouraging smile as they all exit, ushering out a very curious Gavroche. Enjolras watches his mother whisper something to Valjean, who stays seated.

"How could you not expect me?" Aubry continues once the door closes behind everyone else, direct as ever, a trait Enjolras knows he learned from this very man. "From what your mother told me you nearly died, René, and despite our estrangement, that is not something I choose to ignore. You're my son, my own flesh and blood."

Enjolras takes in a deep breath and exhales; he will do his best with this situation, will try and contain his anger and his hurt at the baggage between them. He will move forward, will appreciate the fact that his father has taken this step to mend their relationship.

But he remains wary, trying to avoid letting the defensiveness slip into his voice.

"Might you tell me what's in this paper I keep hearing about then?" Enjolras asks, polite. "I would greatly appreciate it."

Aubry's expression morphs into a scowl he almost instantly wipes away, replacing it with a neutral expression as he pulls the folded paper from his jacket pocket.

"The Paris police have declared you dead, apparently," Aubry says, half-shoving the paper into Enjolras' hands, their fingers brushing for a mere moment before his father jerks away. "And we'd like to know the details, if you please."

Enjolras feels his mother shift nervously beside him, anxious for the story of what happened, as he knows Valjean couldn't put details in the letter.

"What happened mon cher?" Flora asks, leaning closer, and glancing back at Valjean, who sits across from them, watching with a concerned but almost protective glance.

"You must tell us dear heart," Violet adds. "We have been fretting since your mother received the letter from Monsieur Fauchelevent."

Enjolras looks up at his father, who still stands near them, hands behind his back, expectant.

"Maman has told you both why we…why I had to leave Paris?"

His grandmother nods, taking his hand, eyes on his face. His father nods once, tersely, eyes fixed on the window.

"Inspector Javert," Enjolras begins, suddenly wishing his friends were here again, feeling the disturbingly familiar panic sweep over him, poking at his stomach and twisting it painfully, sending the nerves spreading through his system. He wants Combeferre's hand on his shoulder, Courfeyrac smiling encouragingly at his side. His mother is silently bewildered but still in tune with him, takes his other hand in her own, mindful of the bandage, and the feeling eases a bit.

"He somehow followed our trail," he continues, looking at Valjean as he speaks, seeing the older man's fraction of a nod, encouraging him, bolstering him. "He finally found us here about a week ago, and I was arrested. He placed me in one of the Avignon jails for the night and…" he breathes in again, scarcely able to get a decent one.

No, he tells himself. He cannot lose his nerve in front of his father. He cannot. He has gone several days without an attack of nerves, and he will not begin again now, at the very least he will not allow it until he is out of sight of his father.

"There was a woman there, a prostitute who was injured," he says, looking from Valjean and back to his father, who has an impassive expression etched onto his face, but Enjolras doesn't miss the flicker of upset glimmering within his eyes, an echo of the man he knew so well as a child, the man who taught him horsemanship, the man whose laugh rang through the room when Enjolras tackled his legs from behind, the man who showed him that thunderstorms were nothing to fear.

"And neither Javert nor local officer would call for a doctor until it was too late," he says, the memories pounding at his head like the continuous swing of a hammer. "She died. And my reaction was such that when the doctor did arrive Javert saw fit to overdose me with Laudanum."

"What?" Flora asks, voice higher-pitched than normal, clearly unable to restrain herself.

"How is it that you're sitting here and not in a prison cell?" Aubry asks, the emotionless expression broken through by fear-tinged disbelief.

"Monsieur Fauchelevent," Enjolras says simply. "He talked Javert down, even while the man threatened my life. He released me, took my blood and put it on my handkerchief as proof I was dead. That's why the cut on my hand. That's why you saw that article in the paper."

"Not that I'm ungrateful," Aubry, says, his voice the tiniest bit softer than before. "But how exactly did he see fit to release you?"

"I knew inspector Javert from my younger days," Valjean says evenly, looking at Enjolras as he speaks. "And he saw the bloodshed at the barricades. I convinced him that there need not be anymore."

"Threatened your life?" Flora questions, more concerned with this than the wherewithal of how. "What do you mean?"

"It doesn't matter, Maman," Enjolras says, wanting to spare her the hurt, unable to erase the terrified expressions on his friends' faces in that moment from his mind and not desiring another to add to his collection.

But she is insistent. "It does. I want to know. Tell me."

"He put a knife to my neck," Enjolras says, wincing as she gasps, but he cannot lie to her, cannot when she has always been so willing to understand him, to understand his passion for the cause he and his friends fight so fervently for. He does not, however, tell her of Javert's gun to his head; it isn't a vital piece of the story, and he can spare her that detail. "He wasn't quite…stable at the time."

That, Enjolras thinks to himself, is putting it lightly, but he doesn't care to burden his family with the details, and if he's honest, he does not want to think further right now on just how horrifying Javert's laugh was when he finally cracked.

"So to the world, you are a deceased man?" Aubry asks, finally sitting down on the couch next to Valjean, looking around as if he's searching for answers in thin air.

"Yes," Enjolras says, feeling as if someone has socked him the chest as he speaks.

"But you are alive," Violet says, toying with a loose strand of his hair, more subdued than he believes he's ever heard her. "And that, my dear, is what is important to us."

Aubry says nothing, and his muteness rings in the silence.

Flora glances at her husband as if willing him to speak, then looks back to Valjean.

"Thank you," she almost whispers, voice tremulous with raw, unchecked emotion. "Thank you for bringing him back to us again. I don't know what we can do to repay you."

Somehow, his mother's obvious gratitude, her love for him, along with his grandmother's palpable relief, her words that his life was enough, almost fills the hole of his father's silence.

Almost.

He wishes he didn't care about his father's feelings toward him, but the smallest part of him still does, and, he suspects, always will.

"You are most welcome," Valjean says, smiling at Enjolras. "You should know what a brave man your son is; he was almost entirely physically incapacitated by the Laudanum, by his injuries, but he stood tall in front of Javert, stood up to him even with a knife to his neck, sacrificed himself for his friends. And I think that, no matter the difficult nature of this situation, that is something of which you should be immensely proud."

Enjolras doesn't miss the pointed glance Valjean sends his father, a rare flicker of irritation flaring in his kind eyes.

"We are," Flora says, firm. "We most certainly are."

"Runs in our blood, that," Violet replies, hand resting on her grandson's knee.

Enjolras can't help but smile at these two strong women who helped make him who he is, at how much they intrinsically understand and support him.

He looks back up at his father, who is already looking at him, a deep frown pulling his lips downward, an undecipherable glitter of something Enjolras can't put his finger on swimming in his eyes. His father, though broader, is almost like a mirror reflection of himself. So outwardly similar, and yet in his mind, so inwardly different.

"Breakfast will most certainly be ready, if you'd care to join us all," Valjean says, dispelling the tension which has fallen as the elder and younger Enjolras regard each other.

Enjolras gets to his feet stiffly, glad of his mother's help but already anticipating his grandmother's tutting, but accepts both their help as they flank him and allows them to usher him into dining room. Sure enough, as soon as he is standing both begin to fuss over how much weight he has lost. Valjean follows close behind, chuckling.

Enjolras stops for a moment, allowing his mother and grandmother ahead of him as he stops in front of his father, holding out the paper to him like a placeholder peace offering. Aubry snatches the paper, glaring daggers at his son. Flora and Violet miss the moment, but Valjean, just behind Enjolras, does not. Enjolras forces himself away, turning to continue course.

His father follows in stony silence, and Enjolras' smile falters and falls as he sees his countenance.

Complete and utter disappointment.