Stitch by stitch I tear apart
If brokenness is a form of art
Surely this must be my masterpiece
I'm losing my mind. The sentiment was a reoccurring one for Enjolras in the days that followed.
While Cosette was busy planning their grand dinner party with Guillaume, Enjolras sat in his study, unable to write, unable to think. Occasionally, he'd reach for a book from the stack of literature on his desk, but the words seemed to swim on the page, his eyes struggling to make sense of the paragraphs.
And then there was that dastardly kitten who had chosen Enjolras' lap as his most favoured spot for napping. More often than not, Enjolras found himself staring sullenly at the piles of books and papers on his desk, grudgingly petting the purring creature that was Cosette's pride and joy.
She'd named the kitten Apollo, perhaps due to his golden fur. Enjolras thought the name ridiculous. One did not name an animal after a Greek god, for heaven's sake. The fact that Cosette doted over this once scrawny, now fattened cat like it was a child of her own was also ridiculous.
An image came to him then, of Cosette leaning over a crib to pick up a cooing baby into her arms. Cradling the child, she turned toward Enjolras and he could see that the baby had golden curls atop his head, eyes a familiar, piercing blue.
"Would you like papa to hold you now?" She said to the child.
Enjolras bolted upright in his chair, the unbidden vision jolting him awake. Apollo hissed and scrambled off his lap. He rubbed a hand over his tired eyes. He must've dozed off without realizing it.
The dinner party was taking place a week from now. He should be preparing, putting together ideas, not wasting his time slumbering or filling his head with strange thoughts of…domesticity.
The delegates were coming, the revolution continued on.
He leaned forward, grabbing a quill and dipping it's point into an ink pot. His hand hovered over the empty page before him.
The picture of the blonde-haired, blue-eyed child flashed before him once more, as if emblazoned in his mind.
He dropped his quill, ink splattering onto the page, his heart racing.
Perhaps he should call for a physician after all.
An open book, with a torn-out page
And my inks run out
I want to love you but I don't know how
"You're rather solemn tonight." Cosette pointed out during their dinner that evening. She glanced up at him from across the table. "Well, more so than usual I should say. Is everything alright?"
Enjolras gave a nod but said nothing in response. She was right, of course. In fact, he was determinately solemn. He'd come to the conclusion that all this inability to concentrate was directly correlated with Cosette. She was a distraction.
He remembered the night she came into his study and told him he seemed tense. Remembered her fingers sliding into his hair. Your presence is a distraction. He'd told her those very words then, hadn't he? Eager for her to leave. Secretly praying she would stay…
He shook his head, clearing his mind of the memory.
The less words exchanged and the less interactions with each other the better, he assured himself.
There was so much work to be done. He had a whole career to plan. He couldn't afford to waste his time acting like some besotted fool. Heavens, he was reminding himself too much of Pontmercy these days.
The memory of his dead friend soured his appetite.
"I think I'll retire early." He announced. "Good night."
He got up from the table, gave a quick bow whilst deliberately avoiding Cosette's gaze, and exited the room.
Pitch black, pale blue
These wild oceans shake what's left of me loose
Just to hear me cry mercy
With the strong wind at my back
I'll lift up the only sail that I have
This tired white flag
His friends waited for him that night. Their haunting songs filled his dreams. The clinking of glasses, the popping of champagne bottles. Gavroche's boyish laughter. And when he walked those cobblestone streets, everything looked exactly like it had that fateful night. He could smell the gunpowder, the sulfur in the air. Could feel the drizzle of rain atop his head. Could hear splashes as he stepped into puddles. Only, when he looked down, it was blood pooling under his feet, not rainwater.
This was how the dream would always begin to end and he could do nothing to stop what happened next. He'd just stand there in horror, watching as the pools of blood on the cobblestone street turned into red streams, rising higher, higher. When the stream would reach his calves, he would look around for something to grab onto. Soon, it would climb as high as his stomach and he'd be forced to wade through the thick blood, looking around in desperation, crying out for someone to help him. The river would get to his neck and, sometimes, the panicking thought of choking on the blood would be enough to wake him. He'd jolt awake in his bed, covered in a cold sweat, coughing and gasping.
Other nights, the river of blood climbed high above his head and he sank down, down, down into it's murky depths. The limp bodies of the Les Amis floated beside him. He begged God to have mercy and let him join his friends in the sweet escape of death. He'd feel his heart beats skipping, his pulse slowing, and would use his last breaths to pray for the end.
On those nights, he'd wake up to his pillow drenched in tears and stay up the rest of the night weeping.
(Quick note of thanks to everyone who's followed along as I've brought this story back from the dead. Your reviews have inspired to me finish what I started years ago and I so love reading all your responses!)