Author's Note (it's brief this time, I swear!):
Enjolras needed fleshing out (that or debauching, but I won't go there, not now). Oh, and does anyone have any more feedback on this? It's bothering me. But it's almost done, really.
Chapter 4: Firebrand
Enjolras could not help but cast a glance back at the snoring drunkard. For a moment, as his eyes skimmed Grantaire's limp body in the window above, his severe face softened, though so slightly that the change was nearly imperceptible. Thoughtfully, he narrowed his eyes, fingers flicking in contemplative agitation. Then, angry, he shook himself, sinking his nails briefly into his palm to bring himself back to the present.
His gaze shifted down, scanning the sweaty, exhilarated faces of his fellow rebels toiling beneath him. A muscle in his jaw twitched victoriously, and he blinked at the shadowy sky, shivering slightly with anticipation in the cooling twilight breeze.
"With the dawn," he breathed, fingering the omnibus flag, "Paris will throw of her yoke of oppression amidst the shambles of her people's barricades." Raising his eyebrows a bit, he looked around quickly with an almost self-conscious air.
Combeferre, standing directly beneath the crest of one of these said barricades, heard this and lifted his head. He looked serenely at Enjolras, light brown eyes glittering, gently amused, in a gaze that was both eager and placid.
Jehan, leaning against a chair beside Combeferre, glanced up as well and smiled, a bit startled at their leader's verbosity.
"Orpheus, cease your pretty verse," laughed Bossuet, coming over and elbowing Jehan companionably in the ribs with the heightened joviality of a man who has had a little too much wine. "You'll have our cobblestones weeping." He grinned lopsidedly at Enjolras.
Combeferre smiled briefly, looking back at Jehan too.
"Another warrior poet."
Jehan looked a bit miffed at the appellation of "warrior" as applied to himself, but he humored the others. "Formidable indeed."
Bossuet merely lifted an amiably dubious brow.
Enjolras, distracted, said nothing, watching a few nearby men hauling yet another table onto the blockade. Bossuet finally shrugged, realizing there would be little action in this quarter, and wandered off, but not before tilting an unreadable look up at Grantaire in the window. Combeferre placed a hand lightly on Jehan's shoulder, leaned in, and resumed a previous hushed conversation.
Their leader flexed his shoulders, reaching down to help the other men pull the table into place. They deposited it with nods of gratitude, and then went back into the wineshop for more furniture.
Bossuet lounged carelessly against a pile of barrels heaped against the nearest housefront, drumming his fingers against the damp wood. He cast an injured, rather indignant glance on the group of young men who, noticing the unused barrels, descended on his resting-place. He grimaced affably and sauntered through the wineshop door. Enjolras frowned briefly at his retreating back and then sank back into his own disquieted thoughts.
The majority of the men continued seeking more items to use on the barricade, and so Enjolras was left to struggle with his half-formed regrets alone. Why he should have them, he didn't know; his hands clenched in confused frustration.
He sighed after a bit, dropping his arm loosely to his side. And while it took him some time to compose himself, he was untouchable as ever the next time Combeferre looked casually over.
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Right, one more chapter to go…