Disclaimer: These characters and the city they inhabit do not belong to me, as the boys belong to Master Hugo (and may he forever be remembered as the great writer and creator that he is) and the city of Paris belongs to France and all of its citizens. That's all that there really is to say on this matter.
A/N: I lied, and I am terribly sorry for my deception. I stated previously that I may or may not continue writing, but that it would at least be a while before my next story was posted (if I posted again). However, the muses had other plans, and not two days after I hadposted my first story, this fic was begun. Therefore, it is now here after about two-and-a-half solid weeks (I probably should have spent more time on it… that's really not enough of a wait between planning and posting. Sorry about the resulting lack of quality) of writing and rewriting (as I am never happy with my work). I'm somewhat alright with the descriptions (even though they are in excess in this tale), but am not a fan of the dialogue (which rather defeats the purpose of the fic). I'm also not quite sure how in-character the subjects are (this is my first time writing in third person and having multiple characters, so I'm really none to judge). Thus, I don't really know if the story is that good. So I leave the decision about the fic's quality up to you. PLEASE DO NOT HOLD BACK CRITICISM (it is much needed and appreciated). There. I have said my piece, and can only ask that you review (mon dieu, I need to make these things shorter).
The Devils of Confrontation
Combeferre does not understand him.
He does not understand how Enjolras, whose seemingly single goal in life is to ease all of the suffering in Paris, can fathom that he is beyond the needs of men. He cannot grasp why the distant leader appears to believe that he requires no aid, no help, from his fellows. The man's apparent need for solitude, for the strains that result from isolation, puzzle the philosopher. Combeferre suspects that it is due to a lack of trust. He does not doubt that Enjolras trusts him (at least a little); what confuses him is the man's obvious lack of ability to place faith in others when affairs that matter to him are concerned. Combeferre has watched the other revolutionary turn away from help numerous times, each occasion visibly adding to the weight carried on his friend's already breaking shoulders. Today has been no different, and the scholar is highly worried for Enjolras's wellbeing. Unable to do anything at the present time, Combeferre sits back and examines his comrade inquisitively, searchingly, as if looking for an answer buried behind impassive features and exhausted eyes.
It is now much later, long after all other customers had deserted the premises, resulting in a very quiet, very vacant café. The meeting had ended several hours before, leaving only the philosopher at one table, the statue somewhere on the opposite side of the small room, and an unconscious drunkard asleep in the corner. The scholar is still watching the young leader, noting with concern and vague amusement how the latter has fallen asleep over the work he has toiled on all night long. A few moments crawl by before Enjolras jolts awake, in that manner known to all who exist on the little rest that can be gained from sleep which comes not from will, but rather from sheer exhaustion. He stretches and stands, pulling the various books and papers strewn across the table surface into a jumbled, disorganized pile. Gathering the items into his arms, he walks out the door, abandoning the café and its few inhabitants. Combeferre, noticing these actions, stands quickly and follows closely behind, leaving the building devoid of all life save the presence of the slumbering inebriate currently lost to the world.
The night is brisk, with a chill in the air and a semi-frigid wind blowing in from the east. Combeferre pulls the coat hanging around his shoulders closer, trying to capture what little warmth still remains within the confines of its many folds. Quickening his pace, he trails Enjolras through the silent streets, their footsteps echoing off of the walls of empty shops and the dark windows of quiet houses. After a few minutes of this noiseless march, he draws up to the leader's side.
"Good evening," the philosopher murmurs softly. He is answered a few seconds later with an identical greeting spoken in a brusque tone. Silence looms between them once more as they make their way through Paris's derelict streets. It is a few moments before Combeferre speaks again.
"Enjolras, we need to talk." The statement drops into the cool night air, shattering the taught silence hovering between the pair. Enjolras does not slow his hasty pace as he responds.
"About what?" the addressed queries, his voice still curt and slightly agitated.
"About exactly what you think you're doing! Why don't you ever allow anyone to help you? Mon dieu, are you trying to kill yourself?" Combeferre's voice explodes into the darkness, permanently erasing the previous quiet of the night. Enjolras stops short, his shoulders tense, visibly bristling against his friend's frustrated words. He turns to face the scholar, a mixture of anger and bitterness written across his visage.
"I can't," he says, the icy statement barely more than a whisper.
"What do you mean? Of course you can! It's really quite simple," Combeferre replies almost instantly, sarcasm lacing his already sharp words. Enjolras simply stares at him, his face empty of all emotion but for a peculiar gleam in his eyes.
"I can't," he repeats in a voice just as cold and low as before. Combeferre prompts him again.
"Why not, then?"
A moment's pause. Finally, a shakily whispered line escapes from Enjolras's lips.
"They won't let me."
Combeferre blinks, disconcerted by the content of the words and the tortured tone in which the reply is delivered.
"What do you mean?"
There is no response. The philosopher looks once more at Enjolras and is somewhat startled by what he sees. The younger man is trembling slightly and staring straight ahead, eyes wide, a haunted expression painted across his face. Following his unwavering gaze, Combeferre turns and sees a gamine, probably of about seven or eight years of age. Her tattered clothes, draped loosely about her small frame, stir slightly as the wind blows through their many holes. She stares back at Enjolras, her eyes bright and gleaming with hunger, pain, and an almost imperceptible amount of fear. Slowly, she steps back, still peering at the revolutionary and his friend, until she vanishes once more into the darkness from whence she came and there is nothing but the flickering glow of the streetlamp in the place where she previously stood.
Enjolras starts, as if from a trance, and glances around. His gaze finally comes to rest on Combeferre, who is looking up at him, eyes filled with a mixture of worry, confusion, and concern.
"Enjolras…" Combeferre says warily. "What just happened?"
"It was nothing," the leader mumbles, refusing to look his companion in the eyes.
The philosopher sighs, already realizing that the battle he is fighting is a losing one. Still, he persists.
"It most certainly was not nothing. Dieu, you looked like you were having a seizure! You can't keep putting all this pressure on yourself. First you're falling asleep over your work, then you're whispering about this mysterious 'they,' and now you're staring at a little girl as though she's the very devil himself! And you expect me to believe there's nothing wrong?"
"It's nothing that you would understand."
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Enjolras sends an irritated glare at him, the turmoil in his eyes speaking louder than words ever could. "It means that it is none of your concern, and therefore not your affair in which to meddle."
"But–"
"No, Combeferre," Enjolras cuts him off. "I am not going to tell you. It is my own burden, however troublesome and straining it may be. It is a boon as well, and I alone shall bare it, lest it lose its rare benefits." He turns away and begins to resume his journey down the dark avenue.
"I don't understand," Combeferre calls after his retreating figure. Enjolras stops and turns so that the philosopher is visible.
"Pain, Combeferre. My entire world is pain." The reply is as harsh and cold as the man who uttered it. For a brief moment, the gazes of the two students bore into each other, one anxious and bewildered, the other glacial and containing traces of nearly vanquished fear. Their eyes are locked for no more than a few seconds before Enjolras takes one step back and turns on his heel. He strides down the street, his footsteps once more reverberating off of the walls of the vacant buildings that line the path. Combeferre mutely watches him go, the blonde's last statement perplexing him to no end. Once his friend rounds a corner and vanishes from sight, the philosopher sighs and shakes his head sadly. Slowly, he begins the trudge through the various allies and assorted boulevards that form the route back to his flat. Tonight, the scholar realizes, has helped him make no progress in comprehending the enigma that is Enjolras.
No, Combeferre does not understand him, and it is doubtful that he ever will.