November 11, 1940
On Rue Berjon of the eighth arrondissement, Enjolras and Courfeyrac waited.
The early evening air was cool and sent shivers up Enjolras' spine - it was either the cold or his excitement. Excitement or dread? Enjolras wasn't entirely sure. This was their first big step - and it was finally happening. Today. A real form of action against the occupation, the first one that would matter - more than open complaints and spray paint on buildings, simple annoyances to the Germans. Enjolras' pulse quickened at the thought of what they would accomplish if they succeeded; convince more citizens to answer de Gaulle's call, unite Paris' citizens against the German invaders, make them realize that Petain was in the wrong -
He knew very well what would happen if they did not succeed. But on that, he did not want to dwell.
If Enjolras entertained at least a little caution, Courfeyrac was too confident by contrast.
"Did you give the boys the right address?" Courfeyrac asked, his energy at unusual heights. He frequently removed and replaced the hat on his head, and had checked his watch four times in the past minute. His little huffs of impatience made Enjolras smile a little. When he rubbed his hands together, Enjolras briefly wondered whether it was from the cold or from nerves; he knew Courfeyrac too well to believe in his undaunted act.
"You know I did." Enjolras risked a sidelong glance at Courfeyrac, observing the abuse Courfeyrac's cherished hat was being put through. He nudged him with his elbow and reminded him, "We're ready, Courfeyrac."
Courfeyrac just nodded, his eyes scanning the mostly quiet street. Enjolras bowed his head, running through their plans once more in his head to ground himself. They were prepared. They were ready, and so were the people.
They were ready.
"There." Courfeyrac let out a breath as he inclined his head towards the figures approaching them. Enjolras raised his head and felt a little relief at the sight of their group. He couldn't help but count them in the hope that several dozen more had joined overnight.
He stifled his disappointment quickly.
They were nine all together; Enjolras saw Courfeyrac glance at him questioningly from the corner of his eye, but he stared straight ahead, determined not to waver at their small numbers. Before beginning their walk, they shared a knowing look amongst themselves, a look that held all the weight of months of hiding and planning.
We are ready.
The little group marched in steady silence to the Arc de Triomphe, their intended rioting ground. No, not a riot, Enjolras corrected himself, a peaceful demonstration. Violence had its place, and certainly would in the time to come.
Just not yet.
Along the way, Enjolras caught sight of people hurrying back from work, tired older men and housewives, the leftover people from the war. He noticed young children running circles around their tired mother, and overheard one say, "Maman, I'm still hungry."
The mother shook her head at her son, and sent him off again. Enjolras thought about all of the children and French citizens going hungry so that somewhere, some important German officer could dine in full luxury.
Not for long.
As usual, the Champs-Élysées Avenue was occupied with Germans. Laughing and talking leisurely as they loitered outside cafes, flirting outrageously with every French girl who happened to pass; they were only too comfortable in this stolen land. Their thick tongues were clumsy over their intentionally obscene French vocabulary. Enjolras caught sight of a couple of men in German uniform performing their raised arms and "Heil Hitler"'s in front of some schoolgirls crossing the streets. He felt Courfeyrac stiffen beside him, and sent him a look of warning.
They were hardly paid any attention as they marched along. They blended in well among the other university students coming in from their classes, and for a moment Enjolras let himself believe they were more than a motley group of boys fighting something so much bigger than themselves. He let himself hope they would not be alone.
At the Arc de Triomphe they stopped in front of the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, loitering a moment to face the busiest streets of the city. Here they were really in the center of all things, in one of the biggest sectors of Paris. If they couldn't reach the people from here, then it couldn't be done anywhere.
Enjolras exchanged a look with Courfeyrac, and then they took the step and there really was no going back.
They had been marching around the Arc de Triomphe for more than an hour and nothing, absolutely nothing, was coming of it. They had their calls to action to address the people, but no one stopped to listen. Parisian citizens kept their heads down and rushed away, while the few German officers around seemed to see right through them.
Enjolras didn't know which was worse; being ignored, or treated as though they didn't exist.
"Enjolras," Pierre started. The boy quailed immediately at a look from Enjolras. Courfeyrac thus generously took over for him.
"Enjolras, this is pointless."
Enjolras felt a chill pass through his body at those words coming from Courfeyrac. "After everything we've done, you're giving up for -"
"I'm not saying we should give up," Courfeyrac interrupted him impatiently. He glared at a young German officer standing a few feet away with a wide smile stretched across his face. "But this isn't working."
Enjolras said nothing, his mind wildly scrambling for a solution. He didn't have to worry for long. The German who'd been eyeing them for the past few minutes suddenly drew closer and shouted a string of curses at them in broken French. His comrades chuckled and joined in on the insults in their own language.
Enjolras shouted above their voices, doing everything to ignore the taunts and jibes which he knew wouldn't matter in the long run - they'd get what was due to them soon enough. He thought he met the eyes of a few Frenchmen over the clamoring of the Germans and was filled with hope for a full second. Three out of four turned away with guilty expressions, but one remained. Enjolras barely had time to address him before he realized that Courfeyrac was missing.
"My god -" Enjolras inhaled sharply as he turned around, searching for Courfeyrac beyond the heads of the other students. His heart pounded mercilessly in his chest, and it was then that he saw they were down to five protesters from the original nine.
"Enjolras!"
Enjolras whipped around, expecting to see Courfeyrac behind him, perfectly safe and following their original plan.
"Pierre?" Enjolras asked uneasily. "Where's Courfeyrac?" Enjolras found himself shouting to be heard over the sudden clamor of the area, and before Pierre even said anything his gaze fell upon the Germans that had been taunting them.
Courfeyrac was crowded in by two soldiers who held him between them, yelling inaudible strings of German and French sentences into his face. Enjolras watched with horror as Courfeyrac's face suddenly went from one of impatience to that of indescribable rage and fury. Courfeyrac wrenched himself free from their grasps and spat in their faces.
"German bastards!"
It all went downhill from there. The Germans were suddenly joined by more, and the chaos drew curious citizens into the crowd. Enjolras lost sight of Courfeyrac, Pierre, and the rest of the group; in an instant they were swallowed by the sea of people around them. Enjolras shouted till his voice was hoarse. He shouted, he screamed, he very nearly cried - where were his friends? Let them be safe, Enjolras thought desperately before he was shoved to the ground by the force of the crowd. He felt a kick to his side and ducked his head just in time to avoid damage to his head by a confused woman and her husband. Despair settled in his chest as he realized he couldn't get up in the midst of this stampede of people shoving and yelling.
That was when he heard the first of the gunshots. They were in the midst of a storm.
This was supposed to be peaceful, the voice in Enjolras' head said desperately. Enjolras could almost hear the quiet frustration of Combeferre. Was it worth it?
And suddenly Enjolras was being swept along the tide of people, his hand tightly clasped in another's, and for one brief moment he could have laughed with relief as he thought, Courfeyrac. But it wasn't Courfeyrac's, this hand was large and rough and calloused - the person attached to it dragged Enjolras through the darkening streets. Several times Enjolras nearly stumbled, and he tried unsuccessfully to make out the face of his rescuer.
At the first quiet street the man abruptly stopped, scanning the area, and Enjolras finally had the chance to look at him. Gigantic, brawny, and browned, with a full dark moustache. After a moment of scrutiny he recognized him as the man who had stayed to watch the demonstration.
In what Enjolras could only describe as the most unexpected course of action, the man looked at him and flashed him a wide smile that somehow reminded Enjolras of a tiger's grin. "You're welcome."
Enjolras stared at him coolly. There were so many questions he knew he needed to ask, but his mind still whirled with the events of the past few minutes and this new situation - whatever this was. It took all of his strength to muster the will to respond as his mind tried to organize his thoughts coherently.
"For what, exactly?"
The man laughed and shook his head. "Saving your ass, for one." He walked a few paces off to a nondescript inn, which Enjolras guessed had been the intended destination. He looked at Enjolras, gesturing for him to follow. Enjolras remained where he was, conflicted and unsure.
"Who are you?" Enjolras asked, if purely for the sake of stalling. Every cell in his brain was screaming at him to go back and find Courfeyrac and the others, to stand his ground in the fight no matter what the consequences were - but then there was this man, who could prove to either be on their side or extremely dangerous.
"Bahorel," the man said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"You helped me," Enjolras said. He hesitated before continuing, "I saw you at the demonstration."
Bahorel nodded, letting out a little huff of impatience as he seemed to realize Enjolras was not going to trust him yet. "It's stupid to stay outside. German patrols will be out soon, and they'll have heard about what's happening."
"I need to go back to help my friends," Enjolras said, still torn.
Bahorel shook his head. "I saw them get away. The Germans are just getting the people under control now - that's what the gunshots were. They're just scaring people away now."
Enjolras let out a breath of relief, and for the first time in hours the worry of what was going to happen to them finally lifted at Bahorel's words.
"My name is Enjolras," he offered as he finally followed Bahorel into the inn together. It must have been the darkest place in Paris - the windows were so dingy and dirty not a speck of the day's remaining sunlight shone through, and the lights flickered on and off in the room. But it was quiet and mostly empty, and Enjolras felt a wave of calm wash over him at the sudden peace.
"What are we doing here?"
"I like it here," Bahorel declared. "We don't have to worry about spies or German ears here, either." The look that he gave Enjolras seemed to be challenging him, and Enjolras held his intense gaze another moment before breaking into a small smile.
Enjolras hummed a little in agreement at that. "Now really, who are you?"
"Someone who hates the Germans and wants to do something about it, same as you."
Enjolras was a little taken aback by his openness - he hadn't heard any such rebelliousness from someone outside their small Resistance cell for months.
"So you want to join us?" Enjolras asked, understanding finally dawning on him.
Bahorel nodded with that same intimidating smile. Just then, his attention was taken up by the inn owner who had suddenly materialized, and Enjolras waited as he ordered some coffee.
"Coffee here will be the same as our own rations," Enjolras said in amusement.
"Chicory," Bahorel muttered in disgust. Then he shrugged. "Better than nothing." A sudden fire appeared in his eyes. "Actually, no, it's not. None of this is. Better to be free and starving than groveling for German scraps."
Enjolras nodded with satisfaction, feeling a small rush of excitement at Bahorel's words. They had succeeded, then; one new recruit to the Resistance made all the difference.
Enjolras glanced at his watch, and saw that it was only an hour till curfew. "I need to go make sure everything's alright with the others." A sudden thought occurred to him. "I can't stay at my apartment tonight - when Jean-Claude forged those ration tickets last week they searched his house that same night."
"Stay with me," Bahorel said with a beam. "Jean-Claude was lucky enough to get off with a few nights in jail, but I doubt you'd be with all the glorious chaos you've caused." He laughed loudly at that, and Enjolras frowned.
"I have to know my friends are alright. If they really are, like you said, they'll be waiting at Courfeyrac's apartment."
Bahorel nodded and jumped up from his seat in time to get his so-called coffee from the hands of the startled inn owner. Downing the thick black concoction in a flash, he pulled Enjolras to his feet and grasped his shoulder in his strong hand. "Let's go, then."
It had been dark for a while by the time they reached Courfeyrac's place. Enjolras and Bahorel had avoided the Champs-Élysées route in case there was still German activity there, but Enjolras had felt his curiosity gnaw at him all the same for it as they crossed by a different street. Was Paris disturbed by their actions? Would the people remember this day, or did most not even realize what had happened at all?
Paris was quiet now, with most everybody shut back up in their homes to wait for the next day to come. The streets were nearly pitch-black, another benefit to German occupation: electricity conservation. Enjolras' heart stopped for a beat upon seeing Courfeyrac's door open.
Pushing ahead of Bahorel, Enjolras crossed the remaining length of the hall and stepped inside Courfeyrac's apartment. It was empty and dark, and there was no evidence Courfeyrac had ever returned at all.
"What the hell -"
Enjolras whirled around at Bahorel's shout and nearly fell at the sight of Pierre blinking up at him from a chair in the dark.
As Bahorel flicked a lighter on, Pierre squinted and rose from the chair, shaking as he did so. Enjolras put an arm out to steady him, even with his heart beating so loudly he felt it in his ears.
"Pierre, what happened?"
The boy opened his mouth, but clearly struggled to speak. Enjolras led him to one of Courfeyrac's overindulgent comfortable armchairs, where Pierre sat and buried his face in his hands. Enjolras and Bahorel exchanged looks of awkwardness until Bahorel tentatively placed a huge hand on Pierre's shoulder.
"Talk," he ordered.
Pierre finally looked up and met Enjolras' eyes. Enjolras was suddenly afraid he wouldn't be able to take whatever had happened.
"Everyone's safe, they got out alright," Pierre said. "I came here to wait for you to tell you."
Enjolras sighed, unable to keep the annoyance at Pierre's dramatics from creeping into his voice. "What's wrong, then?"
Pierre shook his head and stared down at his hands. "No one knows what's happened, but - Courfeyrac's missing."
A/N: I don't actually know what happened in the student demonstration of 1940; there's a memorial plaque in the Arc de Triomphe for the students, but no record of whether it was a violent protest or whether anyone was killed. For the story's sake, this is where we're going with it. :)