"Look, kid," the stylist heaves out a sigh, pleading with Enjolras with her beady eyes. "I'm just trying to do my job. Can you stop acting like it's my fault you're here?"

Enjolras purses his lips even further, still refusing to uncross his arms from his chest. Slightly amused, he re-runs in his head the fact she'd called him kid - perhaps he is, in that moment, a bratty child. The stylist had been unable to get his measurements in lieu of his noncooperation; they'd been in the dressing room for what felt like hours.

"Aaron, isn't it?"

Enjolras juts his chin up, unable to conceal his annoyance. "Enjolras." he says automatically. He never gave out his first name lightly. Nonetheless, he was sure that it was already common knowledge - he had been the front-runner of the schoolboy rebellion, after all. Name plastered on newspapers; discussed on television shows. For a flash of a moment, Enjolras wonders if his parents have formally disowned him. Would they really let go of their only son, just like that?

"You really don't want to make this any harder for the both of us." the stylist tells him in a low voice. Her eyes flicker towards the door. Enjolras doesn't have to look to know what she's watching out for. The guards were standing by the single door in the room, both armed with instructions to shoot if Enjolras tried to run. Again.

The past few days, his attempts were futile; he'd ended up badly bruised after being manhandled on several occasions. The last time he'd attempted to escape, Javert himself had warned him that if he tried one more time, the guards wouldn't hesitate to draw blood. Enjolras wonders if it's a more heroic death - a better fate - than the bloodbath he's about to be subjected to.

Disgruntled, Enjolras uncrosses his arms. The stylist shoots him a grateful smile as she pulls her measuring tape around his torso. When they're done, the stylist grasps Enjolras by the arm before the guards can lead him away. "I hope you win." she says quietly. Something digs itself in the pit of Enjolras' stomach; he knows that this soft-spoken girl who can't be more than a few years older than him means well, but he wants to tell her that he'd rather not - rather not have anything to win, rather not be where he was in the first place. But she looks so hopeful. He gives her a closed-lip smile. "My favorite color is red." he mumbles, and the stylist looks as if she's making a mental note of it as Enjolras is dragged away.

/

Enjolras is twiddling with the cuffs of his coat when he walks up to them.

When they'd been arrested at the barricade, Javert had made sure that they would be jailed in separate facilities. Can't have another revolution forming, can we? the man had taunted as he shoved Enjolras in to his cell. As vehemently as Enjolras had demanded to see them - any of them - his pleads had fallen on deaf ears. For roughly a year, he had no idea how they were doing; which of them were still alive; whether they despised him or not - which makes his approach to the group one of the hardest things he's ever had to do. Grantaire is the one who acknowledges him.

"Look what the cat dragged in," he drawls. Enjolras notes that he's cleaned up nicely, but there's a couple of things that are distinctly Grantaire that no amount of dressing up can hide - the manic gleam in his eyes, the constant disarray of his hair. There's a bruise blossoming near his lower lip, poorly concealed with powder. Enjolras doesn't have to ask to know where it came from. "I see that you're still trying to turn red in to a fashion trend. How many times must we tell you that it's not going to work?"

Enjolras smiles weakly. His stylist had granted him his simple pleasure, sending Enjolras in to the Opening Ceremony with a red coat. "Old habits die hard." Enjolras says - his voice sounds foreign to him, resounding in the silence of the Les Amis de l'ABC. They are all staring at him with unreadable expressions, and Enjolras knows they deserve an apology, but the words stick in his throat. "It suits you." Jehan offers delicately, and some of the glass breaks - the boys reach out to give each other one-armed hugs and pats on the back. When Enjolras holds Joly, he notes how the poor boy is shaking; Enjolras could only imagine how hellish jail could be for him with his hypochondriasis. He bites back the apology when Combeferre pulls Enjolras away from the group for a moment. "Enjolras. It's good to see you." Combeferre says formally. "Likewise, 'Ferre." Enjolras replies dryly. "Although I do wish it were under different circumstances."

Combeferre laughs at that. He has a blue coat over a white polo and a red tie - the colors of France, Enjolras observes with amusement. Combeferre was far more soft-spoken than the rest of the boys, but he had his own flair. "That's a given." Combeferre shoots back. "I would love to catch up with you, but - " his eyes shift to the sentinels surrounding the back stage of their venue before glancing back at Enjolras, contrite in the very least. "It's not the right time." Enjolras finishes, and Combeferre clasps his hand on Enjolras' shoulder as a gesture of support.

"One step at a time, my friend." Combeferre assures him just as the 'host' of the event steps in to the back stage. "Show time soon!" the host - an American man by the name of Caesar Flickerman - calls out to the tributes. He is dressed impeccably. The man grants each of the boys a look - they're the only tributes assembled together - and offers them a sympathetic smile. "I'll be seeing you on stage in a few moments." Caesar announces. From somewhere in the throng of the Les Amis, someone mumbles "over my dead body"; Caesar takes this in stride, his serene smile widening slightly. "A character. I like that." he says approvingly before ducking back on to the stage.

Enjolras knows very few details about what's about to happen. Like the rest, he had received only the bare bones of Javert's announcement. A twisted way to celebrate the anniversary of the rebellion's failure. What chills Enjolras, though, is the singularity of it all. The victor will be pardoned.

Whatever arena they were going in to, Javert intended that only one of them would come out.

"That's our cue." Bossuet hisses from behind Enjolras - something Flickerman had said that Enjolras hadn't caught - and mostly by force of authority, Enjolras walks on stage with the rest of the Les Amis to the roar of the audience. He hears their jeers - "Serves you right!" "Is that where your education got you?" - and he has to close his eyes for a bit, drink it all in. It's been a while since he'd been out in the open, since he'd seen people that weren't wardens or fellow inmates - they weren't any kinder, though. And Enjolras feels, somewhere deep inside of him, that he deserves it.

Jehan is the one who weaves Enjolras through the stage. When Enjolras gathers the courage to open his eyes, he is blown away by who else he sees on stage - aside from the nine of them in the Les Amis, there's Marius Pontmercy; there's the two waitresses of the Café Musain, Matelote and Gibelote; there's Madame Houcheloup; for some reason, the crime gang Patron-Minette are present as well; and then his eyes land to a group of three huddled together, and whatever is left of Enjolras' heart aches. The Thénardier siblings cling to each other: Gavroche, Azelma and Éponine.

Both Gavroche and Azelma stare out in to the audience with expressions of amusement and disgust, and it takes a moment for Enjolras to realize that Éponine's gaze is trained elsewhere. He meets her eyes when he glances their way and he is caught off guard at her expression - she is glaring at him, equal parts furious and disbelieving, and he knows he's wronged the revolution but he has no idea how he's offended her. She doesn't look away as he stares straight back at her. Éponine Thénardier was the one who liked Marius; the girl who stuck around the Les Amis for Gavroche. She never made any pronouncements of supporting the rebellion, nor did she prevent Gavroche associating from them. Still - why was she so mad? Rather - why was she up with them, on stage, in the first place?

"Bonsoir*, France!" Caesar booms. The audience calms enough to let him speak. "May I present to you - your tributes!"

Caesar makes a grand gesture towards the row of people on stage, and the crowd begins to rumble. Enjolras breaks away from looking at Éponine to stare in to the audience. As Caesar runs through the names of who will be participating in Javert's sick game, Enjolras makes it a point to glance at their reactions.

None of the Thénardiers, nor the staff of the Musain, look pleased. The Patron-Minette are almost taunting in the way their received the jests thrown their way. But their lout is upstaged by the acknowledgements of the Les Amis, something Enjolras has to wonder if they planned beforehand -

Caesar calls for Grantaire, signaling the drunkard to do a mock curtsy. Caesar announces Feuilly, who pulls out one of his fans from the folds of his coat. (Feuilly even throws the thing in to the crowd, and it's snatched right up.) Caesar mentions Bahorel, which makes the bristly boy throw a punch in the air. Boy after boy have a little stint that represents the schoolboy side of them that Enjolras had so often overlooked, and he thinks of how he took it for granted. How hell-bent he was on his cause that he'd been so close from taking their youth away from them. It's not too late for that to happen, he thinks bitterly.

"And the last - but definitely not the least - Enjolras!"

Enjolras does not smile; nor does he curtsy, or produce anything from his pocket. Enjolras lets them jest and mock him, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. He keeps his chin up and makes sure he's not looking at anyone in the audience in particular. Jail had coated him in a thicker veneer of calm than insurgency ever could. And with his composure - as the Les Amis had learned - Enjolras is damn near unstoppable.

* Bonsoir - Good evening.