A/N: So the reason it's taken so long to post this (despite it having been sitting, written, for like three months, on Tumblr) is because I'm much too lazy to go through it and capitalize what needs to be capitalized, so I've decided to just not capitalize and hope it's not too much of a distraction. xo, nora

he had planned for paris a spectacle the likes of which they had never before seen. this was not quite it, but for their first demonstration it was far from disappointing. enjolras had called in favours from several printers from across the city and had copies of the déclaration des droits de l'homme et du citoyenpassed out to members of the crowd.

the night before, he'd stayed up to compose and memorise a speech of admirable vigour, titled sic semper tyrannis (he always fell back on his latin when he wanted to make some grand point), detailing the lack of sustainability of a state of monarchy, the duty of government towards its weakest and most vulnerable, and about the independence movements of america, italy, poland, and several of the french colonies.

it had all the characteristics of a terrifically rousing speech, but he had forgotten very nearly all of it when he stood to speak.

still, though, while the speech he ended up giving was nowhere near as impressive, he was suitably satisfied and, by the time the police had come to break up the crowds and act like they were in the business of protecting rather than persecuting the people, his words were out in the open and 'thus ever to tyrants' hung on the lips of all, even those who did not perhaps quite understand the reference. (it was probably better they didn't.)

but if the success of government depended on the consent of the governed, so, too, did the success of the revolution depend on the support of those on whose behalf it was occurring. and if this demonstration was any indication, the people were fully on their side.

rare were the days he was perfectly satisfied (it was hard to be, when injustice and poverty were in every place one looked, when it enveloped one in its arms as if it were one's stifling, smothering mother, except that the monarchy was most definitely not enjolras' mother), but enjolras was fairly close now, fliers tucked under his right arm and tricolour draped over his left.

"you look pleased, m'sieur."

he glanced to the right to see eponine leaning against the wall of his building.

"how did you—?"

eponine dimpled in one cheek. "best not to ask, m'sieur. you mightn't like the answer very much."

"right." he fumbled with his keys, feeling extraordinarily uncomfortable and rather like one of the samples his professors required him to look at under a microscope while she regarded him unwaveringly with her dark eyes. she was a strange girl, marius' friend, and didn't seem to care much for convention. any other person would have looked away by now.

"i saw you talking today, monsieur," she said. "you like to use some awfully nice words."

enjolras smiled. "merci, mademoiselle. but i'm afraid words are only nice if people take them to heart. great speeches don't do much unless they move people to great actions."

"then perhaps you might consider using simpler ones. we're not all university students, monsieur enjolras."

"perhaps." enjolras pocketed his key and shifted his banner to the other arm so he could open the door. "is there something you wanted, mademoiselle jondrette?"

the girl worried her lips between her teeth and pushed herself off the wall and wrapped and unwrapped her arms around her frighteningly frail waist and took her merry time to consider before answering. (enjolras, like many men, did not have an unlimited store of patience, and was trying his best to stretch it to cover her reluctance. but he was far from an angel on the best of days, and the fervour of success burned in his belly and sizzled in his blood, pushing him to move, move, move because the fires of revolution needed to be stoked before they could burst into flame.)

"you said you'd teach me to read, m'sieur. or rather, to help me remember to read."

ah, yes. he had said that, hadn't he? combeferre believed that the education of the lower classes was key to their elevation and, as such, the elevation of all of society. and enjolras trusted combeferre's judgement, and took the other man's words often to heart. there was reason to it, and as a student himself, he did not doubt the importance of an education, the kind which sowed the seeds of revolution in his own mind, and would not, if he could help it, keep it from anyone.

but enjolras was a young man, and very eager and earnest in his youth, and while no one could mistake him for a romantic, even he was not immune to the charm of ascribing romance to certain situations.

say, for example, the symbolism of a young revolutionary leading the girl who so personified the country he fought for from the darkness of illiteracy to the light of education. (he was twenty-two. there were many things he knew, and even more he didn't. it was forgivable that he sometimes indulged himself in fancy, he reasoned, if the rest of the time he focused himself on the things that ought to be done.)

and he had felt rather bad for her, looking so little and so cowed but also so, so unwilling to let herself be intimidated, and he had smiled at her because she was so prideful and in that she had reminded him a little of himself.

"and i haven't forgotten, but, as you see, i've been busy."

"you aren't busy now, are you?" she crossed her arms. had she always been so pigheaded? he hadn't noticed that she was particularly intractable when she was around marius, but then, he hadn't made it his business to care about much beyond the realm of his interest, which at the moment consisted of liberté, égalité, and fraternité.

"are you always so persistent?" he asked, but without any real bite to his voice, running a free hand through his mess of curls. he could not imagine why she wished so badly to know how to read, but he was not a man to go back on his word when it was given.

"do you always break promises, m'sieur?" she asked, just as lightly.

he quirked his lips, a touch perhaps of a smirk on the corners of his mouth. "i suppose i ought to invite you in." he doubted she needed an invitation, but he felt it best to extend one regardless.

she did not deign to answer, and instead pushed herself away from the side of the building, looping around to ascend the stairs and follow him inside.

he lived in a small garret, sparsely furnished with windows that caught the morning sun and a good, sturdy desk made of good, sturdy wood and a similarly serviceable bed, and a few dried flowers sitting in vases that were only ornamental in function and not aesthetics from the last time jehan decided to chipper up the place. it was a place that his mother would have been mortified to see, devoid of any resemblance to the fashionable parlour back home.

still, it was good enough for him, if a little messy (combeferre was coolheaded, methodical; enjolras had books scattered about everywhere, but he knew where every last one was) and perhaps not as spacious as he was used to. not that he couldn't afford better quarters, he'd tell himself those days when he woke up a little claustrophobic. but father sent him reluctant money for food and clothes and books and rent, and he spent the rest of it building up a rather alarming little stockpile of weapons.

"welcome in," he said, opening the door. he watched her pick her way gingerly across the parlor, which was littered with the shells of half-completed thoughts and muddled sentences, to sit on a patch of empty floor not two inches away from a chair. she looked up expectantly at him as he closed the door and laid both his satchel and the tricolour gingerly down on the little stand.

(a few notes he tucked into the back of his mind for later, when he'd fulfilled his duties to this girl:

combeferre's theory on education and the gradual elevation of society through the informing of the masses needed to be elaborated upon and perhaps printed in a pamphlet to be passed around at their next demonstration.

were all girls so tenacious? or just this particular one?)

"you can sit on the stool, you know," he mentioned as he, too, stepped around the mess of paper on the floor.

"oh, i couldn't do that, m'sieur! chairs are very uncomfortable, you know, once you've gotten used to the hard of the pavement."

eponine was smiling, but he didn't know how he was to respond to that. "i don't have many books i expect you'd be interested in, but those i do have are yours for the picking."

there were books aplenty, though; books enough to feed the fires of half of paris for a month„ and they sat on all surfaces and were stacked in piles to form haphazard furniture, but they could be easily divided into two categories — school and political theory.

he was right in his conjecture. she shuffled through his books, picking this one up or setting that one down, and the rustling of the pages drove him nearly to distraction. enjolras forced himself to sit still, though, and suffer it, because it was likely she was not going to go away and leave him be until he'd fulfilled the terms of his hasty, well-intentioned but perhaps not well-thought-out promise. (there should have been qualifiers. modifiers. other responses. "i'd be happy to teach you as soon as the revolution is over." "i'd be happy to find someone to teach you." it wasn't as if he wasn't a busy enough man already.)

"you have no picture books," she accused, as if illustrated children's tales were a requirement for all, including young law students long out of childhood, to own.

a sly rebuke almost slipped out before he convinced himself that the less he said, the better for the both of them. instead, he watched as she carefully selected a slim volume which was gorgeously bound in red and inlaid with gold script — a selection of the essays of michel de montaigne.

"this one looks very beautiful," she decided, holding it up for his inspection.

he smiled.