Chapter 1: Seeing Ourselves as Strangers
Chapter Text
We talk about the whys and wherefore
Do we really care at all?
Talk about the frailty of words
Is rarely meaningful
- “Bored Teenagers”, The Adverts
Wednesday 3rd April, 2024
The time was long past midnight and Enjolras was wide awake. He was wracked with a fervent energy that danced inside his legs and arched like static over. His eyes hurt from staring at the screen, but looking up at his bare white wall had drifters float across his vision, so he kept his head down.
His fingers were beginning to ache as they dashed across his keyboard, scrolling down the news sites, and recording the headlines of the day in a separate document.
“... seven aid workers killed in Israeli drone strike…”
Click.
“North Korea fires ballistic missile into the Sea of Japan… “
Click.
“The highest court in Uganda has upheld legislation which prescribes the death penalty for certain homosexual acts. Activists in the UK call on the government to -”
Enjolras closed his laptop as quietly as he could, having the presence of mind not to slam it in his frustration, turned the music in his headphones up, and continued planning for the Les Amis meeting tomorrow evening.
With more time to burn, he would have gone on to draft arguments and counter-arguments for each of the debates he had proposed, but the clock in the corner of his increasingly blurry vision read 03:14, the world beyond his window was black with the late hour, and his alarm was set for 6am. In the morning he'd be back at school. Back to seeing his friends daily, back to teachers with attention to spare, to Les Amis, to Model UN, to more of the world than these four walls.
So with his head still swimming, he clicked his light off, packed his laptop under his bed and his notebook under his pillow, and climbed under the covers, all silently, so he wouldn't wake his family.
As usual the first minutes of Enjolras’ attempts to sleep were distracted. His mind didn’t turn off just because the light had. He tried to drown out the rushing mix of guilt and giddiness that swelled over his decision to sleep when so many in the world could not rest as he was choosing to, or enjoy the education he was about to. He bit his lip against the feeling and willed oblivion to come quicker.
The narrow corridors at Abbingdon College - Abbey’s - were predictably loud, and Enjolras had to march through the sea of blue blazers with some force to make any progress, mentally reviewing his timetable as he went. Lesson 1: French, Lesson 2: library duty, Lesson 3&4: Politics -
“Chief, we’re over here!”
Courfeyrac’s familiarly loud voice echoed down the wood panelled corridors, interrupting his train of thought.
“Did we not have a conversation about not calling me that? I could have sworn we did,” said Enjolras, unimpressed, ducking under the staircase to the nook his friends had gathered in, sidestepping Courfeyrac’s outstretched arms as he did so.
However, in trying to escape his friend’s overly clingy greeting, he was similarly accosted from behind as Combeferre, who seemed to have melted out of the crowds, grabbed him by his satchel and twirled him by the bag strap until he fell onto the same saggy blue sofa that Courfeyrac had planted himself. Peering over heart shaped glasses, he was laughing giddily at his boyfriend’s tricks.
“Well,” Courfeyrac smirked drawing the word out, “If you will insist on us calling you absolutely nothing then-”
“I don’t insist at all! In fact, you’re the one who-”, Enjolras cut in
“- I’m within my rights as the man who has put up with you for the longest -”
“Hey!”
“- who insists on -”
“ - second longest, sorry ‘Ferre, within my rights to address you-” Courfeyrac continued on speaking over his friend with an increasingly wide grin.
“- who insists on calling me that when I’ve said ‘Enjolras’ is a perfectly acceptable name, and I’m fine with being addressed that way.” Enjolras finished his sentence in a rush, almost shouting down Courfeyrac at this point.
The other two boys sat with him in the sofa nook under the maths department stairs both looked at each other and snorted with laughter. At this point, Combeferre silently offered over a half-full bag of mints to Enjolras, who took one knowing it to be a condition of peace. It was good to see them again, having missed them over the two week break that they took to go back to their families. After the way the holidays had made him feel - exposed, confined, unsettled in his own skin to more than the usual degree - it was greatly reassuring to come back and bicker with his best mates. The argument was not truly an argument, it wasn’t even as invigorating as the most friendly, unserious debates they’d had together in Model UN. Courfeyrac’s indelicately delicate question didn’t truly irritate him. It was a reminder of consistency.
“And in another two weeks, that hasn’t changed. Clearly.” Combeferre, in contrast, was delicately indelicate. Enjolras sighed in only half-jested frustration, before leaning back into the sofa and raising an exasperated eyebrow to indulge his friends.
“No, you hypocritical sods, I haven’t chosen a name yet, again, not that I see why I need to just yet when the teachers don’t use it and we’re all so happy calling you two by your surnames. I’ll get round to it, you know I will.” Privately, Enjolras was less confident than he had voiced, but there was no need to share that with his overbearing friends.
“But Enjy,” Courfeyrac whined petulantly, with a playful pout “we chose to use our surnames to honour our fraught history fighting xenophobia! We’re reclaiming them! It’s an act of resistance! Surely you, leader of our noble cult, champion of the people, fighter of the g-mfff,”
At this point, Combeferre swooped down and kissed Courfeyrac soundly on the lips to shut him up, for which Enjolras smiled at him gratefully. Since the offset of their official romantic relationship (not that he thought the distinction was especially important) this had been his favourite development. It had proved an incredibly useful power for one of their number to possess, and Combeferre was safely his favourite friend now.
“What he’s trying and failing to say, I believe, is that you can pick a completely pronounceable name, y’know, and we’re in wholly different circumstances, so the point doesn’t stand. Most people actually have a first name.” Enjolras made a mental correction then - Combeferre was a traitor. “Oh and speaking of, Jean, and Cosette! How are you?”
Enj had swivelled around on the sofa as Combeferre had sat up to address this over his shoulder. Sure enough, as the corridor cleared, he saw the others bounding towards him. Cosette was intercepted first by Courfeyrac who picked her up and spun her so enthusiastically that both of their sunglasses fell off, and so Enjolras said his first greetings to Jehan, who blew a kiss at him over Combeferre’s shoulder as they hugged. Once the group were settled, the conversation picked up again, Courfeyrac leaning over to Cosette.
“So Enj here thinks that having a first name is pointless,”
“Oh, bugger off, still? More courage of conviction than any bloke I know, and somehow the most indecisive too.”
“Objection! I said first there’s no point when teachers won’t use it, and secondly, most of you go by our surnames anyway!” cut in Enjolras, annoyed.
“Well then ‘firstly’, teachers don’t matter as much as your friends who want something to call you, and secondly, it cannot be most of us. Seriously?” asked Courfeyrac from his perch in Combeferre’s lap. They swore it was to save seats but Enjolras had seen them like this in an empty cinema.
“No, Enj might have a point,” said Cosette from his left, “most of you do go by your surnames. Most at Abbey’s except me and Jehan. And then all the other ABC regulars except Eponine.”
“Ok, you’ve lost me on the maths entirely Cos,” said Jehan after a brief pause. They took a moment to check the time, and then started counting on their fingers.
“Right we’ll be here until lunch if we let Jehan try and count anything, and we’ve all got to run for first lesson in about 3 minutes, so let the maths student sum it up for you,” Courfeyrac said while repacking his backpack. “And by my count only three of us go by our surnames. ‘Ferre and I, and Feuilly. But all that means shit because, Enjolras, my point isn’t that you need to be called by your first name, just that you should probably have one.”
“Point of objection, I believe Baz and Boss both are names derived from their surname,” Enjolras shot back without pause.
There was uproar at this and the debate continued in quiet chatter as they walked to class. The main points of contention were if Baz was a first name like Baz Lurhman or if it was actually derivative of his surname and if it was derivative of his surname did it count or not against him. Enjolras couldn’t help but feel glad that the conversation had moved on with such ease, and he smiled privately at the success of the deflection as they all peeled off to class with a reminder to show up to the Model UN meeting tomorrow lunchtime.
------
After French class, Enjolras sat down in the toilet cubicle with a silent sigh, switching on his music, running a frustrated hand across his face. The first lesson of term had been such a pointed reminder of what he didn't like about school. He loved his friends, he was grateful for a good education, he did well in his classes. But it grated on him. The pompous teachers. The dickhead classmates. The fact that none of the Amis were in his class. Hearing the wrong fucking name and going to the wrong fucking bathroom and all the stupid sexist comments.
It was times like this he worried Les Amis didn't do enough. That the debate practice, theoretical conversation, and local-news-friendly volunteer work and charity drives overseen by the local librarian weren't actually creating the change he wanted to. But he forced himself to stop thinking that way. They'd struggled a lot even for this, and he was proud of his hard won slice of freedom.
Enjolras looked over at the wall. Interestingly, there was some new graffiti there. Black Sharpie reading “TRANS KIDS RUN THIS SCHOOL”
With a smile, he uncapped his Sharpie and wrote his reply. “FUCK YEAH WE DO!”
He just had to make it another night, then he could go to the weekly meeting, and everything would be alright again. He could be cool, collected, driven, intelligent Enjolras, who commanded the attention of the room, was effortlessly professional, and never got caught out. The perfect activist with just enough good humour for friends and strangers in equal measure to stick around. And that would restore the balance of the week. Easy as.
-----
At 5pm the next evening, Enjolras entered the Les Amis meeting in the local library feeling considerably buoyed. The MUN debate at lunchtime had raised his blood in that dizzying heat leaving him electrified for the rest of the day, carrying him through to the doors that his friends were on the other side of. While MUN was a serious association to hone his debating and diplomacy skills, and could at times be very frustrating, he did get a kick out of the whip fast dialogues that emerged during it. Les Amis, though, was by far the highlight of his week - far above any of his inter-curricular academic commitments.
Monday’s Debate Club and Model UN were enjoyable: satisfying in the same way achieving an exceptional grade or a much detested public figure getting their comeuppance could be. But Enjolras harboured no naive belief that the outcomes of those were anything more than padding his university application and keeping his mind sharp and tongue sharper.
Les Amis group meetings however were satisfying in a way that gave him a warm sort of exhilaration. Satiating rather than simply sustaining. Accomplishment in lifting others up rather than putting them down. Obviously, it was pleasing to have a reliable standing date with his closest friends, but their status as a local queer-run activist group let Enjolras actually feel as though he was making a difference. On days when his blood burned and his chest ached with a rage that popped behind his eyes Les Amis was the glow of the sun at dawn; a crepuscular hope in the dark of his mind. The fan to the fire of his revolutionary fervour.
“Jehan what in the name of our lord and saviour Karl Marx did you just say?”
Not that it was always that serious.
“Courf I think referring to Marx as a noble and deifying him all in one sentence is some kind of blasphemy,”
“Not to mention Enj would kill you if - oh hey Enj! - will kill you now he’s heard that.”
As everyone stood or turned to greet him he inhaled slowly, catching the taste of old books and cleaning products on his tongue, and tried to school his twitching grin back into an expression of mild exasperation as he took his seat. It was good to be back.
“First order of business,” he began as he slung his jacket off and pulled out his notebook, “is that Jehan and Feuilly are entirely right Courf - there are no idols in punk and Marx would roll over in his grave if he heard that. But I suppose, given our enduring friendship you’re forgiven.” A small ripple of laughter crossed the room, and Enjolras took the chance to look for new faces across the room. He recognised ten people here: eight regulars, two who dipped in and out. There were three he didn't recognise, which was nice to see. Rounding out the group were the two ladies sat at the back - one councilwoman and one librarian - who technically ran their group, if anyone were to ask.
“Second order of business is the announcements which are as follows: The darts - Grantaire could you stop that, this is serious,” he bit out in frustration in the direction of the sound of someone tapping a drumroll on the table.
Looking up from his notebook he saw, as expected, his greatest frustration staring back at him with an insincere apologetic expression on his pale face and mirth dancing in his bloodshot eyes. Greatest frustration was an exaggeration, strictly speaking, and he probably shouldn’t put him in the same category as the real problems of the world, even in his own head.
“Yes Captain, of course Captain!” Grantaire called back with a little salute that just came off as mocking.
Jehan laughed at this. Traitor.
“Anyways,” he raised his voice and drew the word out, “announcements are as follows: Darts player Noa-Lynn van Leuven has faced discrimination from team mates who refuse to play alongside her due to her being trans and our thoughts are of course with her.” Here he paused for some murmured grumbles.
“Last announcement is that the theme of this month’s volunteer project is eco activism so any suggestions you have over this week should be texted to the group chat.”
“Now,” he continued after taking a sip of water, “next order of business is this month’s practice debate, and I think I posted our choices as a poll, so Combeferre could you tell me what the will of the majority is, thank you.”
The ruling turned out to be “proportional representation makes for a better voting system” was the chosen motion, and with that the room sprang into action.
----
Some ten minutes later, they were switching onto their last partners in the debate carousel and he had found himself paired off against Grantaire, a situation that reliably proved catastrophic. With Grantaire arguing for the motion, he’d hoped he might be able to maintain some amount of professionalism, but as usual, the other boy managed to rip up his expectations. They’d pitched the standard arguments at each other for all of twenty seconds before the inevitable began.
“The real question is why vote at all?” Grantaire drawled lazily, leaning over the back of his chair.
“That’s not the motion Grantaire, can you not -” he muttered, counting down from ten in his head.
“Why does the voting system even matter if the principle is a load of crap?”
He was smirking at him now.
“Grantaire, that's still not helpful.” Enjolras was breathing in and out through his nose sharply at the shine in Grantaire’s eyes. Even to look at him was so infuriating that his skin felt like fire was licking at it from within.
“But Chief,” started Grantaire, with mirth twisting his mouth and a counterfeit expression of confused innocence across his face, “you’re the one who says voting can’t achieve meaningful change and if it had any real power it would be illegal. So really I’m just agreeing with you. Thanks to your advice, I feel confident in my decision to abstain from voting in the future.”
“That was not the point I was making and you know it! Voting is not and should never be the primary tool of societal change but it is a form of harm reduction! It is the difference between having representation or not, between a government that will legislate your rights away unchallenged and one that won’t! And you know that and I know you know that from how much of your time you spend ‘paying attention’ to me! Why are you even participating in the debate if you were just going to piss about? Why are you even here if you don’t give two shits about our politics? Why don’t you just go do what I know you want to, and stop coming here, go back to your day-drinking because no one is fucking forcing you-”
Courf’s shout accompanied a hand to his elbow, an attempt to soothe him, placate him, render him docile like he was some feral thing and not a person making a very reasonable point. He was just ready to throw the hand off and start on him, when Cosette stepped between him and Grantaire, and the tension died. The haze of red cleared from his eyes and to his humiliation, he realised everyone was silently staring at him. Like he'd bared his teeth, gone for the throat, and now was standing there with the blood dripping uselessly from his mouth.
Over Cosette’s shoulder he took in the sight of Grantaire’s face. Gone was the teasing smirk and the light in his eyes, and instead his face was stony, mouth slightly open like someone had slapped him. Enjolras felt waves of shame rising in his throat, but couldn’t make his tongue spit the apology. Instead, he nodded awkwardly at Grantaire, and returned to his notes while Combeferre started busying around the room again and Jehan made a joke to diffuse the tension.
The next few hours passed in a blur, and when the time came to leave he still felt vaguely detached from himself. Only when Cosette’s father pulled up to collect her and give him a lift home did he feel as though he could fully shake off the veil of wool smothering his thoughts.
In the car ride home, Cosette leaned over the back seat to talk to him, a disapproving frown on her angelic face. He was a bit put-out at that. It wasn't like he was wholly unjustified. He went to Les Amis to play approachable, in-control Enjolras, and Grantaire being a prick was a systemic threat to the structure of that mask.
“Enj, you know you messed up there? With R?”
He took a deep breath in and cleared his throat.
“Yes, Cos, in fact I do. It was unprofessional, bad debate conduct, and I shouldn’t have risen to the bait. I won’t do that again, I promise you, I’m trying to be a less abrasive presence.”
“Debate cond- Enj, I meant how you treat him! It’s pretty cold of you.”
“Well then we’re equal. You know I’m not actually kicking him out of the group. I can try to put my personal feelings aside and be fair to him, even if he doesn’t seem to want to be there. But I intended to make it inclusive and if he just wants to show up to hang out with everyone, that’s his prerogative.”
Cosette opened and closed her mouth like a fish a few times, then seemed to think better of whatever she was thinking.
“I suppose so, Enj, I suppose so. Just consider that he might not know that you’re not kicking him out? Or he might just take the hint and go?”
Enjolras’ heart did a confusing flip in his chest. He swallowed, his mouth slightly dry.
“Well, if he leaves he leaves, if he doesn’t, I’ll see him next week anyway and make sure he knows that he’s still welcome.”
A look of relief came over Cosette’s face, and she reached over to squeeze his hand in gratitude. The car came to a stop at the end of his street, and Enjolras jumped out onto the pavement, thanked Monsieur Valjean - “Oh, call me Jean, please” - and made a dash up the road.
Once he was definitely out of sight of Cosette’s car, he stopped where he stood, and began scrambling to shed all his badges from his jacket, brush his hair out, and wipe off his makeup. With his face clean and heart pounding, he turned on his heel, and began walking in the opposite direction, back towards town.
It was customary that Cosette’s father dropped Enjolras off at the junction between two quiet suburban streets, which, as far as his friends were concerned, is where he lived. Jehan, Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Bahorel all boarded anyway, and so largely stuck around the boarding houses, Enjolras going to theirs rather than the other way around. Jehan, by a stroke of luck, had never visited the old family home with their mother (he suspected this might be on purpose), and Enjolras himself never brought it up. Tried his best to keep his friends and his family distinctly separate, deflected when necessary, and played heavily into the idea of his parents as dull and uninvolved.
It wasn’t a lie, not really. It wasn’t as if he was pretending to be poor, sharing in an injustice that wasn’t his, he just chose not to bring up the exact specifics of his life. He was the best of himself when he was with his friends, and he’d rather they not see what he considered the worst of himself, especially when he couldn’t even justify the complexity of his feelings to himself. The name issue was already a burden enough to explain away when they believed him to come from a family of middle class, mild tempered, politely liberal centrists. Better to not overcomplicate things.
It was then he finally rounded the corner onto a row of large, detached houses, all gated and four stories tall. Taking a final check of his face in the mirrored surface of his phone, Enjolras punched in the code for the gate in front of him, and began the walk up the long gravel drive to his front door.
Chapter 2: In The Space Of One Month
Summary:
Enjolras loses something important to him and must face himself in the aftermath.
Notes:
C/W for real world politics, depression, and depersonalisation
Enjolras spends a lot of this chapter in his own head
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
“When you look in the mirror
Do you see yourself?
Do you see yourself
On the T.V. screen?
Do you see yourself in the magazine?
When you see yourself
Does it make you scream?”
- Identity, X-Ray Spex
The next week progressed slowly, and Enjolras passed the time by clicking through news sites, and ignoring the sick swirling in his stomach that oddly seemed to start up whenever someone mentioned Grantaire.
By Wednesday, though, he had shaken himself back into rhythm, fortunately before his friends questioned his sour temper. Evidently he hadn’t escaped without some trace amount of apprehension from them, considering the generous respect his personal space had been given. Whatever it was must’ve been resolved in their minds though, given that at lunchtime Combeferre took the seat on his left, while Courfeyrac took his right, and they held hands across his lap like a seatbelt, slipping seamlessly back into their strange shared intimacy.
He made a pretence of exasperation, then bowed his head over his notebook so they wouldn’t see the corners of his mouth quirking up.
The good mood could’ve lasted longer if Enjolras kept his phone in his locker, as the rules required. But he didn’t, and so, feeling the muted vibrations in his pocket, Enjolras checked his phone to discover a news alert.
NHS-commissioned independent review into care of transgender youth in the UK newly published by Dr Hilary Cass - Prime Minister urges “extreme caution”.
His eyes narrowed as he read the article and he could feel his chest tightening. Beyond feeling alive, this was like grabbing a live wire. To his friends, he hoped his hurried explanations and rushed instructions didn't sound hollow. Hoped the slight tremor to his voice read as his normal interested agitation - and he certainly was agitated - but truthfully, under the agitation was nothing but a molten core of burgeoning dread.
The atmosphere walking out from school that day was tense. Even Courfeyrac didn’t try to lighten the mood, but instead was unusually sedate. Jehan was fretting loudly and twisting their hands together. Cosette was on the phone - to Eponine, he believed, which reminded him he needed to check in on her - and Combeferre was holding Courfeyrac’s hand quietly. He used his other hand to beckon Enjolras closer.
“Are you going to be alright?” Combeferre whispered, leaning down to speak. His expression was pinched in concern and his tone was heavy with an affected significance.
“As much as any of us will be Aleksander, we’ll just wait to see what the next few days have in store. No point jumping the gun. Just another kick in the teeth, isn’t it?” Enjolras responded loudly, shrugging Combeferre off with a breezy smile and an increase to his walking pace.
“I know that, I mean are you going to be alright?” he murmured with a strange look on his face, his words all deliberate with meaningful emphasis. Enjolras raised an eyebrow at him, pointedly.
“Nothing special about me in this, is there?” He could feel that he had voiced this as more of a question than he’d hoped, but steeled his face, resolute. Combeferre took this in and then nodded, slightly sadly. Which was what Enjolras admired about Combeferre so much. Among all his friends, he knew when to let a matter rest. He only spoke up again when the group peeled off at the last junction before Enjolras’ turn off.
“This isn’t going to be good, is it, Enj?” His voice was steady and there was no true question in his tone.
Enjolras tossed his hair over his shoulder and raised his chin to look Combeferre in the eye. “We’ll deal with it as it comes. It will be what it’ll be, yeah?” He said, laying a careful hand on his friend’s arm.
Combeferre gave a nod with some hesitancy, but didn’t respond further.
Enjolras pulled his blazer closed as he walked down the entrance corridor the next morning, even buttoning it up. A feeble tactical reassurance, as though that would do a thing against the world.
His focus entirely shot, he sat down at the back of the class for once to read through the backlog of texts he hadn’t been able to read the night before. Most were short and reassuring, some were panicked requests for updates, and one - from Eponine - was functionally illegible.
The next few lessons passed in a blur, and before he even realised, it was time for lunch already. Which, much to his regret, meant he was in for a very uncomfortable confrontation.
He walked into the canteen and saw Courfeyrac and Combeferre sitting together in a corner. Their backs were to him, hair spilling across their shoulders - Combeferre’s light brown hair catching the hues of the fluorescents on the ceiling while Courfeyrac’s thick dark waves were half up in a ponytail - and they were flicking peas at each other.
Tossing the awkwardness aside, he marched over and opened his mouth to speak but found himself cut short by the piercing glare Combeferre fixed him with. Taken aback, he found now the words wouldn’t come out right, and as they both turned to look at him, he started shuffling awkwardly, fishing for something to say. Thankfully, Courfeyrac took it upon himself to break the silence.
“It’s good to see you… alive?” he started, carefully, pushing out a chair with his foot that Enjolras gladly collapsed into.
“Mm. Well. No reason why I wouldn’t be.”
Combeferre raised his eyebrows even higher, his expression incredulous. Enjolras tried to not shrink in his seat, feeling his face heat shamefully.
“No, ‘course. Nothing to worry about that I remember. What about you, Courf?”
“Maybe one thing, love.”
“Oh, yes, maybe one thing,” he shot back, while Enjolras bit his lip and let his blood well up in front of his gums, trying to keep his face neutral. “One small matter of that text message-”
“Here we go.” He rolled his eyes.
“- sent to all your closest friends- “
“Yeah, I know, I sent it.”
“- at 1am this morning, to everyone’s surprise, that read- “
“Really, it’s quite self explanatory,” he muttered, resigned.
“- that read ‘Friends of the ABC, I will not be attending our library group any more as I do not believe it advisable. Thank you for everything.’ Now, why, why, Enj, might that make your friends think that you might not be alive? Or do you not see a problem? Do you maybe- “
At that, Courfeyrac laid one hand on top of Combeferre’s, pacifying him.
“Okay, dove, he gets it. Right, Enj? He knows he scared us, and he’s sorry. Yes?”
“Yes.” His throat was still dry.
“And now he’ll answer all our questions. Yes?”
Enjolras took a deep breath and steeled himself, his mind whirring. “Fine, alright, yes.”
“Right, good, back to ‘Ferre.” Courfeyrac concluded, motioning his boyfriend to start speaking again. Combeferre blinked slowly, and continued, though far calmer than before.
“Enj. Mate. Mind telling us what fuck that was all about?”
Enjolras untucked his legs from beneath him, rearranging himself into a more casual position. Taking a final moment to secure an easygoing yet bashful smile on his face, he brushed his hair back from his eyes and looked at his friends.
“Look,” he began, his arms open and pacifying, “the message was way too blunt, I know, I'm sorry.” Courfeyrac, already looking slightly mollified, gestured for him to continue. “It was late. I was tired, and pissed off. I forgot to give any explanation.”
“What happened is - ” at this, he drew an imperceptible breath - “my grandfather has come to live with us, and he needs some help, some company too. My parents work late so I'm stepping up in the evenings. I was just pissy ‘cause we don't get on great, but really it's just community aid, and that's indiscriminate. You guys understand? Yeah?”
“Oh my god Enjy! Just say that from the start next time you stupid prat,” Courfeyrac laughed, punching him in the arm.
"I would've but you were just about ready to section me!"
"Couldn't you have just, y'know, told us this last night? Did you use AI to write that fuck off break up text?"
“Low blow! Sorry I was too busy hauling my elderly Tory grandfather up the stairs to prioritise you gits in the moment,” Enjolras laughed back, draping himself across the table. “You don't prioritise me when I've got news to share and you're too busy necking.”
Courfeyrac gasped dramatically. “You have no proof!”
“Au contraire, mon ami. You might be too dark to bruise, but Aleksander sure isn't. And he definitely bruises.” He punctuated the sentence with a sharp jab to Courfeyrac’s side, to which he let out a choked squeal.
He would have figured the matter was satisfied, and almost relaxed, when he caught Combeferre’s expression. It was too focused.
“Courf, could you go text Cosette and Eponine, they’ll want to know our Enj is alright. And fill up our water bottles while you're gone?” At his boyfriend's words, Courfeyrac opened his mouth to protest, but caught Combeferre's eyes and visibly caved, begrudgingly dragging himself off to the sixth form building.
Once he had left, Combeferre shifted demeanour. He straightened up, looking decades older than his seventeen years. Enjolras felt himself instinctively respond in kind. While Courfeyrac and Combeferre shared a bond that Enjolras couldn’t touch, or fully understand, he himself had a unique relationship to each of the other two. Between him and Combeferre, this link was one of intellectual equals. He could see how Combeferre’s mind worked, understand him as well as any brother could. And Combeferre had this way about him, where he could see behind aspects of what Enjolras presented to the world.
It wasn’t often reassuring, exactly, but it was always necessary. Combeferre using his perceptive nature to be Enjolras’ council and confessional, graciously keeping his failings secret, acting as the better angel of his nature, occasionally protecting him from himself. Enjolras, for his part of this silent agreement - and it was silent - held his tongue from running too sharply across their friends’ egos. Power for protection: a well worn social contract that Enjolras usually detested, but when balanced between him and Combeferre was the keel keeping their ship even, and for that he was grateful.
Combeferre slid a Pepsi across the table, and met his gaze. “Enj. What did they do?”
“I wasn't lying. My grandfather really is living with us now.”
“Enj…”
“Fine. Fine! They read the report. Obviously. Started questioning things they hadn’t in ages, bringing up old fights. Sprung on me that they knew our ‘study group’ had volunteered with queer rights orgs from Jehan’s mum - don’t tell them that though - and asked if I had 'anything to tell them'. I took the hit and told them that I had joined because of that but only stayed because I had been failing French.” He took a sharp breath, and a sip of Pepsi.
“So they took my laptop and put me in private tutoring, but said as long as they could text the group that I was leaving, and my grades pick up, then we don’t have to say any more about it. They let me keep my phone, they didn’t report the group. Damaged contained I’d say.”
Combeferre let out a low whistle.
“That’s… a lot.”
“You could say that.”
“You’re not even failing French!”
Enjolras sighed in irritation. “That really doesn’t matter.”
“You know not telling the others is actually making your life more difficult now? Especially Jehan.” Combeferre leaned in closer, his voice taking on a less casual tone, pressing the advantage.
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s easier for them to not even have to think about my parents.”
“Easier for them, Enjolras? Or for you?” Enjolras glared sharply at him, challenging him to continue the unfavourable line of conversation. After holding eye contact for a prolonged moment, Combeferre lowered his gaze, blinking first of the two of them, sighing in a way that could be called apologetic.
“What do you want to do about Les Amis?” He asked in a voice so low and soft it was aggravating. Enjolras drummed his fingers sharply on the table to resume the prior brusqueness of the exchange.
“For now? Nothing. I’ll give you my notes, and between you and Feuilly you can keep the sessions running..”
“Enj, that’s not going to work. We’ll disband in a week.”
“Report back to me any new members, and I’ll organise remotely. It goes on without me, starting tonight.” Enjolras continued louder, emphatically ignoring his friend’s reluctance.
Combeferre pursed his mouth in frustration, and Enjolras felt another flash of annoyance. “Don’t look at me like that.” He raised his eyebrows again.
“Like what?”
“Like, like I’m naive, like it's going to break me. I am not that fragile. Now, look alive, your boyfriend’s finished pretending he’s filling up his water bottle and he’s walking back over.”
Combeferre raised his head to see the truth of what Enjolras had said. Finished with the water bottles, Courfeyrac was marching back across the cafeteria, now accompanied by Bahorel and behind him, Jehan, their cane clacking against the vinyl floors.
Enjolras let out a theatrical groan as his cousin hugged him tightly, and began reassuring them that they'd had nothing to do with it, once again spinning out his story for his friend's examination.
The words came easily, and basking in the glow of Courfeyrac’s sympathies and Jehan’s relief, he could forget about Combeferre’s eyes boring into the side of his head.
For all that he had blustered in his friend’s face earlier, watching the clock reach 5pm on a Thursday from the solitude of his bedroom rather than the comfort of the library caused a cold nausea to swell inside him. It wasn’t loneliness or bitterness or even anger - though that at least he was sure would come with time - that was making the motions of a maelstrom in his gut. It was helplessness. Uselessness.
He checked the time again. 5:31. Shit.
If the time were to pass any quicker than it was, he would have to occupy himself with more than pathetic introspection. If he couldn’t deliver the information, he could at least gather it. Do something to make himself less useless. There was a ceaseless current of information available to him and he might as well make use of it. With one last glance at the clock, he unlocked his phone, took out his notebook, and let himself be pulled under.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Enjolras cast his pen down. His eyes blurred with images of a dying world - four people killed in a missile strike on Ukraine, Iranian embassy bombed, Netherlands increasing their military budget - and his ink-stained hands were cramping. In its own manner though, it had helped. His head ached in an existential sort of way and his stomach ached in an “hasn’t eaten all day” sort of way but his chest had finally stopped its wretched twisting and that was the more significant outcome.
Of course, there was one more thing he could do to improve his mood. It was dark outside, he noticed, and legs felt steady. Alongside that, his parents were out for the evening. A little fresh air wouldn’t hurt. Leaving the house was out of the question if he wanted to retain even the slightest amount of goodwill from his parents. But he had learnt some years ago now that it wasn’t necessary to leave the house in order to get out of the house.
The fact that Enjolras could climb wouldn’t really be a secret if not for the fact that everyone - family, friends, P.E teacher - assumed he couldn’t. But in truth he loved it like little else. Another secret: his window opened. Wouldn’t seem like much of a secret, except for the fact of his parents not knowing that his window opened. They were convinced it was sealed when in fact, it opened onto a significant ledge, from which it was shockingly easy for him to pull himself up onto the roof.
He knew that chances like this were likely decreasing, and he was never one to let a moment pass. So out the window he went, his trainers scrabbling over the brickwork, hand over hand until he could see far across the city. The twisting loops of brick and mortar, the shining dots of the streetlamps, and the industrial hum of the cars of the road. The city, as an entity, was just as alive as he was. At times, moreso.
Up there, his mind was as quiet as it got. It wasn’t a guarantee. Sometimes the vastness of the sky or the magnitude of the suburban sprawl tugged at his mind, pulling at threads he had to grasp at before his mind unspooled. But most of the time at least, the roughness of the slate under his hand, and the sharpness of the wind on his neck would settle him back into his skin without the price of unnerving awareness. Ironically, he never felt more grounded than when his legs hung over the precipice, four stories up.
He laughed, the air sharp on his face, looking down at the paving slabs below and taking his hair out of its tie, letting the blonde waves tumble down across his shoulders and then get picked up by the breeze.
After all, who was he to the wind?
Was he a scholar, a punk, a poet, or a bastard? What did any of it matter here? Losing Les Amis, his inability to make a difference - all was second to the open air. He was Enjolras, and up on the roof, any ensuing definitions were made irrelevant. Here, where he could see everything, but no one could see him, he could exist in a moment free from consequences.
If all he was, was who he was seen to be, then when no one could see him, he could choose to not be at all. When no one could see him, he didn’t need to worry about how they saw him. Being good at shifting identities and dancing in and out of people’s perceptions didn’t mean it wasn’t tiring. Judging just how much truth to offer up to each person - the apple offered to Tantalus, the bait on the fishing line, the inch that he sold as a mile. Fuck, he was getting maudlin.
He climbed back inside with plenty of time to assemble the set for his performance. A change of clothes, homework spread across the dining room table, and even a coffee left intentionally to go cold next to him by the time he heard his parents walking up the gravel drive.
With his grandfather living at home, the natural order had suspended. Increasingly, Enjolras was expected to eat with the family round the dining table, and polite conversation was expected. His grandfather wanted to know who his money was going to after all. It would have been pleasant, in another life, and his mother’s gentle approval when he delivered a particularly good performance washed over him like sunlight.
It would have been pleasant.
It would have been pleasant if his mother’s every word wasn’t made bitter by memories he couldn’t let go. Would have been pleasant if his dad wouldn’t make pointed comments that stuck in his mind like barbs. Pleasant, so long as his grandfather didn’t spit the word progressive like a slur, then laugh it off. Pleasant, if the cost of the food they threw away didn’t make Enjolras sick to his stomach. Pleasant, as long as no one discussed anything of consequence. As long as Enjolras answered to a name that wasn’t his own.
His family were charming, intelligent, civil, generous, and they loved him. Conditionally, of course, but not outrageously so. Why shouldn’t he play along just enough to make things easy? It was no more than they did for his sake.
Idling over his steak one night, Enjolras considered Shakespeare.
All the world’s a stage.
And wasn’t that just the damn point.
***
The performances continued at school - smiling, quipping, deflecting - soundly convincing Cosette and Jehan that it was the increased pressure on his time of his grandad that had led him to leave the group, and yes he was entirely okay, and yes of course he was sorry for concerning them, and no he wasn’t in any trouble.
But it felt hollow, and to spare himself the exhaustion, he began refusing invitations to come out with his friends at all. He didn’t have the energy to snap at Combeferre’s overly meaningful looks, or Courfeyrac’s pitying glances. Another week faded into history, and yet his listlessness didn’t fade. He prodded at the feeling inside him and strangely found it to be grief. A feeling that was fully fucking frustrating because at the end of the day it was a dumb volunteer group at the local library. It shouldn’t matter.
A few times he caught himself wishing his parents had taken his phone along with his laptop, so he might have been spared the images of his friends laughing together, carefree. The longer he looked at them, the more the pictures would warp: smiles became sneers, eyes glimmered with malice, well-wishing captions smacked of mockery and judgement.
Outside of mealtimes, his family remained cool with him, and though he was long since used to shouldering their resentment, it seemed wise to refrain from asking to leave the house, just until he was certain they were back on an even keel. The weekend he spent confined to his room and the week following that passed in mostly the same fashion. The only difference between the days was the news, and the only thing that changed in response was his increasing inability to pay attention to it, something he loathed himself for but couldn’t fix.
His parents atypically prolonged presence at home since his grandfather had moved in even kept him from breaking the monotony with a jaunt onto the rooftop. There was a fast growing chasm between who he was, and who he once claimed to be, and every day he struggled not to fall in.
The next ABC meeting rolled around, and Enjolras lay on the floor of his bedroom, headphones in, turning the situation over in his mind, yet doing nothing. How pathetic he felt, licking his wounds, mourning something that wasn’t dead. He just stared at his spotless white walls, imagining he could feel the world turn around him. Imagining he could hear it screaming at him, sat in his ivory tower, useless as a corpse.
***
One morning, in his increasing indirection, Enjolras had somehow actually arrived early to school. Too restless to sit in the common room and wait for his friends to finish their breakfast, he slipped his earphones in and walked circles through the corridors, trying to burn some off the energy bouncing in his legs.
The school at this hour wasn’t quite so tiresome. In fact, in the golden light of early morning, it was quite beautiful. With no teachers marching down the halls to call him out, Enjolras could notice how the dark wood panelling reflected the dawn in an eyecatching sort of way. With no students screaming across the classrooms, the soft ticking of the clocks made for a gentle symphony. In absence of the reasons he resented his school, Enjolras was actually very fond of it. He loved to learn, he was privileged to study somewhere so grand, and in the brief calm he’d found, it was a relief to see his school through softer eyes again. He thought he had forgotten how.
He was half way along the empty maths corridor when he saw it. If his appreciation hadn’t slowed his walking pace, he may not have noticed it. Pinned to the announcement board, under the fire drill map, was a genuine black and white zine, A5 in size, with a bold graphic title, and a collage of doodles around the words. His first reaction, which thankfully no one was around to see, was to jump back as though the paper had bitten him. His next reaction, rather hysterically, was to look around for hidden cameras, and then to run into the nearby classrooms as though the author might have stuck around. Finally, concluding that the zine was authentic, he ran back to the announcement board.
He grabbed the zine - clearly a photocopy of the original, and with slightly shaking hands, started to read it.
ARCAngel Magazine
Are you tired of being confused? Of being lied to? Do you want to know what’s going on in the world but the thought of switching on the news fills you with dread? Well, here's the fucking news for you: the elites profit from your ignorance. If you’re tired of the sexism, the classism, the judgement and the bullshit? If you’re angry, miserable, or just lost trying to figure out the world, then stick around.
Yours, always and fucking forever
- Angel xoxo
It went on to discuss the Cass Review, insult standing MPs, and ended with a list of foodbanks. The writing was impassioned, humorous, inspired. The art was bold and eye-catching. The message was clear and precise. It was exactly the sort of thing that would never come out of a school like his.
For the first time in weeks, his interest was held. A shield of anonymity always seemed to him like the mark of a coward, but these were not the words of a coward. In fact, they almost seemed like… his words. This was the sort of mask he would love to have - a manufactured way for him to address the world without consequence. But for him, something like this was impossible. Despite being an adept and practiced liar, he broadly held a reputation for brazen openness, and though there were several parts of himself that he could temporarily discard as easily as a jacket, his political inclinations were no secret. He made a point of wearing them on his sleeve, openly provoking the ministers’ children and trust fund children he shared classrooms with.
In fact, if anyone saw this, he would likely be blamed, and his parents contacted. That’s if it wasn’t trashed by the first student or teacher to see it, and if that happened, he would lose the zine, and all the clues to the author’s identity that went with it. Making a split-second decision just as more people started filtering into the corridor, Enjolras rolled the zine up in his hand, and stuffed it into the front pocket of his bag.
Later, as he stepped out of his tutorial classroom, he caught Courfeyrac’s eye. Courf looked him up and down appraisingly, before grinning crookedly like he liked what he saw. Could he be Angel? The possibility wasn’t totally unlikely, so Enjolras resolved to keep the mystery to himself for now, and wait to see if any of his friends approached him first. More likely though was some kid in the lower years, not yet weathered by the years. If that was the case, finding them and looking out for them was now priority one. Either way, Angel was a fitting name for the mysterious ally, and whoever they were had Enjolras’ gratitude.
Maybe he didn’t quite know how to replace what he’d lost yet, but seeing his own beliefs reflected on paper had fixed something he hadn’t known how to mend. If all the world was a stage, it was high time he learnt to live without a script.
Notes:
thank you for finishing the second chapter, hope you're all enjoying still
chapter title is from Love That You Required by Ewy, one of the songs that inspired this fic overall
this chapter had a lot of trippy introspection in it but next one is back to the action again!
share thoughts below