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Enjolras is not much of an early riser, unless there's clear cause. But he is a light sleeper; Courfeyrac slept deep and motionless, but the presence of his warmth and weight woke Enjolras a few times in the night. Each time he returned to sleep reassured by the reality of a friend's presence.

(Each time, his mind spent a little while spinning its way through memory and consequence, grief and planning and strategy. But that would be true regardless of Courfeyrac's presence or Bossuet's, save that Bossuet's arrival at Milliways has given him a useful end to strategize towards.)

The linen curtains are thin, and there's a gap between them through which a long shaft of morning sunlight slants to fall across the pillows. It strikes a brighter radiance from Enjolras's golden hair. In sleep, his energy stilled and his intensity veiled, he has always looked even younger, like a particularly grave cherub.

Still. Courfeyrac stirs, even slightly; Enjolras stirs in turn, and wakes.

Coureyrac turns his head, and blinks. He and Enjolras have shared rooms any number of times, when the hour became too late, or too early, to make leaving a practicable option. Still, it never fails to amaze him how such a creature can shine the way he does, look so young, and still hold so much reserve.

It amazes him in a way that makes him very glad he is not Grantaire. The only effect it has is to make him feel sorry for those who are dazzled by it. So, his reaction is to smile, and say,

'Before the word 'revolution' falls from your lips, I think we should find coffee.'

Enjolras breathes out, amused in spite of himself.

He sleeps lightly, yes, and wakes easily; that doesn't mean he wakes completely upon the instant of opening his eyes. He can feel the usual morning fog still clouding his brain.

"Probably wise," he allows, as he pushes himself up to a sitting position. He scrubs a hand through his curls, shoving them back from his eyes. The effect is tousled, messy, and not notably less cherubic, particularly since the morning sunlight is still gleaming a golden halo around him. (The expression on his face might be mistaken by a stranger for a remote, dignified reserve, like that of a Grecian statue of a pensive hero, all noble profile and heavy eyelids. Courfeyrac will know him well enough to correctly read it as being blearily half-awake.)

He doesn't actually promise to refrain from uttering the word 'revolution' before coffee is achieved, but Courfeyrac won't be surprised by that one.

Courfeyrac is not surprised in the least. He also has to resist the childish urge to throw a cushion at his head. He manages this successfully - after a brief internal struggle - and sits up too, raking his own mop of curls off his forehead. He's as dark as Enjolras is gold, but manages to look more like a grinning imp than anyone who would inspire awe. And he is content to be so.

'Do we have to fetch it ourselves, or do the rats deliver? If the former, I will spare you the indignity of going out looking like you still sleep. Consider it payment for the half-share of your mattress.'

"The latter. Occasionally they do deliver, I believe, but not to a reliable schedule like a milkman or concierge."

It hasn't occurred to Enjolras to investigate such possibilities as leaving a note by his door. He goes downstairs to fetch his own food, or he forgets and goes without; he has thought of making arrangements with Bar, as one might pay a landlady to bring by coffee or bread and eggs in the morning, but in truth it hasn't been worth the effort simply to ensure more time within the same four walls of the same solitary room. Milliways has been contained enough even with all meals taken in the main bar.

'I find your answer inconsistent. Which is remarkable enough that I remarking upon it, you'll note. If they deliver, they should do so when required - which would certainly be welcome now, but nevertheless, I will go.'

He is already moving. He has an idea of how this day will go, and cannot face it without sustenance. Also, he is rather interested in trying out the magical properties of the bar.

'I will return. I will also bring food. And you will eat it.'

He slips out before Enjolras can become sidetracked by glancing at one of his books, or happening across a new idea in his head before coffee is procured.

Enjolras tucks his legs under himself tailor-style, and attempts to dredge up somewhat more coherence in explanation. "I have seen them in these hallways upon occasion. I haven't investigated whether that's the result of prior arrangements, or merely very sporadic rounds."

Courfeyrac is on his way out the door. Well, all right.

Enjolras rubs a hand over his face and goes to wash his face and dress.

Courfeyrac will return to find him having traded his nightshirt for black trousers and shirtsleeves, and sitting at his desk gazing into thin air with the expression of one entirely occupied with the inside of his head. This is accurate. At Courfeyrac's return, however, he smiles slightly, and rises to assist with door and breakfast tray.

'It provided eggs, and bread. And bacon, I think. I'm not sure, but it seemed to know what breakfast is, and even what you like.'

Amazing! He is not going to get bored of that for a long time to come.

He sets the tray down on the desk, amid the work that will never end for Enjolras, and pours coffee at once. Despite his enthusiasm for the magic, it is a quieter day for him, in his mind. This is an experience entirely divorced from reality - and it occurred to him as he mounted the stairs, it is a reality he will never see again.

Even for Courfeyrac, that is a sobering thought.

Enjolras shifts aside his papers -- one must have priorities -- and accepts a cup of coffee gratefully.

The first sip clears his head more than any amount of time spent vertical and being teased by a friend -- even now, when the teasing and presence of friends is a desperately welcome comfort to sink into. A few more swallows of coffee, and he's awake enough to add, "Yes. It can even respond sensibly with notes, or deliver items to a named person. I don't understand the mechanism at all, but it's extraordinary."

Combeferre comes to mind. Of course; Combeferre is always on his mind. Combeferre, who was interested in everything, who was the first he turned to with a question of ethics or philosophy, whose eyes lit with enthusiasm for anything to to with progress or nature or human invention, who was run through with bayonets in nearly the same instant Courfeyrac fell to a bullet--

It's early. He has another swallow of coffee, even though it's a little too hot still for such a gulp.

Courfeyrac is here. Bossuet is here, and his presence may mean the salvation of precious lives. Both of those are inestimable gifts, inestimable joy.

Edited 2014-05-29 02:11 (UTC)

'It is.'

Courfeyrac turns food onto plates carelessly, pushes one towards Enjolras, and goes to slouch on the bed with his own breakfast and coffee. But he looks at his friend closely before he starts eating; he knows Enjolras, and knows he is not at his best in the mornings. He also knows that if he has been here for months with only Grantaire of his friends with him...well, he does not know how that would make him feel, but he can make an educated guess. He has never known Enjolras without people of like mind around him. It is a little hard to imagine.

'How has Grantaire been?'

Perhaps it is a little early for that question.

Enjolras's mouth twists above his coffee cup: not in disdain, but in rueful thought, and a little self-deprecation.

At any time of day, that question is broad. Its answer, likewise complicated.

He carries his own plate over, sets his cup on the nightstand, joins Courfeyrac in sitting on the bed, while he attempts to find a good answer. (To this end, he even has the first couple of bites of breakfast. It's good, of course. It's also an aid to thought, and he is hungry, now that food has appeared in front of him.)

"He slept through nearly to the end," is what he says at last. "Slumped over that same table, just as he was. He could have lived. I thought him dead of a stray bullet; I thought no one could possibly sleep through such things as had happened around him. Everyone else had fallen."

"Instead he stood up to be shot with me. He insisted upon it. 'Vive la revolution,' he said -- Grantaire. He said, 'I'm one of them. Two at one shot.' And so it was. He died as one of us."

It's not precisely an answer. But it's a necessary prelude to any other answer.

This is the first time Enjolras has told anyone of these events. The bare facts are straightforward enough. What to feel about them -- what to feel about Grantaire, what Grantaire himself thinks and feels about any of this -- is a thornier matter, even months later. Perhaps especially months later; at the time, everything was subsumed into the fierce, despairing, transcendent joy of martyrdom offered up to the altar of the future.

Courfeyrac takes a moment to digest this. He had not been expecting such an answer; indeed, with his question, he meant how has he been in the months since his arrival here. Only now does he realise that he didn't know what had become of him. He was not a visible presence on the barricade, and he didn't think about why. Not one of them would expect the man to do anything such as he has just been told.

'Grantaire did that.'

He eats a forkful of eggs. This is suddenly complicated, and he finds he rather wishes Bossuet were here. He could exchange a glance with him; a silent communication that the two of them would understand, and Enjolras likely would not.

If Grantaire chose to stand up and be killed, there is little doubt in his mind that it was not for the purpose of being 'one of us'. Or maybe that is a cruel thought. But if Enjolras had not been at the barricade, neither would Grantaire to have been in that position in the first place.

'It was a brave decision.'

To say more would touch on things Enjolras...possibly should care about, but does not. And Courfeyrac has never been the sort to delve into the personal lives of others, and then push. He may tease, he may gossip, he may laugh. But that is on superficial affairs of the heart, and other parts less sacred. This is different.

"Yes." A brave decision, a brave death; he will never deny that. He will affirm it. He has never for a moment forgotten it.

Troubled, he has some more breakfast.

There's more to say. He's turning over in his head the words to say. There are undercurrents always with Grantaire, some matters left unspoken and others that Enjolras has no desire to examine.

Undercurrents all of them feel, in varying amounts and at different times. They have all had their moments of being frustrated with Grantaire - but he is a friend, and good company. And none of them have the complications with him that he has with Enjolras.

'Well. I look forward to seeing him again.'

He'll leave it at that, to see if Enjolras wants to say more on the topic. If he does not, Courfeyrac will leave it alone. There are plenty of other things to talk about, and awkward relationships can wait if Enjolras prefers.

"He'll be glad to see you."

No other option even occurs to Enjolras. They're friends, all of them; brothers, all of them. And nearly everyone else has (had) more in common with Grantaire than Enjolras does.

He breathes out, and adds, "He was here for a month before I came. Gavroche was here as well then, but no others of us." The police spy emphatically does not qualify. "I know he has missed you all, as I have."

'A whole month.'

He eats some more breakfast with a contemplative air. It's not one that gets an airing often, but he's more than capable.

A whole month more or less alone would not be good for Grantaire.

'Then it is lucky you did not linger,' he adds, decisively.

'Though he's a sociable fellow, and I imagine he'd find a few willing dominoes partners.'

Or drinking partners, though the man hardly needs them. Obviously, he does not say it. Mainly because it is not required.

'...is there any indication of who might come, and when? No advance warning?'

A small hesitation.

'Might we expect any more of us?'

Enjolras's lips press together for a moment.

"No," he says quietly.

"No indication that I have discovered thus far."

"A man told me that we should expect more arrivals from our world. When I asked for his reasoning, however, he had none that was solid. Only a belief that a number of men who know one another are likely to lead to more as a logical pattern for Providence to take."

Teja would probably be appalled by this intepretation of his words, but it's what Enjolras heard in his sentence.

"I hope very much that we can expect them. But I don't know any more than you."

It wearies him. He misses them, so much -- but at least he has two fewer to miss. Two fewer, and hope renewed.

He's sitting next to Courfeyrac; close enough to rest their shoulders together, since their hands are busy with breakfast still. The warmth and solidity of him are a deep comfort, settling a loneliness deep inside him.

He thinks about this, chewing contemplatively. Enjolras is a rock next to him, as he has always been. It has not yet occurred to him to think what it might be like to be here alone, without friends. Not in any depth.

'If the man has been here a long time,' he reasons, eventually.

'Perhaps it is a pattern he has seen before. Therefore, it is hopeful.'

Courfeyrac is the sort of man who can choose to be hopeful, rather than wait for the feeling to present itself unwilled.

'And there seems no logical reason for a place such as this to exist in the first instance - so why not seize upon the precedents of past behaviour? After all, the man must have had a reason to make the statement. I will keep a watch on the door. Perhaps it shall be rewarded.'

It goes without saying, he knows Enjolras will want Combeferre here. Indeed, he does too.

Combeferre, yes, deeply; and five others as well.

Enjolras regards him with affection, and with a small, slow smile. Courfeyrac with his warmth, his boundless good humor, his verve and energy, his understanding.

"Yes."

Some kinds of hope are a constant flame for Enjolras, their fuel inexhaustible, the certainty unassailable. For France, for humanity. But other, more personal hopes -- well.

They come more easily now than they have in months.

He returns the smile. Perhaps he made such a statement because he thought it might help Enjolras also.

Then he eats his breakfast for a while. It is good. He is relieved to find he will not want for decent food in the afterlife, even if he never considered the afterlife to require food at all.

Eventually, he says, 'tell me your thoughts? I imagine you are full of them since Bossuet came.'

Enjolras, who has never been much inclined to savor a meal lingeringly, has finished his eggs and bread and bacon, and moved on to nursing his cup of coffee.

At the question, he straightens slightly; his focus sharpens, his demeanor changes.

"It's as you said. Foreknowledge could change everything. We must take advantage of this."

"The question is how much one man's knowledge can change the course, even two years ahead. I believe that we could have won the day, if only a few matters had gone differently -- but whether Bossuet will be able to affect those matters sufficiently, that's another question. It's larger than any one man. And we must count on things going wrong."

That would be true even if this were not Bossuet, with his famed bad luck. As it is, doubly so.

"We have already begun to plan. I told him as much as I could of what seemed most important to share first. We'll discuss more, of course. If he sees a way, now or later, to change the tide, to ensure the people rise to join us -- nothing could be better. But all I am certain of accomplishing is that his knowledge can change the outcome at our own barricade."

'And changing things so that we do not die?'

It seems the most immediate concern. He is not sure what he thinks about it. His plate is set aside, and he stares at the wall for a moment. The red flag of revolution stares back.

'I admit, I would not mind that. But nothing immediately springs to mind that could make it different. We were outmanned, and outgunned. I suppose we could try and stock more ammunition, and take better care of the gunpowder so it did not get wet. Perhaps try and get more guardsman uniforms, so more people could escape if they wished.'

He does not mean himself. In the end, dying was all they could offer up to the cause of freedom. He would do it again. It is still a little too soon to think past the images in his head, to how they could be made different.

'If we defeat the guard further than our original attempt, they would send another battalion. More cannons. The outcome will still be the same if we do not get the people to rise with us.'

It surprises him for a moment, before he remembers. Of course; Courfeyrac has come straight from the barricade. Enjolras had had months to turn over every detail in his mind -- years worth of planning and effort -- before Bossuet stumbled through the door from the Glorious Days of July 1830.

"There are a few options. It will be up to Bossuet and the rest of us to see which can be achieved, and which depend too much on factors out of our hands."

He numbers them on the fingers of one hand, resting his empty coffee cup on his knee with the other. "Firstly, simply to save more lives. More uniforms, more ammunition. Prevent that murder of the doorkeeper -- at the end, there were some who strove to escape after all, but every door was closed to us. Without that, some might have lived. Try to prevent Prouvaire from being separated from the rest of us, try to be more alert for early breaches." Such as the one that killed Bahorel.

"Secondly, to approach this uprising with the knowledge that those men in high positions who promised their aid would turn against us. To know better who is trustworthy, and who is not. To know that this will not be another '30 -- not for the Guard, not for the people -- and decide our course earlier in that knowledge."

"Thirdly, with two years to plan, to perhaps make our preparations better. To inspire the people to rise; to succeed in winning over more whose committed aid would tip the balance; to win the day after all. I believe it can be done, but I don't know if it can be done with only our own group a changed factor. It's a heavy burden to put on Bossuet. Still, it might be possible. If it can be done, we must make sure he has the tools to do it."

All of this makes sense to Courfeyrac. He nods along, his face intent.

'We must also find a way to overcome a more obvious point. If Bossuet comes to us in 1830 - or later, when things have calmed a little from his present situation - he must either convince us of this magic place, and risk us thinking his brains scrambled from one of his accidents. Or he must steer the entire group without any of us realising he has foreknowledge of the outcome.'

He loves Bossuet, and trusts him, but it is a big job for anyone. Perhaps only Enjolras could do it, as he was in charge.

'There is another question I feel compelled to ask, though I confess I do not anticipate you being pleased.'

He cants his gaze sideways, with no little trepidation. Perhaps it is slightly theatrical, but only to diffuse a potential situation.

'If Bossuet cannot do it, and it seems as though it will merely be a re-run of the same production - should we not consider whether a more opportune moment could be found? I do not know what that might be; the funeral of Lamarque, as things stood, seemed ideal. But there might be another chance even days later that would give us the result we desired.'

He does not cast the shadow of Bossuet's chance to walk away from an attempt at revolution he knows will fail. He has no doubt their friend will offer his life once more, as all of them would.

"Yes. I haven't yet discussed the question of belief with him. Perhaps something in writing -- we should do that in any case. I think it will have to be convincing. One man should not be attempting to steer a revolution while keeping his comrades in the dark. It's not just. It won't work."

It's a matter of practicality, and it's a matter of principle.

For the second question... he breathes out.

"Perhaps. I've thought of it."

"Again, I think it must be a question for all of us to consider. Not here and now, but in the situation as it unfolds." He spreads an empty hand, as if gesturing to some invisible representation of the situation. "Would you have been willing to stand by on that day? To say to our brothers, no, not today, this will avail us nothing, if they were determined to stand? To turn our backs on barricades in the street, tell the men to return another day?"

It's an awful thought. As such, it must be faced. It must not be flinched from.

"Perhaps. If it came to it, if we were sure enough, if for France's sake we were forced to make that choice. But we are not in a position to make it now, you and I."

"If Bossuet returns to us from the first of June with such news -- then we will advise him as best we can."

'Yes.'

Courfeyrac blinks. And his always-amiable face draws down to something more deflated, as the truth of the situation hits him for perhaps the first time.

He can do nothing. He was standing with his friends, he fell, he arrived here to be greeted by friends. Fewer of them, to be sure. But still the same people he had been fighting with moments before. The move from one to the other was softened. Now, fed and rested, and with space in between, the words hit him like a brick to the face. We are not in a position to make it now.

'You are right, of course.'

He looks away from the flag, casts his gaze lower. For a second or two, he just breathes.

'It would take a more measured man than I to step away from that fight. I suppose I am the Desmoulins to your Robespierre - though no, I should not put my name near those men...forgive me, I am-'

He voice trails off, and he shakes his head. A moment later, he pulls his smile back on. He is here, and so is Enjolras. They must make the best of it.

'We can start with practical matters. They are easy enough. More ammunition, more uniforms. The rest - Bossuet has two years. There is time.'

Softly, "Courfeyrac."

He reaches for his friend's hand; then, changing his mind, puts an arm around Courfeyrac's shoulders instead.

"You are as worthy as any man I have ever known." This is the low fierceness of love, and friendship, and honor. Enjolras would not put his own name beside Maximilien Robespierre, nor beside any of the giants of '89 and '93, but his friends' -- yes. "If history did not give us the same chances, it's no fault of your greatness of soul."

"It's I who should ask you to forgive me. I've had a great deal longer to think on this -- to accustom myself to it. I'm asking you to follow me in that only a night after the fall of our hopes."

He leans into him gratefully. Enjolras is a rock, and always has been. Nothing will move him.

'We will all follow you anywhere.'

They had all made their own choice, but Enjolras...if Courfeyrac were to choose any of them to stand with the giants, there is no doubt who it would be.

'And there is no need for forgiveness of any kind. We all readied ourselves for death. I am glad I am here with you - I had just not realised it, perhaps, until this moment. But I am not sorry.'

He has no trouble conveying his resolve when meeting his eyes.

'And no matter what Bossuet can do, or say, in the living world - I will do it all again.'

"I have never doubted it."

This is only simple truth.

His heart is full. Love, grief, pride, regret, fierce determination. He meant what he said to Bossuet with all his soul: no man could ever ask for better comrades than those Enjolras has been blessed to stand beside. And now two of them are here, Bossuet with a second chance, Courfeyrac with understanding of the first.

The only way to save them is to change the entire course of the battle. They all saw their options, and chose with open eyes. He can only venerate them for it, and for so much.

(Yes, Enjolras thinks about his friends in superlatives all the time. It seems to him only reasonable.)

Milliways has been a drought to him. Now, rain.

'I know. And I have never doubted you. Nor has anyone else.'

This is only simple truth.

He sits quietly for a moment, and then slips off the bed and walks to the wall. His fingers are tentative on the hem of the flag, respectful and with no little awe.

'How did it come to be here?'

Enjolras sets his empty cup aside to watch, hands folded together on his knee.

"I was holding it when I was shot."

In his voice is no distress. Merely the same reverence for the symbol.

He shrugs slightly. "When I arrived, it was still in my hand."

A grin flashes briefly over his face, and he lets his hand drop.

'I find I am not surprised.'

But it is gone when he adds, 'you were still on the barricade? That is where I last saw you.'

It is more than strange to be asking about another man's death with the man himself - and when he himself shares the state.

'...no, you cannot have been. Not if Grantaire-'

Well. It is not important, perhaps.

Enjolras shakes his head.

"The barricade fell. We fell back to the Corinthe as planned, I with the others still on their feet. The other leaders had fallen."

It's only on the word leaders that his voice catches slightly. He pushes ruthlessly past.

Most of this doesn't trouble him to speak of, particularly not with a friend. In truth, even for those aspects which do, it's as much a relief as a difficulty; he has borne the barricade's last hours alone inside his heart for a long time now. It's only hard sometimes, with little warning.

"We barred the door, hacked down the stairs, made our stand upstairs with what we had left to hand. Every man there fought and died bravely. They were tigers. It was there -- I was the last standing when the Guard finally broke through."

They knew at dawn that this would happen. Defeat was not always assured, but by then, when the last plans were laid, it was an inevitability. Outmanned, outgunned, before the combined might of the Army and the National Guard and the Municipal Guard, and all their armories -- the only question was how long each man would be able to fight before death caught him.

His mouth quirks, without much humor. "I hope Mother Hucheloup will forgive us the ruin of her wineshop."

A sacrifice to the Republic. She knew the politics of the students she fed; she and her waitresses stayed to make bullets and bandages while they could. Still. This is the tollgate of a revolution: conviviality turned to a charnel-house.

'Did you use the bottles?'

He does not sound eager for the answer to be 'yes', but not shy of it either. They knew what they were doing when they filled them. And he would surprised if Enjolras had not used every weapon they had put by, no matter how awful.

His own attempt at a smile is in the same vein as Enjolras'.

'I am sure Mother Hucheloup knew full well what to expect when the barricade went up. Which I suppose will not offer much in the way of recompense. Perhaps the sight of our bodies will remind her that it is sacrificed in the name of higher cause.'

"Yes."

Strong nitric acid in wine-bottles, flung down into the faces of the soldiers. Awful to contemplate, awful to use, awful to see.

People in extremity will use horrors. They knew what they were doing when they took those bottles from Pepin's friends who had brought them, and put them aside for the last, worst need.

At Courfeyrac's words, he inclines his head slightly, not so much in assent (which seems to him unnecessary) as in reverence for the higher cause they share. Still sacred, and always.

Edited 2014-06-06 20:10 (UTC)

Yes.

He nods, and looks down. He is not sorry to hear it, but also not sorry he did not see it. He would have thrown them himself, but not laughed about it afterwards.

'I do not know whether to feel sorry about it, or not,' he says, eventually.

'No, I should not say that. I am sorry you had to do it, but there would have been no point taking them if we had no intention of using them.'

Enjolras spreads a hand, an abbreviated shrug. "It was necessary."

That word again, necessity. It justifies much, and absolves nothing.

Courfeyrac knows his thoughts on that.

"Our deaths will be remembered. We made certain of it."

'I should hope so!'

He seems quite indignant - not with Enjolras in particular - that there could be any doubt.

'If we were to die and not advance the cause at all I would be rather upset, I should think. Though I suppose we'll never know.'

Enjolras is silent for a moment. He's thinking of '48 -- sixteen years, and again instantly suborned -- of '52, of '71's brief triumph and Bloody Week, of all the long slow slog he read of.

But there's joy in that tale too. He never lost the hope, never lost sight of the goal, but with Courfeyrac and Bossuet here, it's easier to find that joy too. When he looks back at Courfeyrac, and smiles a little, it's entirely real.

"There are those here who come from other centuries as well. And there are books in a vast library."

"It's a slower course than we dreamed, and a more painful. The betrayal of '30 wasn't the first. But France will establish a republic, a true one, which will hold and last. And not only France. Germany, Russia, Italy, Poland -- most of Europe, by the twentieth century."

"The cause was advanced. We laid our bricks in that road."

For that, any sacrifice was worth it. All they did, all the loss. However long the road might have been.

'A true Republic.'

He repeats the words with a kind of quiet awe. He looks at the flag, and touches the edge of it once more. And then a smile spreads over his face.

'Then any deed, any death, was worth it. For they would all count - all these revolts, all these setbacks - they would all come together until the people shouted 'enough!' and made the final leap.'

His resolve has never wavered. But the uncertainty over the possible outcome of Bossuet's influence ceases to matter. Live or die, they have laid the bricks, fired with their own lives.

'Whatever happens with Bossuet, I am not concerned. There are clearly others who continue the fight. Perhaps we died so they might succeed. It is enough.'

Enjolras doesn't answer aloud. He doesn't need to.

Courfeyrac has always known his heart; in this, they agree utterly. But even without that, his face would say it all.

He nods, and comes to sit back down next to him.

After a moment, perhaps he leans on his shoulder a little. Knowing the eventual outcome is good. In the here and now, sitting with a friend is better.

There's more coffee on the desk, slowly cooling in its pot. But for now, Enjolras has no desire to get it.

This is all he needs, all he's wanted: a friend beside him, shoulder to shoulder, in fraternity and in the certainty of hearts in deep accord.

He clasps Courfeyrac's hand in his. Courfeyrac is a warm weight against his shoulder, an easy support for his own weight leaning in turn. Impatient and ever-burning though Enjolras's heart is, in this moment, he's content.