(no subject)

[le_centre]

Courfeyrac slept long, and without moving much. It felt so good to be clean, and lying flat, after so many hours at the whim of adrenaline, and rain, and only stones to rest on. But here he is with a friend, and there was food and clean clothes, and then water that ran hot out of taps....truly, a remarkable thing. He was thinking about it when he lay down, and then he was gone.

Now, it is morning. He wakes slowly, disconcerted. The energy from the night before, finding himself dead and yet strangely alive - it is gone. He lies still, trying to collect his thoughts. But they do not move much further than Enjolras, and Bossuet, and Gavroche. 

And everyone else, who is not here. Them too.

Comments

[le_centre]

'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.'

[pro_patria_mortuus]

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.

[le_centre]

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.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

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.