Chapter Text
The secret about Paris is to never shut your eyes. But even when you do, even when dull necessity causes your lids to tingle with tears and the irreclaimable act of blinking to interrupt the flow of the dream unfolding in your mind, still do not let yourself miss a thing. Because if you do, Paris is going to deceive you, and then you'll never be wholly delivered. If that happens, then you should better shut your eyes forever and throw your head back, allow the frenzy to immure you in its inescapable folds of flames, elegant and poorly disguised with a few stray rays of sunshine that fall on the medieval bits and pieces which are left on the Ile de la Cite and make even what some people once called the demolishment of Baron Haussmann seem enthralling, or the gentle singing of the rain as it pours on Montane St. Genevieve, as if to tenderly tuck to sleep with its glassy blanket of autumn mist, those who with their minds and their hands resurrected the city again. No, don’t let Paris deceive you, not with the soft breezes against your cheek or against the marble cheeks of the permanent, eternal inhabitants of every garden and palace and church. Keep your eyes open, and if you shut them never open them again because you will definitely be deceived, seduced by the eerie melodies of freedom that invite you to dance at their rhythm in the aristocratic halls of the Belle Époque, aroused in every way by the scent of the blood of the revolutionaries, still fresh and never peacefully diffused to an underworld which still awaits for The Age of the Enlightment, the abased who've lost their voice, stuffed in the Catacombs under the metro station Denfert-Rochereau which is a pun d'enfer, of hell, the Hades of the sewers whose love for Persephone, the Woman, the City, will always be unrequited. The fog in her eyes while she’s trapped in the gate of hell is made of clouds, the dreams and sorrows of the poets, the fading colors of the artists who, like her, will always be alive and forever trapped in their own Revolution. Don’t be deceived by the sun on the silent, wise cobblestone or the scent of the coffee in every café and brasserie where time seems to flow slowly. In Paris nothing makes sense. Nothing fits yet not a thing feels out of place. Everything clashes. Bourgeois and Napoleonic. King and clochard, worker, student and gamin, black bread, sponge cake and macarons. Revolt, beauty, death, liberté. Don’t try to seek the truth. Only the rain mutes and hides the secrets of both the future and the past, and at the same time washes them clear and reveals, in a single drop, all you need to know and look no further. Just try to catch it before it falls in the Seine and meddle with the others, because then you’ll have to follow her example.
Don’t walk in Paris. Don’t listen to what they say. All you need is to wake up and open the window pane. Stick your head outside and your tongue at the sky. Taste one of its teardrops. Breathe it in, all in one greedy intake. Then swallow it. Paris is inside you. Repeat.
*
The day they move in their new apartment the skies open and Paris almost drowns in rain. With the sun shining on the sky. In the middle of February. That’s the deal about Enjolras’ life and that of his friends’. Normal things simply don’t happen to them.
“Do we really need all those dead bugs in the house?” Courfeyrac scoffs as he climbs the stairs, hidden behind two huge boxes that apparently contain Combeferre’s precious insect collection.
“I was going to ask the same question about the eleventh shoe box that I carried,” Combeferre appears behind a huge pile of bubble wrapping paper which is probably going to prove itself very useful to Enjolras’ exam stress later.
“Listen,” begins Courfeyrac, matter-of-factly. “I’m ladies’ man, man’s man, man about town. These shoes are part of me. You remember that day! There was a huge blowout at the vintage store near Librairie des Abbesses, besides you forget you bought that hideous lime green sweater vest!”
“Sometimes I observe both your capitalistic tendencies and reconsider my choices in friends,” mutters Enjolras, all spite completely absent from his quite affectionate, teasing voice.
“Should I remind you the fourth coffee machine I just unpacked?” Courfeyrac narrows his eyes in mock offense.
“For you information, it was a lungo machine. Why don't you stay away from it next time you don't want shitty coffee?”
“Behave, boys,” they hear Combeferre’s slightly scolding voice, while he’s putting dozens of huge books out of boxes, arranging them on their newly placed bookcase. “We need to at least pretend to be grownups if we want this place to be habitable before midnight.”
“That’s right. We needs to rush, in order to seriously work on those articles tonight, we've only been postponing it for so long,” Enjolras is brought back in order.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Courfeyrac sighs dramatically. “We’re three adults who’re adulting in an adultery manner, I fail to see where your problem is!”
The truth is that Enjolras is incredibly stressed out. He still insists that it was a terrible idea to move out just before the end of the term, and even while unpacking and arranging furniture in their new apartment, his mind cannot be liberated of thoughts related to the studying he has to finish and all the work that needs to be done and is related to their activism. Even then, however, he fails to keep cross at his best friends, and he hardly even holds back his smile when a passing Courfeyrac ruffles his mop of blond hair.
After a while the three of them are covered in a thin layer of sweat, despite the cold weather. The crazy rain seems to have stopped and a few stray sunrays are peeking under the clouds, reflecting on the wet trees and the Parisian rooftops out of the window. Combeferre inspects their work, the living room still looking bombarded, covered in furniture and the oddest unpacked things, boxes and wrapping paper everywhere yet his books already perfectly organized on the bookcase. “It’s a very nice place,” Enjolras hears himself saying, walking around the other few rooms of their apartment. "Let's hope our neighbours are decent."
Courfeyrac turns around and offers him a glowing grin. "Let's hope they're not." Then he opens the window widely and looks outside. “It’s perfect,” he beams, the excitement palpable in the sound of his voice. “Now, is anyone else as famished as I am? All this unpacking requires better nutrition for boys in a developmental stage!” One who doesn’t know the aforementioned boy with the milk chocolate skin and the bitter chocolate curls would normally assume that Courfeyrac is suggesting to prepare lunch for the three of them, but expectedly enough it’s Combeferre who ends up in the kitchen, sleeves of his button up rolled up, his thick eyebrows smudged behind his thicker spectacles, wearing Courfeyrac's kitsch Baise le Chef apron.
Enjolras is exhausted when he finally settles into his room, full with unpacked boxes and suitcases. His favorite social justice message posters, as well as those of his icons are already hanging on the wall. He may not have studied anything all day but as he hears his best friends’ laughter from inside the kitchen, all he can do is smile with satisfaction.
This is already feeling like a good life.
*
It’s perfect. Everything is perfect. The pressure of the water in their new shower, Enjolras’ new coffee machine (Courfeyrac makes a mental note to not apologize for calling him on it because Enjolras called him a capitalist and that is not a trespass that can be easily forgiven), the smell of flowers and traffic and Paris out of the window in his room, the way his hair looks today, the speech he just finished correcting with Combeferre, everything is perfect. Courfeyrac simply loves it here.
Combeferre is taking a small nap to sleep the exhaustion of moving in and cooking for three of the day off. Enjolras has already found a favorite armchair in their new living room, like the cat he refuses he is, and is balancing his laptop on his knees, proofreading an essay. It doesn’t take long for Courfeyrac to get dressed in his electric blue pants, maroon brogues and matching bowtie, before nodding at the mirror and leaving the apartment with his sole, innocent purpose to investigate the building. How he ends up in the fucking Jardin des Plantes itself, out in the fire escape, he doesn’t have the faintest idea.
He’s truly mesmerized by his newest discovery and he carefully walks between all the ceramic pots, full with colorful flowers that smell exquisitely, a few of them hanging from the exit stairs, the rain shining like tiny diamonds on the petals, pink, purple, blue and yellow, and he wonders how the fuck this is still a fire escape and who managed to get away with this. Whoever it is, he’s already in love with them.
Well, shit. He rushed to speak.
It is an elf. Or a fairy. A forest nymph. It just can’t be fucking human because they’re so gorgeous and Courfeyrac is so done, Courfeyrac simply can’t.
“I see you’ve discovered my garden.”
Isn’t that line out of a Disney movie? Or Narnia? Courfeyrac does not have the faintest idea but he is quite speechless because he makes another step only to realize that it is actually a human, a pretty gorgeous one at that. His hair is mint green, his ears pierced several times, and he looks tiny in his huge tribal poncho and thick metallic leggings. He’s dressed accordingly for the chilly winter weather, yet his feet are bare and stepping on the rainy steps of the staircase. “Sorry,” he murmurs, sounding more terrified than he should for frick’s sake, “I didn’t want to…”
“Nay, it’s cool,” the man smiles, and the faint blush on his freckle-scattered cheeks can be either the beginning of freezing and the foresight of stalactites on his nose, or maybe a look of shyness that seems made for his face and for those in Rossetti's paintings. “You don't look exactly like the type for this neighborhood?"
Courfeyrac is somehow drawn by the ease in the other’s words and the quiet, deep voice they are spoken in, and he just realizes that he didn’t even need to explain he’s one of the new neighbours. “I thought that everywhere in Paris is expensive as fuck." The other shrugs his shoulders in silent agreement. "Anyway, Enjolras’ parents cut him out,” he shrugs his shoulders, “that was the best we could do. I love it here though! I love your garden!”
“Thanks. I love my flowers so much though sometimes I forget to water them. We’re all so lucky we have Feuilly,” beams the man, giving him a hand to shake. Courfeyrac notices the fading purple nail polish on his bitten nails and he mustn't. Squee. “I’m Jean Prouvaire, but friends call me Jehan.”
He shakes his hand, giving the other the most charming grin of his collection and letting a wince. “Your hands are cold! I’m Courfeyrac, by the way.”
“Oh, you’re the friend Marius won’t shut up about!”
“Do you know Pontmercy?”
“He’s Ponine’s old neighbour!” Jehan shrugs his shoulders matter-of-factly, as if Courfeyrac is supposed to know who Ponine is. “He’s the one who told you for the apartment, right?”
“Uh, yeah…”
“It’s us he learnt it from, obviously!” The man stares at the sky with a frown, then back at Courfeyrac. “He’s a fun boy, Marius. Though a tad lost. Well it was lovely to meet you but now I’ve really got to run. I promised Grantaire we’d have a knitting evening and this indecisive weather’s doing strange things to my brain. I normally love the rain, you know.”
“I love the sun,” Courfeyrac blurts out.
“Of course you do,” grins Jehan absent-mindedly after a small pause, their eyes not quite meeting. “Our paths may probably cross again.”
“May they?” Courfeyrac hears himself asking, and without an answer Jehan turns around and gets inside the building, his bare feet thumping on the wet, frozen floor.
*
Courfeyrac is in the middle of a frenzy about the probable nonexistence of such a person outside of his mind when they hear a knock on the door and Courfeyrac literally flies from the back of the room to the door.
Enjolras is working on some notes when a lanky, absurdly-ginger-for-his-complexion guy neither of them has seen before appears at the door and Courfeyrac can swear he’s never seen his friend’s eyes focusing so intensely on a person before. The newcomer is holding a plate full with what seems like bright pink cupcakes therefore he’s immediately welcomed and pulled into the apartment by Courfeyrac. “Hey, sorry to interrupt,” the man says and Enjolras rests his notes on the couch, shaking his head because cupcakes and no, he’s not intruding. “I’m Feuilly, I live upstairs.”
“Do you live with Jehan?” Courfeyrac can feel Enjolras’ questioning look piercing through his skin but is used to ignore it.
“No, Jehan lives next door to you. My apartment is on the third, with Bahorel. Jehan and Grantaire made these to welcome you though, and they both had to leave for work so they asked me to bring them to you between my jobs.”
“Dear me he’s so romantic!” squeals Courfeyrac at the sight of the pink cupcakes, just on the point when Combeferre enters the living room fully dressed, wiping his wet hair with a towel.
“Thank you, that’s very kind of you,” Combeferre smiles to Feuilly. “Please, take a seat. That’s Courfeyrac and Enjolras over there.”
“I don’t really have time to stay, sorry. My shift starts in half an hour.”
Enjolras’ intense gaze on the man is still apparent. “You said jobs, right? As in, you were working and now you’re heading to another one?”
“Uh, you know, I do stuff here and there. Clocks, fans, cafés, bars, petrol stations…” Nobody questions the significance of words such as clocks and fans yet Enjolras seems considerably interested to the man’s every word and if his best friend develops a crush on their neighbour Courfeyrac swears he’ll throw a party. With strippers. Maybe he’ll do the stripper himself. It’ll be fun.
Maybe he’ll ask Combeferre to join.
Maybe not.
“You shouldn't let Jehan hear you calling him romantic though,” Courfeyrac realizes that Feuilly is addressing him, a half-amused smile on his tired, freckled face. “A Romantic, now that’s a completely different story. He’s been asking for a human skull for quite a while now. Says it’ll help him to have someone to chat with for brainstorming. All these years I’ve known him, I’ve half expected him to introduce me to a pet lobster but then again, Maenad counts for three.”
Courfeyrac’s head is spinning because Maenad who the fuck is Maenad and oh my god their neighbours what are even their neighbours when he notices Enjolras’ scrutinizing look at the fucking cupcakes. Of course after moving in they’re in vast need of food, any kind of it, even after Combeferre’s sausages and fries – especially cupcakes. After a few seconds though a better look at said cupcakes helps Courfeyrac to understand. The icing on half of them says LET'S STICK IT TO THE MAN and the rest say DOWN WITH THE PATRIARCHY.
“This is actually creative,” Courfeyrac mutters half to Feuilly – half to himself. “Enjo look! The utilization of this concept could open several paths in stirring the …”
“Listen,” Combeferre gives Feuilly an approving smile, “why don’t you all join us for tea some time? It would be nice to have a chat and meet the rest.”
“Thanks, that’s kind of you. I work, however…”
“Tomorrow morning before classes then, and before your work,” Courfeyrac rushes to interrupt, “come for breakfast.”
“We could do that…”
“Bring Jehan!” Courfeyrac says with a dead-serious expression.
“Uh, sure –”
“And Nutella –”
“Courfeyrac I’m positively sure we already have like four buckets of Nutella –”
“This is an emergency supply Ferre, you can’t expect us to finish our emergency supply, what if the apocalypse - ”
Enjolras makes a decisive step forward. “It was nice meeting you, Feuilly. We’d be delighted to share the opinions of you and your flatmate on several issues tomorrow morning.”
Courfeyrac honestly doesn’t know what he’ll do with his life if Feuilly’s picture ends up on Enjolras’ Wall of Extremely Important Men, so instead he follows Combeferre in the corridor, grabbing the towel from his hands and flowing it in the air like a revolutionary banner. “Ferre, I need you to sneak me a human skull!”
*
Moving out just before the end of the term was a very bad idea, Enjolras knew that all along yet he understood the problems and their hurry very well and had not objected to his friends’ decision. It has also taken him a while to convert to the new environment, yet he immediately starts working. He ignores Combeferre’s suggestion to go to sleep long after midnight. He absent-mindedly explains Courfeyrac why he can’t join them out tonight, not even moving his eyes from his computer. He doesn’t even realize that it’s past 2AM, not when his eyelids start feeling heavy, not when he yawns twelve times in a row, not even when he finds his eyes struggling with the same paragraph for the seventh time. But his exhaustion and his need to finish two papers, an essay (not due for another week) and an article are not the only problem, no. It’s also that loud, disturbing music pounding in his ears -he recognizes Arctic Monkeys because he has too been through a phase that left him with a pierced nipple, thank you very much- coming, as it seems, through the wall. It’s so loud that the whole room seems to be vibrating and he’s starting to develop a headache which is going to be proven disastrous for his work.
Now, Enjolras should get more credit for staying calm through things because he usually does manage. Specifically though when the end of the term is just around the corner, in such unorthodox hours of the night, his blood consisting merely of coffee, it’s possible for him to lose his patience, and that’s how he finds himself knocking on the door of the apartment next to their own, the personification of righteous fury with his mop of golden curls held in a bun by a pencil, dark circles under his eyes, lips pressed to a thin line, and cheeks colored to match his red hoodie. He waits for a while, tapping his foot on the floor impatiently until he knocks again. He can still hear the music coming from inside, until it’s eventually a bit muffled and the door opens.
The man standing on the door is practically consisting of acrylic paint. Enjolras feels instinctively annoyed, not only for the interruption to his work. It’s also something else, maybe the unruly state of the stranger’s dark curls which are sticking on his sweaty forehead and the smug smile that doesn’t quite reach his pale blue eyes, the faint smell of smoke lingering in the air and causes him to scrunch up his nose, or maybe the way these eyes are fixed on him in a way he can’t quite read and that makes him palpably uncomfortable, but then again Enjolras is too tired to consider all the possibilities, so instead he clears his throat. “Can you please turn down the music because I’m trying to finish some studying?” he asks, his head throbbing with exhaustion.
“It’s 2AM,” the man quirks an eyebrow.
“Uh… yes?”
“And you’re studying.”
“I’m... studying?”
“Don’t look at me, that’s what you told me. Studying. At 2AM.”
Enjolras is on the verge of distressed tears because he really doesn’t have time to chat with a neighbour whose name he doesn’t even know right now. “Some people actually want to do something with their lives, you know?”
The dark haired man tuts understandingly. “Right. Of course. Sorry for interrupting your educational process and stepping in the path of sacred enlightenment and societal reformation.”
Before he’s able to question the mocking tone of the man’s last sentence – even when Enjolras didn’t mention anything about societal reformation – he’s deprived by that right by a furry tornado that viciously attacks his sweatpants. Saying that Enjolras is taken aback would be an understatement and he fervently tries to free himself by shaking his leg but the grey cat who has appeared out of nowhere seems quite determined to keep her claws attached on him forever.
“Stop staring or so help me!” he groans, particularly pissed off at his incapability of dealing with a murderous furry beast.
The stranger is looking thoroughly amused and he surely takes his time reaching for the cat who’s hissing at Enjolras, managing to pull her away and holding her near his face, cooing at her as if Enjolras is not even present. “Who’s a good kitty? Who’s a fluffy cuddly kitty? Is Maenad a fluffy cuddly kitty?”
Said kitty is currently displaying all of her sharp teeth and hissing at her owner and Enjolras decides that he has seen more than enough, thank you very much. “I should go now,” he says. “Do something with that music.”
“At your command and now pray do forgive me for I must leave you, I'm in my blue period,” the man takes his blue eyes away from Maenad, showing at the state of his clothes, as if expecting Enjolras to take some hidden message. “Picasso?” he explains hesitantly and, noticing Enjolras’ baffled expression, reaches for the door. “Anyway, goodnight Apollo. Don’t let the exams bite.”
“Wait,” Enjolras snaps in a confused voice, placing his hand on the handle. “That’s not my name.”
“Oh really,” the man says with vivid interest engraved on his features. “Forgive me your mightiness, for I misheard.”
“It’s Enjolras,” he huffs, emphasizing every syllable.
“Of course,” Maenad jumps off her owner’s arms with an angry meow and disappears inside the apartment. There is a strange smile on his face, for a moment it feels almost gentle and Enjolras reckons that he really does need some sleep. “Of course it is.”
Enjolras turns around to leave when he hears a voice from the door he’d assumed already shut. “Grantaire. Not that you asked.” He stops and looks back again. The man is still standing there, peering behind a half shut door, the same smile always on his face.
“Oh,” a realization downs Enjolras and pangs him with sudden guilt at the sound of the man’s name. “Thanks for the cupcakes, I guess.”
Grantaire’s grin grows on his paint-stained face and he opens the door a crack more. “They weren’t ambrosia but I hope they were... tempting enough.”
“They were good,” replies Enjolras, angry with himself for even making an effort.
“Only the best for the Greek God occupying the room next to mine!” and with that, Grantaire disappears behind the shut door and, shortly after, said room is inevitably filled with music.
Enjolras can only bang his head on the desk, to the rhythm of 'We'll Never Be Royals'.