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“Enjolras, may I have a word with you?”
Enjolras paused at the doorway of the Musain’s backroom, turning back to look at Combeferre.
A full week had passed since Marius’ proposal. Since then, everyone he knew had been swept under the romantic spell of planning a wedding, even though he was fairly certain that the ceremony would only be held next year. Still, the effect was contagious: Courfeyrac was always with Marius now, determined to fulfil his duties as the chief groomsman to the fullest, and the rest of Les Amis de l’ABC busied themselves helping the happy couple with finding whatever they needed as well.
Only Combeferre, it seemed, was still a little distant from the celebrations. Enjolras had been relieved at that; it meant that there was someone he could turn to when he wanted to escape from all the talks of weddings and love.
However, the way that Combeferre looked at him now reminded Enjolras dangerously of the imploring stares his sister would give him during their rare wedding-related talks.
“Of course,” Enjolras replied, closing the door and returning to Combeferre’s side.
They had just ended yet another meeting, with Courfeyrac running out the minute it was declared over– he was to accompany Marius to speak to his grandfather. The rest of the men had streamed out steadily afterwards, determined to make their way home before complete darkness fell. The empty bottles and the coins left on the tables were the only evidence left of the group’s presence, apart from the two young men.
“How are the preparations for the wedding?”
Enjolras could not help but frown at the question. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid.
“It seems to be going well, if what I have heard and seen so far is to be believed,” he said. “But it’s none of my concern; my father and sister make the decisions, I need no say.”
Combeferre smiled sagely.
“When my sister was engaged, she sought my opinion on everything– from her wedding attire down to the invites.”
“I have no authority to give such advice. I know nothing about these affairs.”
“Yes, I know,” Combeferre sighed, leaning back in his seat without looking away from Enjolras. “You do not seem interested in your family’s affairs at all.”
Enjolras sensed an unspoken question within Combeferre’s words. He tilted his head, beckoning him to speak his mind. His friend relented.
“You are quite distant from your family, which worries me. I know you care very much for your father– and surely for your sister too– but the past few months have shown me that you rarely ever stay and talk with them unless absolutely necessary. More often do you leave to return to your rooms, or you exit with us to go to classes or meetings. Why do you stay away? Is this something that I can help with?”
A sudden shiver pierced the small of Enjolras’ back. It resembled the familiar prickle of annoyance he would get whenever his friends had tried to pry into his private life, along with a thrill that he had learnt to associate with fear. That was peculiar; Combeferre had never meant anything but safety to him.
“You are already doing something to help,” Enjolras managed to say, easing out a small smile. “By agreeing to move in with me.”
Combeferre shook his head.
“That is not what I meant, Enjolras. In fact, it is exactly that that is worrying. Why are you so insistent on moving out?”
“Sharing a living space with my father and sister is dangerous, with all that we’re planning. I was lucky in 1830. To expect the same luck would be foolishness.”
“I agree. But avoiding them altogether is bound to be more suspicious, no? Especially with the speed at which you are hurrying out."
Enjolras paused, and only for a mere second did his face fall into hesitance, but Combeferre picked it up at once.
“You haven't told your family you’re moving?” He exclaimed, half incredulous.
“I will tell them soon.”
Combeferre cupped his chin with a hand, a finger pressed tightly against his lips: a tell-tale sign of his frustration.
“Well then, would you like to share just why you’re so secretive to your family– and to us?”
Enjolras recognised the steely look in Combeferre’s eyes– it was the one that he had fixed on him the day of that first dinner, when he had admitted his dual identity as Enjolras and Eugène Fauchelevent. Thankfully, he was now prepared to answer.
“My family cannot know what I do. My father is domineering even to me, though my sister certainly has the worst of it. Still, if he ever knows of our meetings or of what I have written and said, that is my allowance gone, which means funding is gone. That is why this pretence is kept. As for you and our friends—”
At that, Combeferre leaned in with interest.
“—I confess it was a mistake on my part. I was afraid that my family may overwhelm you all, and that secrets may slip, no matter how carefully we work around it. My sister especially– she is smart, smarter than I can ever give her credit for, and she is bound to learn something eventually. And so I had thought it best that you never meet them either. It was…a drastic measure, I have come to learn. It incurred a sense of distrust and for that, I’m sorry. I did not mean to make it seem as though I was lying to you.”
Combeferre’s cold look had thawed by the end of Enjolras’ speech. Still, there was something indescribable in his expression.
“I understand,” he said gently, letting his other hand fall and rest on Enjolras’ tightly clenched fist. Enjolras looked down quizzically; he did not know when he had tensed so. “Though, I still cannot understand one thing. Why are you so secretive over your sister in particular?”
“As I say, she’s smarter—”
“Not secretive towards her, though that is a topic for another time. No, I mean why hide the fact that you have a sister at all? Not even Pontmercy knew that you were his fiancée’s brother until you stumbled upon them. Why are you hiding even her mere existence from us?”
“No one had asked,” Enjolras argued.
An eyebrow arched high on Combeferre’s face.
“It is not a matter of asking either. No one asked me about my sisters, but I mention them every so often. Our personal lives slip easily into conversations. And, my friend, I know you are a private man but even you have mentioned your father to us in passing. Why hide other basic facts– your sister, your name– from us? These bring no harm.”
Enjolras kept quiet then. He tried to rationalise his actions: Did it not make sense that it was all to serve the cause? If his sister had caught wind of this earlier, it would spell doom on Enjolras’ plans. However, Combeferre had made a good point as well; why had he not mentioned anything of his sister? Did he fear that his friends would reach out to her, and— what? What did he fear would happen?
Combeferre sensed his distress and squeezed his hand.
“I hope you won’t think me presumptuous, but may I offer a possible hypothesis for your reluctance?”
Enjolras nodded to give his assent.
“Could you be afraid of your sister being hurt in the process of our plans?”
There was another lengthy pause. This time, the steady look behind Enjolras flickered and dissipated, and a rare look of uncertainty surfaced instead.
“I believe so,” he finally replied.
His voice was so small and foreign that Combeferre, completely unfamiliar with Enjolras in such a state, hurried to comfort his friend.
“That is fine, Enjolras, it is a natural fear to have. I’m sorry to have brought it up. I had only wondered— well, that your actions were still quite a stretch to take, but I cannot fault a fellow brother for having his sister’s interests at heart.”
Enjolras did not seem to notice Combeferre’s words. Rather, he seemed as though he did not notice him at all, staring past him as though he were captivated by some horizon in the distance. Confused, Combeferre turned to look and spotted nothing.
“Enjolras?”
Finally, the man spoke:
“You’re quite right, Combeferre. You would not have known this but– I suppose I have been afraid for my sister’s safety for some time now.”
Before Combeferre could ask what he meant, Enjolras continued. He spoke with the air of a man entranced in a memory long forgotten:
“When we were children, we were placed under the care of an innkeeper. Both our parents were working, or perhaps my mother was already dead, and my father needed someone to watch over us while he worked. My sister and I were raised there. And— I do not remember much, but I do remember one thing: that they were never once good to us. Not once. Not at all.”
A brief pause for air, and Enjolras continued.
“I think I was starved. Or beaten, or both. I remember stealing sous, and being punished for them. When that first happened, I had called for my sister and she came running, and— I do not think either of us got out unscathed. Since then, I do not call upon her at all.”
Combeferre looked stricken, both his hands now clasping Enjolras’ fist on the table. Still, he stayed silent; Enjolras clearly had more to say.
“Perhaps that is why I do not want to involve my sister in my affairs. If she had ever wanted to take the brunt of my punishments, she would have it. And then I would be beaten as well. I suppose, then, that it is this memory of our past that continues to control me. To let her existence be known was a dangerous thing once; it had meant violence and harm. Now…now there is no longer any danger for her, I understand, but it seems that my mind cannot acknowledge that fact. And so I hide, and I lie. I’m sorry, Combeferre, I just– it is confusing to explain, even for me.”
“That is no issue, Enjolras.” Combeferre’s voice was rough with emotion. Surprised, Enjolras refocused on his friend; his eyes were wide and alight with tears. “I had only– I only wished you had shared this with me earlier, so I could help you through this grief.”
“Grief?”
Combeferre shook his head, gently tugging on Enjolras’ hand. Understanding his command, Enjolras unfurled his fingers, relaxing his fist. His hand trembled with the effort.
“I wish I had known,” Combeferre said sadly. “Oh Enjolras, I wish I had known. Of course you would be afraid for your sister, if you had both lived through that hell. I cannot fault you for shielding her; I would too, for my own, if we were tortured as such.”
Unnerved by his reaction, Enjolras tried to draw away, but could not bring himself to let go of Combeferre’s hands.
“It is nothing,” Enjolras persisted. “It has been years. I am fine.”
“I doubt it, if it continues to affect you so. Do you remember the name of this innkeeper? I shall find them, and make sure you are never harmed again."
If this were another conversation, regarding any other person that Enjolras had disliked in his life, he would have answered honestly. But his head was heavy with fresh memories resurfaced, and the familiar ache of fear was still tight around his chest.
“I don’t remember his name,” Enjolras replied softly. That was the truth. “And I don’t remember his face.” That was false; he could remember it as clear as day. “But let us not talk of this any longer. Please.”
“Of course,” Combeferre said kindly, though the entire conversation clearly rattled him. To Enjolras’ surprise once more, his friend reached over and took his shoulder, pulling him into an embrace.
Enjolras stiffened out of habit, but the comfort of Combeferre’s body and the warmth of his hands pressing the small of his back soothed him. Soon, he was able to lie his cheek against his shoulder and place his hands on Combeferre’s arms.
“Thank you.” Enjolras closed his eyes, his long lashes fluttering on his pale skin. The closeness of their bodies prompted him to speak once more:
“You are the first person whom I’ve told.”
“Oh.” The despair in Combeferre’s voice grew stronger. “But your father—?”
“He does not know the full extent, I believe. He has never asked and I have never told.”
Both men fell silent then, as Enjolras continued to let his eyes remain closed, swallowing down the uncomfortable pressure that had built up in his throat. The steady rise and fall of Combeferre’s chest pressed against his calmed him down further, and soon he found the strength to open his eyes and pull away.
“Thank you,” he repeated.
“There is no need for thanks,” Combeferre said firmly. “In fact, I should apologise instead. I have caused you much pain to remember this.”
Enjolras tried his best to argue against his words – for how could Combeferre have known of this wretched past when he himself had forgotten of it a mere minute ago? – but found himself too lethargic to do anything else but press Combeferre’s hand.
“Let us retire for the day, you must be tired too. I shall have recovered the next time you see me, I promise, so do not worry yourself over me.”
Combeferre did not seem convinced, but allowed himself to be pulled onto his feet. Enjolras busied himself placing the scattered chairs on their tables, still too fraught to make conversation. Eventually, Combeferre caught on and helped him to arrange the furniture as well.
“At least let me walk you home.”
Enjolras could not find any reason to refuse, and so nodded in agreement. The two men exited the Musain arm in arm, sinking into a comfortable silence as they traversed the quiet streets of Paris. The cool evening air finally brought Enjolras fully back to his senses; he raised his face to the wind and sighed.
“Thank you, Combeferre,” Enjolras said once more, looking over to his friend with a faint impression of a smile on his red lips. “For listening to me speak. There is no need to be guilty of having dug up these memories. Talking about it was– cathartic. So I thank you.”
Combeferre frowned at his words, as though he had more to say, but ultimately nodded and tugged on Enjolras’ arm in affection.
“Alright,” he replied with a tentative smile of his own, which quickly dimmed. “I still do hope you feel better soon, Enjolras. You and your sister both.”
Enjolras paused at the mention of his sister.
“I will be fine,” he answered. “And my sister is also in safe hands. We have our father, now, and she will have Marius soon. My mind will adjust to that fact eventually.”
“That is good. Though, do you think that perhaps…your sister may face the same struggles as you do now? Separating the past from the present?”
They arrived at Enjolras’ doorstep. At Combeferre’s words, Enjolras looked up at the small quaint window at the side of the house, one that led into his sister’s bedroom. The candle was out, the white curtains dark in the shadows of her room. For a moment his heart stirred for his sister; that girl whom he would have gladly laid his life down for a lifetime ago, the only person who could have understood just what had happened in that small, stifling town.
“If she does,” he said slowly. “She has Marius and our father to turn to.”
“You should still be there too, in any case,” advised Combeferre. “She may be married off soon, but she will always be your sister. She will have need of you.”
Enjolras did not give a reply. Those words troubled him more than he would ever admit, a reminder of an unsevered connection that will forever link him to a familial past.
“I will try my best.” Was all he could reply with, stepping away and giving his friend a curt nod. “Good night, Combeferre.”
Worry had returned to Combeferre’s features, but he was wise enough to not push for any more information, on a night when far too much had already been spilt. He returned the farewell with a nod of his own and slowly began walking off, his head half-turned to check on Enjolras.
Enjolras, meanwhile, stayed on the steps for a little longer, his eyes gaining back the far-away look from before. Then, just as Combeferre reached the end of the street, he turned and entered his home, closing and locking the door behind him with a still air of finality.