You Have Strength of a Different Kind

Feuilly didn’t know why he had accepted Combeferre's invitation. He’d meant to say no, that he was busy, anything, but Combeferre had looked so hopeful, and… he hadn’t had the heart to disappoint him. And so he found himself at the front door of Combeferre’s family home along with Courfeyrac and Enjolras, feeling terribly, horribly out of place.

'Maybe this was a mistake….'

An older man answered the door just as he was contemplating finding an excuse to leave and he sighed, resigned to his fate, following as the porter led them inside to… more outside?

Courfeyrac, noticing his bewildered expression, leaned over to whisper, “The courtyard.”

“Oh,” he said in reply, not understanding at all.

They passed through another door and into the house proper. Feuilly glanced about as they walked, more than a little intimidated at how expensive everything looked; the walls trimmed with gold and with landscapes painted directly onto them, the floor under his feet covered with carpet, a glittering chandelier hanging from the ceiling that almost felt redundant with all the natural light that flooded in from the many windows.

People lived in a building like this?

There were dozens of chairs, but only a handful were being used—or had been, as the occupants all rose as they entered the room. Combeferre quickly crossed over to greet them, a smile on his face. “My friends, thank you for coming.”

“The pleasure is ours.” Courfeyrac clasped his hand with a bright smile of his own. “It has been far, far too long!”

He turned to address the others then with a warm sort of familiarity and Feuilly realized all at once just how much of a stranger here he truly was. Of course the others not only knew places and people such as these, they knew this place and these people, too. What had he been thinking? Just because Combeferre had invited him didn't mean he belonged here; no, far from it. Surely, he had only invited Feuilly in an effort to be polite, and they both would have been better off if he'd simply declined the offer as soon as it'd been voiced.

“You’re Feuille?”

He startled and looked down to find a little girl staring at him. “Uh… it’s Feuilly.”

“Feuilly,” she repeated slowly, her face scrunching up in concentration. Then she gave him an excited smile. “My brother’s told me all about you. He says you paint fans! Did you bring one? I want to see!”

“Well— no, I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay! You can bring one the next time you visit!”

She took his hand and he stumbled forwards in surprise as she began to tug him into the room, but before he could do much more than glance helplessly back at the others Courfeyrac was sweeping forwards and scooping the child up into his arms. “My, could this be little Rosalie? Look how you’ve grown!”

“You were here a few weeks ago, silly!”

“And you’ve grown at least a third of a meter since then!” he insisted, and he booped her nose, making her giggle in delight. 

Feuilly lingered by the door as they moved further into the room, doing his best to blend in with the painted walls behind him and wishing he was anywhere else. He had just started to edge closer to the hall when his wandering gaze landed on a book that had been left on the table nearby and he picked it up, examining the cover curiously.

All at once he realized that someone was standing next to him. He startled again, but to his relief he saw it was only Enjolras. He wasn’t looking at Feuilly, though; his gaze was fixed on the conversation across the room.

“He’s quite good at that,” the other boy murmured, almost to himself.

“What?”

He glanced over at Feuilly then, something indescribably fond in his expression. “Being the center of attention.”

Feuilly looked back over to the other side of the room. Combeferre and his family had loosely gathered around Courfeyrac, listening as he regaled them all with some story or another. None of them had seemed to notice that neither Enjolras nor Feuilly had yet to join them.

He breathed a little sigh of relief at the thought.

“What do you have there?”

His attention snapped back to Enjolras, who had moved closer, then to the book still in his hands, and he hurriedly moved to put it back on the table. “I was just looking, I swear! I—”

Enjolras settled a hand on his arm, making Feuilly’s voice die in his throat. “It’s alright, I was merely curious.”

Feuilly released a breath again and looked back down at the book. “De Materia Medica. It looked interesting, so I thought I’d ask Combeferre if he might be willing to let me borrow it.”

“I’m sure he would.”

Enjolras sounded certain, but Feuilly wasn’t so sure. “I hope so. But, it looks rather… expensive, doesn’t it?”

“It looks worn out,” Enjolras replied bluntly. He pointed at one of the pages, which was coming loose. “It must be well loved, if he still keeps it around.”

“Then he probably wouldn’t want us to be touching it.”

“I truly don’t believe he would mind; Combeferre loves nothing more than sharing knowledge, and we’ve borrowed books from each other before. But if you’d rather ask him first….”

They both looked over at the conversation across the room again and faltered, neither one wishing to intrude, nor to do anything at all that would draw attention their way.

“I don’t like these sorts of gatherings, so I am grateful for the way Courfeyrac draws others to him. It frees me from being compelled to join in their idle chatter," Enjolras finally said. Then, more quietly, he confessed, "Sometimes I can even leave, or sneak into another room for a while, with no one the wiser.”

“Sneak into another room?” Feuilly echoed. “Is that allowed?”

“Technically, no. But I’ve yet to be caught.” He quirked a brow as Feuilly, not entirely sure if he was being serious or not, searched his expression. Then he inclined his head towards the door, a small smile on his face. “Perhaps we could do so now.”

It was admittedly an extremely tempting offer, and Feuilly had barely even begun to consider it when he found himself nodding. “And the book?”

“I don't see why we couldn't bring it with us. It's not as if we'll be leaving the premises."

Feuilly nodded again, a thrill of excitement filling him at the prospect of sneaking around with a friend as they quietly slipped out of the room and into the next. He took one of the armchairs by the window, expecting Enjolras to take the other; instead the other boy sat on its arm, leaning in close as Feuilly carefully opened the book so he could see the pages as well. 

Feuilly glanced up, more than a little surprised at the close proximity. Enjolras stared back at him, and after a moment he tilted his head, his brow furrowing. “Is this okay?”

“Oh, yes! Yes, it’s fine,” Feuilly quickly reassured him. “I don’t mind at all.”

Enjolras nodded and turned his attention back to the book. Feuilly followed suit, only to realize with dismay that none of the words were decipherable to him.

“This… isn’t French, is it?”

“No, it’s Latin.” Enjolras paused. “Are you familiar with it?”

He sounded earnest enough, but Feuilly still felt his face burn at the question. “Uh. No….”

“I can read it, then.” He held his hands out for the book, and Feuilly hesitated for only a moment before handing it over, scrambling to catch a page that came loose as Enjolras flipped through it in interest. “There are illustrations.”

“Yes, but what does it say?”

Enjolras went quiet at that, thoughtfully studying the page he’d ended up on. Then, haltingly, he began to read, “When digging, stand and beg Apollo and Aesculapius to observe the flying eagle, as they say for a fact she does not fly without danger. A bird causes death if seen digging hellebore.”

“The eagle causes death?” Feuilly said in surprise. Then, unable to help himself, he muttered, “Reminds one of what’s happened to Poland, doesn’t it?”

Enjolras blinked at him. “What happened to Poland?”

“The three black eagles, of course! Austria, Prussia, Russia— they tore apart the nation’s sovereignty piece by piece until nothing was left, and no one did a thing to stop them!”

“Oh yes,” Enjolras mused. “I remember you mentioned that before.”

“It bears repeating! Can you imagine if something like that happened to France?”

“That could never happen to France!”

“It could! Despotism respects no borders, not even France’s, and the moment people care only about what affects them personally we let down our guard to the same danger!”

“There is danger, yes, but we would be remiss not to focus on the despotism that comes from within before contending with the one without.”

“You cannot prioritize one over the other— not when injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere!"

"We live in France, our priority should be France. We cannot risk becoming distracted with the business of other countries when our own is so in need of aid!"

"Distracted!" Feuilly exclaimed, aghast. "In need of aid! When there are people out there with no motherland, who are forced to leave their homes— who are desperate for bread just the same as here! The danger is in that way of thinking. We have a moral obligation to act, to help those who need it, and we are complicit in these atrocities if we do nothing!”

All at once he realized that Enjolras was regarding him with that same fond look and he flushed.

“Enjolras?”

“You are right,” Enjolras said, inclining his head. “We cannot do nothing.”

“Yes,” Feuilly said slowly.

He wasn't quite sure how to react to that look, but before he had a chance to figure it out a soft knock sounded and they both jumped, looking over to see Combeferre standing in the doorway.

“I’m sorry to interrupt, but the head cook has just announced that dinner is ready.”

Feuilly stood up, hurriedly taking the book back from Enjolras and crossing the room in order to hold it out to Combeferre. “This is yours.”

Combeferre’s smile softened as he accepted the book back. “Yes, I know, but you’re welcome to borrow it longer if you wish. I can’t imagine you got terribly far in the last fifteen minutes or so.”

“No,” Feuilly admitted. He glanced at Enjolras as the other boy joined his side, and awkwardly cleared his throat. “But I can’t read Latin.”

“Ah, I see.” Combeferre glanced at Enjolras as well and smirked. “And Enjolras translated for you, I assume? Yes, in that case, I am not surprised you did not get very far at all.”

Enjolras raised a brow at that and said nothing.

“We read about how the eagle causes death,” Feuilly told him.

“Ah, yes, what an interesting superstition. I wonder what inspired it.”

“Perhaps it had something to do with Poland,” Enjolras said, his lips twitching as he fought a smile, and Feuilly couldn't help but laugh at Combeferre’s confused expression.

“Perhaps,” Combeferre said after a moment, a thoughtful expression on his face. “A discussion for another time, I'd say. As for now, the others will be waiting on us.”

More than a little reluctantly, they followed him back down the hallway and to the drawing room. As they walked Enjolras stepped closer, his elbow brushing against Feuilly's, and quietly said, “I would like to continue our conversation later.”