The Laughing Mistress

As that glow spreads, it lights up the faces of his friends. Joly and Bossuet asleep in a tucked-away corner—the only ones to actually follow his order to rest. Combeferre and Feuilly talking quietly together. Feuilly has lost his coat. Combeferre is cleaning his pistol so he has something to do with his hands.  Courfeyrac stands with Marius near the main door to the Corinthe with his arm around Marius’ shoulders. Somehow, some way, a smile plays at his lips. Grantaire is ... well he’s lost sight of Grantaire. He must still be in the cafe.  

Prouvaire and Bahorel are ...  

Enjolras stomach sinks.  

That’s right.  

That’s right. 

They’re gone.  

He allows the grief to gut him for a moment.  

But only a moment.  

From his place at the top of the barricade with the coming dawn, Enjolras chooses to imagine Bahorel and Prouvaire alive. He chooses to see them at the edge of this temporary safe place laughing together. He hears Bahorel’s deep-belly laugher in his ear. The flutter of Prouvaire’s medieval sleeves catch in the morning breeze.  

While he breathes, they are alive.  

While people hope, they are alive.  

While the sun rises and the stars spin silver against the heavens, they are alive.  

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. As long as the tomorrows keeping coming, they are alive.  

He doesn’t need a god, a religion, to know that.  

That faith is enough.  

The breath in his own lungs is but a temporary thing. He knows that. They are, according to his reconnaissance, one of the last—if not the last—barricade standing.  

They are not getting out.  

Taking that truth unto himself is one thing.  

Telling the others is something else.  

He has never much considered the million tiny things that keep his body going—that has always been Combeferre and Joly’s line of work. Now, in the pause before the plunge into their final stand, he feels every pulse and prick. The beat of his heart. The scratch of his sweaty shirt. The hang of his hair that’s fallen loose from its tie. The exertion-ache in his legs. The warmth of his hands and feet. The way his chest rises and falls without him having to spare a thought. 

All of it.  

The fall of boot heels on the rickety makeshift walkway alerts him to a familiar presence. He knows the step. The feel of his friend behind him.  

“I’m guessing we’re not getting what we hoped for this morning, huh?” Courfeyrac asks. “It’s quiet.”  

Before he turns around, Enjolras manages the sudden tears in his eyes. They’re not even grief, exactly—that's too simple. They’re the too-much of it all. His body, this vessel, has never felt enough to contain the everything of him. They will die for something, all of them, but oh, how he longed for his friends to see the future. To be the future.  

Even in the grave, they will shine.  

He knows that.  

Enjolras tucks a strand of hair behind his ear as he turns around. There’s no use in lying, and that would be disrespectful regardless. His friends know what they’re doing here, want to be here, as much as he does.  

“I’m afraid not.”  

“Hmm.” Courfeyrac’s face tightens, but the gleam of courage in his eyes remains. “I thought so.”  

Enjolras puts an arm around Courfeyrac’s shoulders. As the minutes slip past, Courfeyrac’s arm finds its way around Enjolras’ waist, and together, they watch night give way to day.  

Night always, always gives way to day.  

As the sun bursts red-gold into the sky, Enjolras studies his dear, dear friend. The curl of his mahogany-brown hair. The impossible jade-green of his eyes and the life still in them even as death nips at their heels. Their fellows stir in the dew-damp morning. So, too, does the National Guard.  

“Onward together,” Courfeyrac says, and if he wipes away a tear as he smiles, Enjolras doesn’t mention it. “As always.”  

I love you.  

“As always,” Enjolras murmurs with great affection.  

I love you too.  

In the spill of the dawn, their friends greet them. Watercolor images splatter against Enjolras’ memory like he was a part of them—’89 and ‘30. And in some ways, he was. All of them here are a part of the great chain of change. One link breaks. Another rises to take its place.  

Never let go.  

Never give up.