#celest writes

Enjolras had just turned sixteen the first time he saw Paris in person. her skyline looked godlike from afar, harbouring the ghost of some ancient metropolis. But once he stepped inside her gates, her narrow streets pressed in on him like prison bars.

the slums were perhaps the most stifling of all. the air reeked of populus; overcrowded apartments seemed as if they would collapse onto the street at any second. he felt equal parts guilt and relief when he saw that his aunt's house was spacious and comfortable, a plush mattress in the guest room. the stare one child gave him, green eyes glinting with the air of an embittered prisoner, would haunt his sleep for weeks. reminding him he had such comfort when others had none at all.

he followed in his father's footsteps, attending the old university to study law. though they had their differences (in the days leading up to enj leaving for paris, dinner often turned to a yelling match) they ultimately parted on agreeable terms.

his father's last words to him: "in a handful of years, this nation belongs to your fellow students - and to you. do not waste your time in idleness."

to which he responded with a wry smile: "you did not grant me the opportunity to fall into the habit."

"i had hoped to discourage you from it. i had hoped to grant you focus."

"a lens will fix light to scorch the object upon which it focuses."

even at sixteen, enjolras burned. it was a slow and inevitable decline, he knew - but he hoped to go out like a supernova. he studied late into the night, and rose early in the day. his friends and professors told him to rest, that he would extinguish himself before he earned his degree. one evening, after a few glasses of wine, his friend, Combeferre, wondered at the inexhaustible fuel source of the sun. he looked Enjolras in the eye and told him he must be made of the same stuff. 

it wasn’t long before he was surrounded by a group of fiery friends. even the mildest of them, Jean Prouvaire, was subject to bouts of passion. he was Desmoulins reincarnate, one moment hardly able to speak above a whisper, the next projecting improvised words from the centre of the room. nova indeed; the illusion of a new soul radiating from the original.

even Grantaire, the man who held no faith in their lofty idealisms, existed as if he were on the verge of collapse. spewing out his last dregs of existence the same way the voice got louder immediately before one runs out of air. 

even so - none as fixated as Enjolras. his gaze did indeed scorch his focus. there were times he questioned his footing, as if looking down and seeing that he balanced on a high beam. he stood among birds, but only through the construction of hope. reality was still there. he could not yet counteract gravity. years pass, and each time he looks down, he’s risen higher, and the beam has grown narrower. 

still, when he looks up, there’s so much higher to climb. he’s level with the songbirds; above are the birds of prey. 

so as long as he stared ahead, everything was alright. so as long as he stretched his arms wide. moving to embrace his nation brought him balance and reassured him that all was well. or that it would be. that the people, too, would find faith in their country. that they would realize liberating her meant liberating themselves.  

in the end, whether forming barricades was a decision rash or miscalculated was irrelevant. the fact remained that the heat of that June day burned his skin. the moment he stepped into that street outside the Corinth he felt it in his bones that this should be his fall, that he should feel the scorching heat of the sun. he made up his mind that he would not plummet until this insurrection left ash on injustice. he must stay adrift that long. he owed his nation that much.

he did not intend to drag his friends down with him.

but that was what happened in the end. they were bound to each other, geese in a flock. reliant on each other with the knowledge that one miscalculation from another would bring doom for all.

Though as the battle collapsed in on itself exhaustion and fear weighed heavy in his bones, he couldn’t keep the smile from his face as the most vehement skeptic among them stood with him. For a moment he saw vividly what France could be, as though transported there. They took hands. In the dinge that surrounded all this death, this was light, this was light, this was light. 

Spiraling to the ocean’s depths seemed a melancholy kind of satisfying. Sunlight still glowed in the palm of his hand, left unextinguished as the smooth coolness of water moved to cradle him. This was where he would stay - the wings still tied to his back were little more than frames, the wax and feathers having already disappeared to wherever those things go. 

When he broke the surface, he did not thrash about, instead turning buoyant in the waves. The sky above was bright.