Archive of Our Own

It is a cold night in November when Marius returns to the room he shares with Courfeyrac, half a bottle of wine in his hand, and one in him already. Grantaire has an exam in rhetoric tomorrow and he was determined to be prepared. So he had roped Marius into a study session that had involved lots of drinking and deep and profound musings on the futility of life and the beauty of metaphor. Somewhere along the way he’d also managed to get Marius quite drunk as well. The effects of the alcohol have worn off on the walk home; Marius is now happily tipsy instead, feeling happy with just about everything and everyone in the world. Even the approach of winter has not dimmed his cheery spirits as he climbs the creaking stairs to his small home.

Marius’ key won’t fit through the lock on the first try, and he has to try several more times before the door to the apartment is opened by a faintly amused-looking Enjolras.

“You’re not Courfeyrac!” Unlike Grantaire, Marius’ powers of speech are not, in fact, enhanced by wine. “Ah. Excuse me, Enjolras. I seem to have drunk a little too much. What are you doing here? Is Courfeyrac with you? Has something happened to him? Only, rent is due tomorrow, and I have to hand him my share…”

“Calm yourself,” Enjolras says, smiling slightly. “I came to look over some maps with him, but he has left me for the arms of Violette from Montmartre and said that I could continue here until I was done. Come in. I suppose it was Grantaire who led you down this path?”

Marius nods and shuffles his way inside. The little rickety table that both he and Courfeyrac share is spread with maps and scattered with books and pieces of paper. A candle burns dimly in a corner and there is a pen and a bottle of ink lying on top of a volume of Plato.

“You’ve been busy!” He observes, unnecessarily. Marius moves to his bed, on which Enjolras has laid his coat and sits down heavily, kicking off his sodden shoes. “What is it that you are working on?”

“A list of supplies that we will need come the start of the revolution.” At some point in the night, Enjolras’ hair has managed to work itself free from the tight queue he usually keeps it in. A lock of blonde hair falls in his eyes and he pushes it away impatiently. His fingers, stained with ink from use of a pen, brush against his cheek and smear a black line against the pristine skin. The contrast is startling, even in the dim candlelight. “I am having problems deciding on a proper place for storage of the ammunition. The cafe is small, so we will not be able to hold much there, though it is the most convenient location.”

Unable to help himself, Marius strides over in his bare stockings and rubs at the stain with his thumb whilst Enjolras explains the dilemma of keeping gunpowder dry. The action quiets him as effectively as if Marius had covered Enjolras’ mouth with his hand.

“Marius,” when Enjolras speaks after a minute he sounds angry, but the look in his eyes is uncertain. “You have had a drop too much this evening. You are not thinking correctly.” And he takes hold of Marius’ wrist, about to push it away.

But Marius catches sight of something written on Enjolras’ arm.

“What is that?” He asks, and without waiting for an answer, pulls Enjolras towards him and squints at the boldly inked word running down his friend’s left arm. “Patria? But why?”

“You are a nosy urchin,” Enjolras snaps, not unkindly. “I was tired and had to keep myself awake. I did not want to venture out into the cold; it would have taken too long, so I wrote the name of our Mother here on my arm to wake up, though it serves as a good reminder for what we are fighting for as well.”

“It is a good word to write on your arm,” Marius agrees, with the solemnity of the inebriated. He shivers and wraps his thin coat around himself more tightly, then collapses on his mattress with a grateful sigh. For a long moment he contemplates the ceiling and its various patches of damp and rot and mould, listens to the scratch of pen against paper and imagines what his grandfather would say if he saw Marius like this. Then he thinks about the word on Enjolras’ arm and sits up suddenly.

“I can’t sleep,” he announces, to Enjolras’ faint amusement. “Will you do me a favour?”

Without waiting for an answer he gets up and crosses to the small table a little unsteadily. “I would like a word on my arm like you have, please.” Marius pulls down the sleeve of his right arm, “Could you write ‘fidelis’ for me here? I think it would suit me very well.”

“And are you so loyal?” Enjolras teases, pulling his hair back for what seems to him like the thousandth time tonight. “I recall you once being an ardent lover of Bonaparte, but here you are, conspiring with dangerous republicans.”

“Perhaps I am a spy in your midst,” Marius retorts, blinking crossly, “and you underestimate me at your peril!”

“Somehow, I think not. Come here.” For once Enjolras is not too irritated by distractions to his work; the hour is late, after all and despite all attempts to prove otherwise, he is still only human. He takes up his pen and begins to trace the word out on his friend’s arm. Instead of the clear bold capitals he has chosen for his own temporary branding, Enjolras uses a cursive script on Marius, making the letters bleed into each other and admiring the effect it produces. He goes over it several times so that the word stands out more clearly, his brow gently wrinkled in concentration.

If Enjolras notices the hitch in Marius’ breathing, or the subtle blush of red that blooms in his friend’s cheeks, he says nothing, instead preferring to concentrate on the task in front of him. At length, though, he finally puts his pen down and peers at his handiwork in the dim candlelight, holding Marius’ wrist in a circle of middle finger and thumb. ‘Fidelis’ shines black in the yellow light and Enjolras blows on the letters to dry them off as best he can, ignoring his friend’s soft groan.

“It is very good work,” Marius says after a spell. His voice is low and breathless. “I should like to compare it with the mark on your own skin.” With his left arm still pinned down, he reaches forward with his right and seizes hold of Enjolras’ hand, pulling it towards him so that they both can admire their bizarrely tattooed arms; clear roman script contrasting sharply with the soft fluidity of cursive letters.

Marius tilts his head, sneaks a glance at Enjolras. The other man stares back at him, blue eyes red-rimmed and yet still blazing with the fire of his fervent belief. And… for the first time Marius is aware of something else in those eyes, something lurking near the surface but constantly shunned and repressed. Something that sparks a reaction in himself that he does not quite understand. He leans closer, feeling some sort of heat building between the two of them and opens his mouth to ask Enjolras a question. Anything to distract himself from the feeling of something twisting in his gut — some kind of impulse he has never noticed before — but no sound comes out.

The wind howls outside the window and outside in the darkness a shutter bangs open, in accompaniment to a stray dog’s mournful whine. Both men, however, notice nothing. Marius tries to remark on the weather, and the cold, but finds that the words stick in his throat, half-formed and frozen. He looks down at their arms instead, and for no reason he can fathom, reaches over and draws a single finger down the ‘T’ of Enjolras’ ‘Patria’. The ink smudges slightly, and Enjolras looks as though he might pull away from the contact, but does not. Instead Apollo blinks and looks down, following the line of Marius’ finger, a strangely blank look on his face. The candlelight flickers, casts his face in half-shadow.

Their eyes meet again, and Marius is on the verge of apologising for this boldness and blaming the drink, but before he can say the first word, Courfeyrac is bounding through the door, surprised to see Marius there and cursing his luck with Violette, who has obviously not returned with him, to Courfeyrac’s great puzzlement. He does not notice either of his friends’ strange behaviour. Enjolras seems to jerk back to life and hurriedly pushes his sleeve down to cover his branding.

“I see you’ve still not finished!” Courfeyrac jokes, as he shucks off a slightly damp overcoat. “Come, Enjolras, let us plan how we shall bring freedom to the masses! I daresay it will take half the time now that I am here.”

“Braggart.” Marius remarks, strangely upset to have his room-mate back, but yet quite relieved that the awkward situation with Enjolras is at an end. He throws himself down on his bed. “I am going to sleep now; I have a translation to do in the morning.”

“We beg your pardon, m’sieur,” and Courfeyrac bows low, a sly grin on his lips. “Yes, it is better you were off to bed, Marius. If you are drawing on yourself then perhaps your faculties are not adequate for the task of liberating the people, no?” He points at Marius’ ink-stained forearm. “Though one cannot fault your choice of word, comrade.”

Marius flashes him a rude sign he learnt from Gavroche, which Courfeyrac returns, sniggering.

“Goodnight, Enjolras,” Marius says pointedly, ignoring his friend. But Enjolras is already poring over plans and lists and maps. Marius hopes that their earlier awkwardness has not strained their friendship. But then Enjolras looks up, smiles at him, and a sudden flash of heat twists in Marius’ gut again.

“Sleep well, Bonapartist,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice.

Enjolras’ smile is the last thing he sees before his eyes close, and Marius thinks it feels like staring at the sun.