Work Text:
Paris, 1824
“Chin up, my friend. I assure you, you have nothing to complain about”
The words echoed through the small coffee shop at Rue de Vaugirard, stirring Enjolras from the daydream he had fallen into. His contact was late, something Courfeyrac had warned him of as a strong possibility. He had also grinned and taped his nose, leaving Enjolras to look forward to this meeting in equal parts of curiosity and trepidation.
The answer, too quiet for Enjolras to hear was contradicted by a loud bang of a closing door. “Nonsense, I tell you. That fool Janin brays like a lawyer and with no more understanding. You have the look of a man driven to despair by Romantic contemplation and even if there is room for improvement… I mean, just look at that poor fellow.”
Enjolras blinked, realizing the speaker was making his way towards his table, the unapologetic grin fixed at him leaving little doubt of who the last remark was directed at. He gathered himself quickly. The loud stranger’s manner, build and hair, not to mention the beard and… enthusiastic waistcoat matched Courfeyrac’s description to uncanny degree.
“Citizen Bahorel I assume,” he asked, taking care to keep his voice and expression unperturbed. The stranger’s grin intensified and Enjolras thought he caught a flash of approval, though whether it was directed at his chosen form of address or his apparent equanimity, Enjolras had no idea.
“That is correct. And you are citizen Enjolras, from the printshops.” The man was clearly not waiting for a confirmation, so Enjolras didn’t offer one, merely accepting the outstretched hand, before Bahorel turned to gesture towards his companion; a young man who surpassed Bahorel in sartorial oddities and was looking at Enjolras with something oddly like pity. “This is Jean Prouvaire, though he prefers to spell his name in historical fashion.”
Jean Prouvaire blushed slightly as he shook Enjolras hand. “I apologize for what we said before,” he murmured, almost too quiet to make out words. “True self-expression springs straight from one’s soul and shouldn’t hinge on the facts of physical appearance that cannot be changed. You shouldn’t feel bad.” He offered a small, encouraging smile “I like the hair, it makes up for a lot.”
“I… thank you?” For once, Enjolras had no idea how to proceed. He had experienced his share of ribald remarks directed at his appearance, but he doubted this was quite what Jean Prouvaire had in mind. Perhaps he should have had that haircut Courfeyrac insisted upon after all…
Bahorel let out a bark of laughter. “Don’t worry about it. We were merely lamenting your tragic lack of greenish cadaverous pallor that makes one a fitting subject of a Byronic narrative.”
Enjolras blinked again. He got a sense he would be doing this a lot if he persisted in the current company, a thought that filled him with an unexpected degree of curiosity. Nevertheless, a change of subject seemed like a good idea. “Courfeyrac implied I might be able to offer you some assistance?”
Bahorel hummed. “I believe his main goal was to have us converse with each other. As you are friends with him, I assume you know that nothing pleases Courfeyrac more than encouraging connections and goodwill between his fellows.” Enjolras nodded in answer to things both said and unsaid. For all that Courfeyrac had been acting rather annoyingly mysterious recently, he had never been less than forthcoming about his political allegiances, or his hopes for the future. “Of course, he insists on coming up with plans convoluted enough to make Shakespeare proud,” Bahorel continued, as if reading Enjolras mind. “but since we are all here, Prouvaire was hoping you might take a look at some of his latest poems. I for one think them rather on point.”
Poetry? This was nowhere near what Enjolras had had in mind, but courtesy demanded at least a modicum of interest. “Of course I’ll read them,” he assured. “Though I must warn you, I’m no one’s idea of a connoisseur of arts…”
“Just read them,” Bahorel grinned. Jean Prouvaire was blushing furiously now and mumbled something about rough wordings, but there was an odd kind of glint in his eyes as he passed the papers across the table that seemed to expect something more than an opinion on his artistic skills.
Enjolras let his eyes glide over the first page of verses, blinked, and went back to the beginning. He read through each verse several times, slowly letting the words soak through him, hardly aware of his two new acquaintances exchanging glances across the table. It was only with effort that he turned his attention back to his companions rather than continuing to the next page.
“Are they all like this?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice neutral, as if his soul wasn’t humming both with the words on the page and with the sense of meeting of minds, the temptation to ask for thoughts and reasons behind every word.
“You mean fit to get their author arrested?” Bahorel, asked bluntly. “I’d say yes.” His whole demeanour spoke of faint amusement, but there was a hint of wariness in the way he regarded Enjolras. Jean Prouvaire met his eyes with an odd mixture of hope and defiance and not a little excitement.
“It must have taken a lot of courage,” Enjolras murmured, unable to completely contain his thoughts. “To share such words with a stranger only on the say-so of a mutual friend. And what words!” He couldn’t help it, he smiled, fully and unselfconsciously. Somewhere in the back of his mind he could sense his thoughts filled with possibilities, the words that could touch the listener’s soul even as they touched their mind. “My friend, those need to reach more people. But not by legal means and not under your own name. Not if you want to keep writing.”
Jean Prouvaire’s eyes were shining. “You haven’t even read them all, the others might not be any good,” he pointed out. “But I was thinking, if there was a pamphlet, or maybe even a newsletter…” he exchanged a look with Bahorel. “We have discussed the possibility before, but we know we couldn’t sustain a regular publication without involving more people, not to mention lacking the necessary equipment…”
“Did you mention all of this to Courfeyrac by any chance?” Enjolras asked. The three exchanged a long look before having to turn away to hide their laughter. “I see,” Enjolras continued once he had composed himself. “I need to get back to the printshop soon, but are you two free on Thursday evening? Courfeyrac and I are meeting with some of our friends at cafe Musain on Place Saint-Michel. I believe you might find it worth your time.”
“I can’t wait,” Prouvaire grinned, whatever doubts and shyness still plagued him driven away by excitement. “I hope we see a lot more of you my friend.”
“Oh?” Enjolras asked, pausing as he stood up to bid his companions farewell.
Bahorel nodded solemnly. “It is a shame about the face,” he said. “But with such hair and such intensity, we will make a true Romantic Hero out of you yet.”