fic: Look Past Everything I Had Ever Learned
Title: Look Past Everything I Had Ever Learned
Fandom: Les Miserables, film and book canon
Pairing: Enjolras/Combeferre
Rating: R-ish?
Summary: At the barricade, from the release of Javert to Valjean, until the end.
It does not escape Enjolras that he has never before this day seen Combeferre angry, never heard the man’s voice raised in anything but the deepest fervor or clearest song. Combeferre leaves anger to the others; he has chosen his place as peacemaker and purist, and he fills it better than any other could. But they are all pushed beyond their limits now, and Combeferre’s wrath, low enough to shake only Enjolras’ foundations and meant for only his ears as Enjolras urges him away from his watch at the door to the Musain, still comes as a surprise, if not the shock it might be to anyone but the two of them.
“The man arrives out of nowhere, and you hand over a spy to him faster than you would to the spy’s own people. He could be Javert’s own people, Enjolras; have you never seen a man turn on a handful of his own for the benefit of another he needs more?”
Enjolras stops them when they are in near darkness, far enough from the others that they can speak safely. “Would you rather I had killed the spy myself?”
“You will have more than enough blood on your hands before this is over; you hardly need his.” Combeferre looks as though he can taste the acidity of his words, and he shakes his head. “There is still time. We may still have used him to save one of ours, if it had come again to that, and now we cannot. This was not your decision alone to make.”
Enjolras begins to nod, then goes still, unable to agree so readily to this. “He asked it of me, and justice is served either way. Whatever reason he came here, he saved more than one of us, did he not? Facing half our guns, he chose to use one against our enemy. I believe he has cause to remove the inspector, as we do.”
“As the people do.”
That is somewhat easier to accept. “The people are-” Enjolras breathes deep. “The people are not here, Combeferre, and we are. It did not seem we had time or reason to put it to a vote, and if we are all judges now, I am happy to bear what comes of it.’
“Judges,” Combeferre says hotly. “Not executioners.” Enjolras closes his eyes and makes to turn, and Combeferre reaches for him roughly. “Do not turn your back to me because you cannot hear your own truth called a lie now. I have stood by you. I have drawn your maps, distributed your letters, and called men to their deaths on your word that we are not executioners. This may have barely begun, and already I cannot watch you do murder, Enjolras, not even by proxy.”
“Then close your eyes.”
“Enjolras.”
Enjolras bows his head at the shock in Combeferre’s voice now, the horror in his expression. “You will do the same before this is over, my friend-”
“Yes, and be murdered, too. What I cannot see is not the same as what I cannot bear.”
“Then I will bear that, too, for both of us.” Enjolras nods again, then steps closer, chancing the briefest touch of his hand to Combeferre’s face. “We’ve spent too long away from the others. Even now you do not have to share my fate, friend, be it death or damnation or both.”
“We will all die with you,” Combeferre says simply, his stare fixed on Enjolras but his expression softened now. “Some whom you do not even see, and others you do but with an eye narrowed only to your purpose. You are hard, Enjolras. You have ever been.”
Enjolras tilts his head. “I cannot be expected to change your perception of me now.”
Combeferre leans in at last, both hands curving at Enjolras’ face now. “I would do worse than murder if you tried.”
::
The older man returns to the barricade, and nods toward Enjolras in acknowledgment of what no one is prepared to say aloud. Enjolras watches as Combeferre pales, ducks his head and swallows down whatever is desperately trying to surface, be it the bile of argument or disgust. Combeferre will not debate the justice of this further in the presence of others, but neither the fight nor the disappointment has left him. Enjolras will not take either from him now; all these things and more will leave them both before the next night comes.
The others begin to stir, but Enjolras continues to watch Combeferre, forcing himself silent and still as Combeferre pushes the heels of his now filthy hands into the wells of his closed eyes and holds them there, his elbows on his knees. Joly passes Combeferre something sweet-smelling and freshly lit, and Combeferre takes it gratefully, shifting to lean back against the barricade like Enjolras has seen him loll across shoddy furniture, all legs and arms and practiced ease hiding from most the workings of a mind never entirely at rest.
From the corner of his eye Enjolras sees the flash of concern move over Courfeyrac’s face, and the following, immediate and visible decision Courfeyrac makes to do and say nothing. To focus him as much as give everyone else a moment to rest, Enjolras calls Courfeyrac to take the watch and then listens as his friends begin to sing. Their voices are rough but warm, and one rings clearer than the others, the melody underneath it sweet even as Grantaire twists the verse into some bitter challenge meant for Enjolras more than anyone else.
This is not the time to rise to Grantaire’s bait, and so Enjolras makes no effort to silence him. Combeferre is watching him now, and Enjolras holds his gaze for a moment before he steps back into that near darkness; the song rises again as Grantaire walks away from them all, and though Enjolras could not explain why, he makes every effort to be sure they do not hear him join their chorus.
::
Once sleep has claimed most of them, Enjolras takes his chance, working through his planned sortie in his head before he moves to the pass-through they’ve left open until they have no choice but to close it. At its threshold he listens for footsteps, and hears only those he knows too well.
“Enjolras.”
The voice is soft, the touch more so, and Enjolras’ shoulder drops beneath Combeferre’s hand before he turns to face him. “I am going.”
“I care not,” Combeferre says simply. “Provided you return safely, with whatever news you must bring. I do not believe we will have been rewarded for this night, but that is not for me to tell your men.”
“Ours,” Enjolras says, suddenly exhausted, pushing a hand through his hair roughly before he leans against the wall again. “Our men, Combeferre, I cannot-”
“Are you hurt?” Combeferre steps closer, eyes moving over Enjolras more keenly than ever before while his hands work with the familiarity he’s gained in darker nights than this. Enjolras lets him do what he will; he’s strangely grateful for the attention as much as for Combeferre’s expertise.
“No,” Combeferre says finally, one hand still resting at Enjolras’ waist. “At least no worse than can be expected, considering. But you are breaking, my friend.”
Enjolras laughs, low and dark. “Well, now you see how it is marble can crumble-”
“I am not Grantaire,” Combeferre murmurs. “Do not speak as if I am. You harm him, too, Enjolras, but that is not my concern and will not be made right today or perhaps ever, now.” Combeferre means to shrug, but there is much on Combeferre’s shoulders he cannot shake off, none of it to do with Grantaire.
“Chide me another time,” Enjolras says, just as quietly. “I’d prefer never.”
Combeferre’s fingers tighten in the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt. “You’d prefer I not speak at all.”
“Another time I would disagree; you have never feared telling me what you felt I needed to hear, and I have tried to listen. But for now-”
Combeferre nods, pushing Enjolras gently against the wall. “For now I would have your fine oration silenced, too, then. There is little more to be said in any case-”
Enjolras, for his part, has never feared proving a point, even another’s, and he does so now, covering Combeferre’s still-open lips with his own. There is no breath of the rut to it; rather, they move against each other as if they are in Combeferre’s rooms, slowly and with well-earned knowledge. Even if they were discovered Enjolras is not sure he would stop this, and after a shift and sharp hiss of breath, he knows Combeferre would sooner again threaten that murder he so detests rather than release him.
Combeferre’s hand finds Enjolras inside his trousers, fingers working quickly to unfasten what he can and push hard at what he cannot, and Enjolras gasps, digging his fingers into Combeferre’s forearms and gritting his teeth. Combeferre leans in, his forehead damp and hot against Enjolras’, and Enjolras has to work to understand his soft, wild murmurs before the words make sense and Enjolras reaches for him, too. Combeferre’s next few breaths chatter hard, and Enjolras can just make out the phrase selfish bastard between them before he feels Combeferre turn his chin to brush his lips roughly against Enjolras’. It cannot and does not last much longer, but what time and action it takes is harsh, greedy in ways neither would acknowledge the other capable of in the light of a kinder day. They do not cry out; they do not make more than the smallest sound, and yet it is relief like none other, one that makes Enjolras’ head spin a little before he lets his forehead fall against Combeferre’s shoulder, waiting him out.
Enjolras is still breathing hard as Combeferre cleans them up, and only pushes Combeferre’s hand away when the touch feels too much even in its gentleness. He frowns at the material between Combeferre’s fingers, and Combeferre sighs, shoving the kerchief inside his waistcoat absently, a gesture reminiscent enough of Grantaire that Enjolras is shot back for a moment to Combeferre’s earlier words.
“I harm him, too,” Enjolras says, nodding when Combeferre looks up. “Have I harmed you, then?”
Combeferre laughs, then, the sharp, unexpected sound falling apart in his throat. “You break the heart I have left for this and you, Enjolras, and I hand you the weapons to do so. It does not matter now.”
Courfeyrac’s voice, gentle but not a little concerned, shatters their quiet, calling for Combeferre, but Enjolras does not move for several moments after Combeferre’s turned away. There is so little he can still do-they can still do-but Combeferre is wrong; all of it matters now.
::
The next hours are agony, passing like seconds and bringing no security or promise of more. The news Enjolras brings back to those who have survived the night is worse than even Combeferre has expected, and the death of Gavroche so soon after might as well have taken each to his own grave. Enjolras sees man after man swear vengeance in his eyes before the words are spoken, and the last warnings they hear are made irrelevant before their sound carries across the colonnade. No one still standing is resigned to death now; rather, they are determined toward it, prepared to draw blood until they have none of their own left to shed.
This final battle is short, brutal and disorganized on both sides, in some stages nearly a farce and in others a massacre. Students, workers, and soldiers are struck down, and Enjolras loses count of familiar heads as they fall, loses his grip on familiar hands when they slide broken and bloody from his own, until at the end it is only the four of them left.
Combeferre is frightened, but it is Joly he protects, not himself; and it is Courfeyrac who flanks him, not Enjolras. They take places that are not their own, and they will die deaths they have not earned. Joly’s expression is numb; perhaps he is already gone inside, having seen too many others slaughtered while he could do nothing to help, but there is enough strength left in him to curve his hand over Combeferre’s shoulder; Courfeyrac breathes hard from between clenched teeth; the inner fire of his that has warmed them for months all but banked to nothing now, its reserves held in deep personal check.
They hear the rattle of the guns below them, and Enjolras forces himself to keep his eyes open. The shots are fired, and Enjolras staggers as if he’s taken one, but no; the others fall beside him-Joly first, Courfeyrac hardest, Combeferre with what could almost be relief-they fall together, as they have stood together for so long but still Enjolras remains on his feet, throat and lungs burning from powder and dust and, yes, fear unlike anything he’s known.
It is the only time Enjolras has found himself with no weapon, the only time another’s-Combeferre’s-hand has not stretched to press one into his own. Fear and adrenaline meet again somewhere in the base of his spine as the officers enter the room, and Enjolras focuses on the bodies at his feet until he hears Grantaire’s shocked breath and leaden steps as he pushes his way through the fine uniforms and finer guns to stand with Enjolras before Enjolras can send him away. Enjolras thinks suddenly that Combeferre would be proud of them both, and would not want either of them to die alone.
Yes, he has enough blood on his hands; he hardly needs Grantaire’s as well. But this, too, Combeferre would tell him, is not his decision alone to make.
Fandom: Les Miserables, film and book canon
Pairing: Enjolras/Combeferre
Rating: R-ish?
Summary: At the barricade, from the release of Javert to Valjean, until the end.
It does not escape Enjolras that he has never before this day seen Combeferre angry, never heard the man’s voice raised in anything but the deepest fervor or clearest song. Combeferre leaves anger to the others; he has chosen his place as peacemaker and purist, and he fills it better than any other could. But they are all pushed beyond their limits now, and Combeferre’s wrath, low enough to shake only Enjolras’ foundations and meant for only his ears as Enjolras urges him away from his watch at the door to the Musain, still comes as a surprise, if not the shock it might be to anyone but the two of them.
“The man arrives out of nowhere, and you hand over a spy to him faster than you would to the spy’s own people. He could be Javert’s own people, Enjolras; have you never seen a man turn on a handful of his own for the benefit of another he needs more?”
Enjolras stops them when they are in near darkness, far enough from the others that they can speak safely. “Would you rather I had killed the spy myself?”
“You will have more than enough blood on your hands before this is over; you hardly need his.” Combeferre looks as though he can taste the acidity of his words, and he shakes his head. “There is still time. We may still have used him to save one of ours, if it had come again to that, and now we cannot. This was not your decision alone to make.”
Enjolras begins to nod, then goes still, unable to agree so readily to this. “He asked it of me, and justice is served either way. Whatever reason he came here, he saved more than one of us, did he not? Facing half our guns, he chose to use one against our enemy. I believe he has cause to remove the inspector, as we do.”
“As the people do.”
That is somewhat easier to accept. “The people are-” Enjolras breathes deep. “The people are not here, Combeferre, and we are. It did not seem we had time or reason to put it to a vote, and if we are all judges now, I am happy to bear what comes of it.’
“Judges,” Combeferre says hotly. “Not executioners.” Enjolras closes his eyes and makes to turn, and Combeferre reaches for him roughly. “Do not turn your back to me because you cannot hear your own truth called a lie now. I have stood by you. I have drawn your maps, distributed your letters, and called men to their deaths on your word that we are not executioners. This may have barely begun, and already I cannot watch you do murder, Enjolras, not even by proxy.”
“Then close your eyes.”
“Enjolras.”
Enjolras bows his head at the shock in Combeferre’s voice now, the horror in his expression. “You will do the same before this is over, my friend-”
“Yes, and be murdered, too. What I cannot see is not the same as what I cannot bear.”
“Then I will bear that, too, for both of us.” Enjolras nods again, then steps closer, chancing the briefest touch of his hand to Combeferre’s face. “We’ve spent too long away from the others. Even now you do not have to share my fate, friend, be it death or damnation or both.”
“We will all die with you,” Combeferre says simply, his stare fixed on Enjolras but his expression softened now. “Some whom you do not even see, and others you do but with an eye narrowed only to your purpose. You are hard, Enjolras. You have ever been.”
Enjolras tilts his head. “I cannot be expected to change your perception of me now.”
Combeferre leans in at last, both hands curving at Enjolras’ face now. “I would do worse than murder if you tried.”
::
The older man returns to the barricade, and nods toward Enjolras in acknowledgment of what no one is prepared to say aloud. Enjolras watches as Combeferre pales, ducks his head and swallows down whatever is desperately trying to surface, be it the bile of argument or disgust. Combeferre will not debate the justice of this further in the presence of others, but neither the fight nor the disappointment has left him. Enjolras will not take either from him now; all these things and more will leave them both before the next night comes.
The others begin to stir, but Enjolras continues to watch Combeferre, forcing himself silent and still as Combeferre pushes the heels of his now filthy hands into the wells of his closed eyes and holds them there, his elbows on his knees. Joly passes Combeferre something sweet-smelling and freshly lit, and Combeferre takes it gratefully, shifting to lean back against the barricade like Enjolras has seen him loll across shoddy furniture, all legs and arms and practiced ease hiding from most the workings of a mind never entirely at rest.
From the corner of his eye Enjolras sees the flash of concern move over Courfeyrac’s face, and the following, immediate and visible decision Courfeyrac makes to do and say nothing. To focus him as much as give everyone else a moment to rest, Enjolras calls Courfeyrac to take the watch and then listens as his friends begin to sing. Their voices are rough but warm, and one rings clearer than the others, the melody underneath it sweet even as Grantaire twists the verse into some bitter challenge meant for Enjolras more than anyone else.
This is not the time to rise to Grantaire’s bait, and so Enjolras makes no effort to silence him. Combeferre is watching him now, and Enjolras holds his gaze for a moment before he steps back into that near darkness; the song rises again as Grantaire walks away from them all, and though Enjolras could not explain why, he makes every effort to be sure they do not hear him join their chorus.
::
Once sleep has claimed most of them, Enjolras takes his chance, working through his planned sortie in his head before he moves to the pass-through they’ve left open until they have no choice but to close it. At its threshold he listens for footsteps, and hears only those he knows too well.
“Enjolras.”
The voice is soft, the touch more so, and Enjolras’ shoulder drops beneath Combeferre’s hand before he turns to face him. “I am going.”
“I care not,” Combeferre says simply. “Provided you return safely, with whatever news you must bring. I do not believe we will have been rewarded for this night, but that is not for me to tell your men.”
“Ours,” Enjolras says, suddenly exhausted, pushing a hand through his hair roughly before he leans against the wall again. “Our men, Combeferre, I cannot-”
“Are you hurt?” Combeferre steps closer, eyes moving over Enjolras more keenly than ever before while his hands work with the familiarity he’s gained in darker nights than this. Enjolras lets him do what he will; he’s strangely grateful for the attention as much as for Combeferre’s expertise.
“No,” Combeferre says finally, one hand still resting at Enjolras’ waist. “At least no worse than can be expected, considering. But you are breaking, my friend.”
Enjolras laughs, low and dark. “Well, now you see how it is marble can crumble-”
“I am not Grantaire,” Combeferre murmurs. “Do not speak as if I am. You harm him, too, Enjolras, but that is not my concern and will not be made right today or perhaps ever, now.” Combeferre means to shrug, but there is much on Combeferre’s shoulders he cannot shake off, none of it to do with Grantaire.
“Chide me another time,” Enjolras says, just as quietly. “I’d prefer never.”
Combeferre’s fingers tighten in the fabric of Enjolras’ shirt. “You’d prefer I not speak at all.”
“Another time I would disagree; you have never feared telling me what you felt I needed to hear, and I have tried to listen. But for now-”
Combeferre nods, pushing Enjolras gently against the wall. “For now I would have your fine oration silenced, too, then. There is little more to be said in any case-”
Enjolras, for his part, has never feared proving a point, even another’s, and he does so now, covering Combeferre’s still-open lips with his own. There is no breath of the rut to it; rather, they move against each other as if they are in Combeferre’s rooms, slowly and with well-earned knowledge. Even if they were discovered Enjolras is not sure he would stop this, and after a shift and sharp hiss of breath, he knows Combeferre would sooner again threaten that murder he so detests rather than release him.
Combeferre’s hand finds Enjolras inside his trousers, fingers working quickly to unfasten what he can and push hard at what he cannot, and Enjolras gasps, digging his fingers into Combeferre’s forearms and gritting his teeth. Combeferre leans in, his forehead damp and hot against Enjolras’, and Enjolras has to work to understand his soft, wild murmurs before the words make sense and Enjolras reaches for him, too. Combeferre’s next few breaths chatter hard, and Enjolras can just make out the phrase selfish bastard between them before he feels Combeferre turn his chin to brush his lips roughly against Enjolras’. It cannot and does not last much longer, but what time and action it takes is harsh, greedy in ways neither would acknowledge the other capable of in the light of a kinder day. They do not cry out; they do not make more than the smallest sound, and yet it is relief like none other, one that makes Enjolras’ head spin a little before he lets his forehead fall against Combeferre’s shoulder, waiting him out.
Enjolras is still breathing hard as Combeferre cleans them up, and only pushes Combeferre’s hand away when the touch feels too much even in its gentleness. He frowns at the material between Combeferre’s fingers, and Combeferre sighs, shoving the kerchief inside his waistcoat absently, a gesture reminiscent enough of Grantaire that Enjolras is shot back for a moment to Combeferre’s earlier words.
“I harm him, too,” Enjolras says, nodding when Combeferre looks up. “Have I harmed you, then?”
Combeferre laughs, then, the sharp, unexpected sound falling apart in his throat. “You break the heart I have left for this and you, Enjolras, and I hand you the weapons to do so. It does not matter now.”
Courfeyrac’s voice, gentle but not a little concerned, shatters their quiet, calling for Combeferre, but Enjolras does not move for several moments after Combeferre’s turned away. There is so little he can still do-they can still do-but Combeferre is wrong; all of it matters now.
::
The next hours are agony, passing like seconds and bringing no security or promise of more. The news Enjolras brings back to those who have survived the night is worse than even Combeferre has expected, and the death of Gavroche so soon after might as well have taken each to his own grave. Enjolras sees man after man swear vengeance in his eyes before the words are spoken, and the last warnings they hear are made irrelevant before their sound carries across the colonnade. No one still standing is resigned to death now; rather, they are determined toward it, prepared to draw blood until they have none of their own left to shed.
This final battle is short, brutal and disorganized on both sides, in some stages nearly a farce and in others a massacre. Students, workers, and soldiers are struck down, and Enjolras loses count of familiar heads as they fall, loses his grip on familiar hands when they slide broken and bloody from his own, until at the end it is only the four of them left.
Combeferre is frightened, but it is Joly he protects, not himself; and it is Courfeyrac who flanks him, not Enjolras. They take places that are not their own, and they will die deaths they have not earned. Joly’s expression is numb; perhaps he is already gone inside, having seen too many others slaughtered while he could do nothing to help, but there is enough strength left in him to curve his hand over Combeferre’s shoulder; Courfeyrac breathes hard from between clenched teeth; the inner fire of his that has warmed them for months all but banked to nothing now, its reserves held in deep personal check.
They hear the rattle of the guns below them, and Enjolras forces himself to keep his eyes open. The shots are fired, and Enjolras staggers as if he’s taken one, but no; the others fall beside him-Joly first, Courfeyrac hardest, Combeferre with what could almost be relief-they fall together, as they have stood together for so long but still Enjolras remains on his feet, throat and lungs burning from powder and dust and, yes, fear unlike anything he’s known.
It is the only time Enjolras has found himself with no weapon, the only time another’s-Combeferre’s-hand has not stretched to press one into his own. Fear and adrenaline meet again somewhere in the base of his spine as the officers enter the room, and Enjolras focuses on the bodies at his feet until he hears Grantaire’s shocked breath and leaden steps as he pushes his way through the fine uniforms and finer guns to stand with Enjolras before Enjolras can send him away. Enjolras thinks suddenly that Combeferre would be proud of them both, and would not want either of them to die alone.
Yes, he has enough blood on his hands; he hardly needs Grantaire’s as well. But this, too, Combeferre would tell him, is not his decision alone to make.