Lessons in Friendship

Enjolras senses someone's presence before he hears the telling crunch of boots on the snow.

He whips around, hands held in front of him in loose fists in case he needs to fend the person off, but he scarcely has time to register the police officer uniform, the glint of a knife, before a strong arm grabs his lapels and slams him so hard against the brick wall behind them that lights flash in front of his eyes, but his instincts kick in and he seizes the wrist of the hand holding the knife.

He feels a trickle of blood running down the back of his head and through his hair, but he doesn't worry very much about it; he knows enough about head wounds from his own experience and Combeferre and Joly's growing expertise that he knows the wound is superficial, and head wounds bleed a copious amount. It aches, and he's certain nothing's cracked, but it's possible he's concussed.

His vision finally clears and he blinks, looking up at the slightly taller man in front of him, his own grip still tight on the man's wrist, holding back the long, menacing knife that looks as if it's used for cutting meat.

"If you're after my purse," Enjolras says, tone far calmer than he feels. "It's in my right coat pocket. But unless you are impersonating a police officer or have taken up robbery whilst being employed as an officer of the law, then I doubt that is what you have attacked me for."

"You're smart for such a pretty thing," the man replies, leering. "No, that's not why I'm here, though I may take your purse when I'm done making my point; I can tell from those clothes you're wearing that you're a precious little rich boy."

"Care to tell me why you're here then?" Enjolras persists, still maintaining hold of the man's wrist and subtly surveying his chances for attack. If he's going to attack he needs to do it well, because this man appears determined enough to chase him down the street and perhaps wound innocent people in his pursuit.

The man's free hand moves up and seizes Enjolras' face with a forceful grip, and for a moment Enjolras feels as if the bones might break under the man's iron grip.

"Smart mouth, too," the man retorts, his breath hot and rancid on Enjolras' face. "Do you happen to remember when you were giving a speech and handing out pamphlets near this very cafe to group of male and female textile workers? About a month ago?"

"Yes," Enjolras answers, because there is no point in lying. "The police arrived and some of the workers became anxious."

"And started a full blown riot!" the man snaps.

"Because they were afraid of being arrested and losing their livelihood!" Enjolras shouts, voice rising despite himself in a burst of passionate anger. He breathes in, attempting to control his temper. "They were guilty of nothing."

"No," the officer says. "You were. You and all of your foolish, treasonous rebel friends. My knee got mangled up in the fighting, and now I've been put on permanent desk duty, lost all chance at ever becoming an inspector. Do you know what a cut in wages that is?"

"Significant," Enjolras breathes. "I am heartily sorry monsieur, but this is…"

"Quiet!" the man hisses, trying to inch the knife closer to Enjolras' face, but Enjolras holds him back. "We'll just see how you like it when I mess up that pretty face of yours, since it's the only reason people listen to you at all anyhow, chop off those angelic locks of yours, maybe mangle your knee so you know how it feels. And then when I'm done with you, I'll find your friends; I've been watching the lot of you here, you understand, though I've learned there are eight that seem your closest lieutenants. I'm sure you will be rather upset if I maim your bespectacled medical student friend's hands so that he won't be able to complete his studies, scar up that curly-haired dandy, wipe that smile right off his face, cripple the one who dresses funny and carries a notebook everywhere…"

At the mention of Prouvaire Enjolras takes his chance, kneeing the man in the stomach with lightning speed. The man falters but doesn't fall; he swings wildly with the knife, and before Enjolras can dodge, he feels the sharp, sudden pain of metal slicing into the flesh of his upper arm, drops of crimson dotting the fresh white snow beneath his feet, not yet sullied by the dirt of people's boots. His instinct is to reach for the stinging wound, which he thinks might be at least fairly deep, but instead uses his good arm and punches the man directly between the eyes and kicking him once again in the side with the opposite foot, and Enjolras hears the sound of what he's certain is a rib cracking.

The man aims one last kick at Enjolras' knee as he falls, the knife sliding out of his hand, and Enjolras grabs it before the officer even has a chance. His assailant slams to the ground, creating a large dent in the snow. There's the sound of footsteps behind him, and Enjolras turns for a split-second to see if there are more attackers approaching; his eyes meet a shocked Louison's, who holds an iron pot in her hands, ready to swing. The moment he turns back around, his attacker scampers away, hands wrapped around his middle.

Enjolras makes to go after him, but his knee screams in protest and he goes toppling over himself, landing in a strange kneeling position on his good knee, the officer disappearing into the night.

"Monsieur Enjolras!" Louison exclaims, voice shrill with worry and panic. "Oh my goodness, you are bleeding, what in the heavens happened? I heard noise coming through the window…"

"That man had a bone to pick with me, I'm afraid," Enjolras answers, wincing as he stands on two feet, knee and head pulsating with flashes of pain. "But thank you for coming to see what the disturbance was, that was courageous of you." He offers her a smile, hoping to ease her worries even as his vision blurs for a moment. She keeps their secrets, and for that he cannot be grateful enough. "Is there any chance any of my friends are upstairs? I had come hoping to get some work done, but…"

"Just Monsieur Grantaire," she says. "Shall I go fetch him? Shall I send a gamin for Monsieur Combeferre or Joly? You'll need someone to look at you certainly."

"Just Grantaire, thank you, Louison," Enjolras answers. "And perhaps a wet rag, if you would?"

She nods; Enjolras leans against the wall while he waits, exhaling a long held breath. In mere moments Grantaire appears, looking bewildered and surprisingly sober for this time in the evening.

"Enjolras?" he asks, coming over. "Louison said you'd been mugged…you're bleeding."

"An astute observation," Enjolras remarks wryly. "Might you help me upstairs, please?"

"Upstairs?" Grantaire questions. "Enjolras, you're wounded. Though I am loathe to admit it, even marble bleeds and must be tended to."

"Yes," Enjolras agrees, drawing out the word and quirking one eyebrow. "And I need to look at the knife wound on my arm, and my knee is swelling rapidly and I do not believe I can manage the stairs on my own."

The words sound rational to Enjolras' brain, but clearly they sound insane to Grantaire, but he assists Enjolras up the stairs anyway, and Louison hands them the rag on their way up to the empty back room. Enjolras slips off his jacket, looking down at the rip in the sleeve of his shirt, the surrounding area spattered with blood; the gash in his arm is deep, but manageable, Enjolras thinks, if only he had a bandage.

He reaches up with the cloth, wincing at the sting as he presses it against the wound, but he can't seem to keep a firm grip on the damned thing, and it falls to the floor. He leans down for it, but Grantaire's hand stops him.

"Grantaire, I need to clean this," Enjolras insists, irritated. "Why are you stopping me?"

"You're shaking from head to toe, Enjolras," Grantaire says, abandoning all sarcasm, his sardonic smile, throwing all pretense aside. "I don't exactly know what's happened, but let me at least take you to Combeferre? I'd suggest Joly since his rooms are closer than yours and our dear guide's, but I fear Combeferre would murder me if I didn't take you straight to him."

"There's no need to worry Combeferre," Enjolras presses, closing his eyes against the dull ache at the back of his head. His voices sounds different than normal, he thinks. Slower.

"You share an apartment," Grantaire says, biting back a laugh. "With Combeferre's intelligence, do you not think he will notice a knife wound on your arm, a limp from a swollen knee, and a growing bump on the back of your head?"

Enjolras glares at Grantaire, but the effect is muted by his mussed appearance and the fact that he's having trouble keeping his eyes open. He doesn't respond, seemingly silently, begrudgingly, giving in.

"It's decided then," Grantaire says. "I shall tell our lovely Louison to close my tab for the evening and we shall try and see if we might hail a fiacre."

LMLMLMLMLMLMLMLMLMLMLM

Grantaire won't voice the fear aloud to Enjolras, but he's severely worried; he doesn't know what happened, but he senses this was more than just a physical attack, whoever mugged Enjolras threatened him somehow, or more likely, threatened one of their friends. Grantaire doesn't know how he knows this, he only feels it deep in his bones, and it makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up. His instincts told him to take Enjolras to Combeferre, and he hopes Courfeyrac will be there also; being with the two of them, Grantaire thinks, will set Enjolras right.

"Enjolras," he says, gently shaking the other man. "No shutting your eyes, you might be concussed."

"Right, yes," Enjolras says, looking back up at Grantaire, the blue flame that normally lights his eyes temporarily replaced with darkened clouds. "Thank you, Grantaire. For helping me home."

"I couldn't do anything less," Grantaire replies, still unnerved. But it's true; wherever Enjolras is concerned he will do whatever he can, whenever he can.

The mere ghost of a half-smile plays at Enjolras lips, and Grantaire feels a spark of warmth when Enjolras reaches out to squeeze his shoulder in thanks. It is a precious moment between them, a moment free from arguments, misunderstandings, and frustration. These are the kinds of moments he treasures, and though the dark voices in the back of his head tell him otherwise, something tells him Enjolras appreciates them as well.

The carriage shudders to a halt, and Grantaire climbs out, paying the driver, coming back around to see Enjolras exiting the carriage.

"Enjolras," Grantaire sighs in his best impression of Combeferre. "What on earth are you doing? You're injured and you're still trying to walk on your own, at least let me help you."

"I can…"

"No," Grantaire says with the severity of Enjolras himself. "You can't."

Grantaire wraps a supportive arm around Enjolras' waist, placing Enjolras' own arm around his shoulders.

"Second floor, correct?" Grantaire asks.

Enjolras nods.

"Well thank heavens for that," Grantaire mumbles. "Otherwise this would have taken some doing."

Slowly but surely they make their way up the stairs to the second floor of the apartment building, and Enjolras pulls his key out of his pocket, placing it in the lock, the sound of voices becoming clearer when it swings open.

"Enjolras?" Combeferre calls from the common room. "Courfeyrac's just been telling me about his meeting with…"

Combeferre's face comes into view as they enter, his eyes widening instantly as he takes in Enjolras' appearance. He and Courfeyrac rise from their chairs in unison, heading over to Grantaire and Enjolras.

"What happened?" Courfeyrac asks before Combeferre can even speak again. "Enjolras…"

"Let's get you sitting down first," Combeferre murmurs, taking Enjolras' other side and together he and Grantaire place him gently on the sofa. "Thank you, Grantaire, for helping him home," he says, offering a worried smile.

Grantaire hovers awkwardly by the sofa until Enjolras tugs him by the shirtsleeve and pulls him down in a sitting position. Courfeyrac sits on Enjolras' other side, taking his hand and grasping it tightly in his own, and Combeferre squats in front of him, surveying the injuries intently, sliding his glasses down the edge of his nose.

"A knife wound," he says softly. "Any others?"

"My right knee," Enjolras admits far easier than Grantaire would have ever thought. "And the back of my head."

"Hmm," Combeferre says, furrowing his eyebrows. "What happened, Enjolras?" he asks, resting a hand on Enjolras' good knee, anxiety edging into his voice, palpable and real.

"I was mugged outside the Musain," Enjolras says, meeting Combeferre's eyes. "The man had a knife, but I managed to get it away from him. I had to injure him a few times, unfortunately, but he was persistent. But he managed to get away when Louison approached, and my knee would not allow me to chase after him, I'm afraid."

Grantaire watches Combeferre peer at Enjolras closely, watches Enjolras gaze back at him, watches Courfeyrac observe the two of them, and he feels as if he's privy to a private, intimate moment.

"You are not telling me the full truth," Combeferre finally says. "I take it you were not randomly attacked by this man?"

Enjolras sighs, but through the exasperation there's a fondness in his tone. When he starts speaking, his hands tremble once more, and Courfeyrac silently massages tiny circles into the skin of the hand he's taken possession of.

"No," Enjolras says. "He was a police officer injured in the riot that occurred when we were speaking with the textile workers; he was placed on permanent desk duty, it's a severe cut in his wages, it's…"

"No reason to attack you," Combeferre finishes, clearly hearing the guilt seeping into Enjolras' tone. "It is terrible they would diminish his wages because he was injured, it is, but that is not your fault, Enjolras. And it is no reason for him to attack you."

"Not just me," Enjolras says, sharper than he intends, voice cracking in half in such a manner as Grantaire has never heard. "He said he'd been watching us, observing us going in and out of the Musain, that he'd hurt all of you. He said that he'd maim your hands, Combeferre, so that you could never be a doctor, that he'd scar the smile right off Courfeyrac's face, that he'd cripple Jehan…but that was as far as I allowed his words, I was so furious I attacked likely before I ought to have, I know better…I might have possibly walked away without injury had I just…"

"Shhh," Combeferre says, placing both hands tenderly on the side of Enjolras' head. "No one would blame you for being upset and thinking irrationally when someone threatened those closest to you, and if he had a knife and you came away from it, that is impressive. You are a skilled fighter, Enjolras, but even the most skilled cannot come away from every fight unscathed. I'm sure Bahorel would agree. He would also be clapping you on the back for your ability to take down a man larger than yourself and go searching for the scoundrel himself, but that is rather beside the point."

All four of them smile at that, and then Combeferre enters full doctor mode, as is his wont.

"Follow my finger with your eyes," Combeferre directs.

Enjolras does, his eyes following Combeferre's fingers back and across, up and down.

"It looks like you might have avoided a concussion, but I'd like to keep you up for a bit just to be sure. How did the head injury occur?"

"He slammed it into the brick wall," Enjolras says, chagrined. "It's bleeding a good amount, but I know that's usually superficial."

"Let's get you cleaned up," Combeferre says. "Courfeyrac, if you might bring me my medical bag from my room, and then pour us each a glass of red wine, I rather think we could all use it."

"Is there something I might do?" Grantaire asks, feeling the need to be useful.

"Actually Grantaire, if you would, I was just waiting for Enjolras to arrive to heat up some soup that Musichetta gave me when I was at Joly's earlier. Says it's her mother's recipe and it's delicious," Combeferre says. "Might you mind heating that up on the stove?"

"Not at all," Grantaire answers. "Unless I'm in your way, I can…"

"Certainly not," Enjolras says, fixing him with a ludicrous glare. "You helped me home, paid for the fiacre, it's the least we can do. I did interrupt your evening after all."

Grantaire wants to say that all he had planned was to drink wine and probably get caught up in a rousing game of cards or dominos, but Enjolras likely already knows that, and Grantaire will not shove aside Enjolras' gratitude, particularly not now.

He goes into the kitchen, which is set off a bit from the common area, and after a few moments is joined by Courfeyrac, who contemplates the three bottles of wine before him in the near empty rack.

"The two of them," he mutters. "Don't even bother to keep a decent selection of wine in their apartment. So charming when you bring them round to meet people, everyone loves them, but their private habits, I swear to whatever God exists, sometimes I come over and have to remind them they're out of food."

Grantaire smiles and shakes his head, watching Courfeyrac select a bottle and pull down four glasses from the cabinet.

"Too preoccupied with the fine business of building a great and glorious republic, I assume?"

"As ever," Courfeyrac says, smile growing wider. "But I find I must remind them that in order to keep functioning they must eat. To the naked eye it seems as if Enjolras is the main culprit, and he's certainly the worst, but Combeferre is nearly indistinguishable from his textbooks when exams are upon him, or if he's proofing a pamphlet Enjolras' isn't sure about."

They both pause their movements as the voices of the two mentioned men float through the small hallway and into the kitchen.

"Combeferre," Enjolras begins, voice still lacking its usual power, the intense electricity that's always present, even when he's simply discussing an exam with Courfeyrac, or complimenting Jehan's poetry. "Do you believe it possible that people only listen to me because of my…my physical appearance? And not because they are interested in our cause?"

"Enjolras," Combeferre asks. "Why would you ask that? Did the officer suggest such a thing?"

"It's silly, banish the thought…"

"No," Combeferre presses. "What is it?"

"He only said…" Grantaire hears the hesitance in Enjolras' voice, and it strikes him that Enjolras, beautiful, ethereal Enjolras is insecure about the implications of his appearance as Grantaire is about his own, though they are, particularly in Grantaire's own eyes, at completely different ends of the spectrum.

"He said that he was going to 'mess up my pretty face, since that's the only reason people listened to me anyhow' and I just…it made me think."

"Some people might be drawn to you by your appearance, Enjolras," Combeferre says, gentle as Grantaire's ever heard him. "But they stay for your words, trust that. You are a magnificent orator. Your words are lit with the light of the future we dream so fervently of."

"The man got away," Enjolras says, and there's the barest trace of tears in his voice, and Grantaire can just picture him blinking them back with ferocity. "He could come after any of you, harm you, could report on the contents of our meetings if he's heard anything. Handing out pamphlets is treacherous enough in the eyes of the police, but if they find out we're collecting weapons? It could be the end of us, of our work."

"I think, and I believe in the morning you will as well, that that policeman is full of false bravado, particularly since, as Bahorel might so eloquently put it, you handed his arse back to him," Combeferre replies. "But we shall station some of our comrades outside the Musain, perhaps even Bahorel himself, to see if the man returns."

"And no one is to walk in the dark alone from Musain for a time," Enjolras persists. "I won't allow it. Or the Corinthe for that matter, if he's been watching us there as well."

"I agree," Combeferre answers. "Together, my friend, we will make certain this threat desists."

The voices fade, and Grantaire places the soup into four bowls, feeling Courfeyrac's eyes on him.

"Enjolras has more belief in him than anyone I've yet met," Courfeyrac says, voice soft and brimming with enough empathy that Grantaire suspects he's broken into his mind somehow. "But he doubts himself sometimes, questions if he's doing things the right way. Harm coming to us, I believe, is his greatest fear, and yet he knows that the day will come, the day of the inevitable revolution, the barricade, and there is great chance we will be hurt, will be killed, possibly. But I think he wants to prevent any and everything from happening to us in the meantime. And that means you too, R, you know, even if you tease us foolhardy republicans."

With that Courfeyrac exits and Grantaire follows him out, mind whirling.

Just over an hour later, after they've all eaten and had their glasses of wine (and after Combeferre coaxed Enjolras to take just the smallest dose of Laudanum for the pain of his injuries) the clock strikes twelve. Enjolras' arm is neatly cleaned and bandaged, the blood cleaned from his hair, his sprained knee wrapped up.

"Well," Grantaire says, getting up from the couch. "I'd best be going. It's late."

"No," Enjolras says, whipping around, eyes ablaze with something Grantaire can't quite identify, but at least part of it is immense worry, worry for him. "You'll stay here, it's far too late to go roaming about, especially given the events of tonight."

Grantaire opens his mouth to say that he's been out far, far later than this in the night, but he recalls the fear in Enjolras' voice and thinks better of it, throwing up his hands.

"All right," he says. "If you insist, Apollo."

"The couch is quite comfortable," Courfeyrac says, nudging Grantaire with his elbow. "I should know, I sleep on it enough."

"More than in your own bed," Combeferre murmurs.

"Hark, what's that Combeferre?" Courfeyrac asks. "You enjoy my company so much you wished I lived here as well?"

"Time for bed, I think," Combeferre says to Enjolras, pointedly ignoring Courfeyrac, but there's a twinkle in his eyes.

"Thank you again, Grantaire," Enjolras says, leaning on Combeferre to keep weight off his knee. "I was rather…out of sorts earlier, so thank you for having the good sense to bring me home. I'd likely still be sitting in the Musain trying to bandage my arm with a rag, had you not been there."

"Anytime," Grantaire says, a wry half-smile on his lips. "Combeferre cannot be present to pull you out of all the scrapes you find yourself in, I suppose."

To his surprise, Enjolras chuckles, meeting his eyes for a moment, their light directed fully at him.

"I'll be back in just a bit," Courfeyrac tells him cheerfully. "I'll take the chaise lounge, you take the sofa."

Grantaire watches the two of them help Enjolras down the hall and to his room, and waits patiently for a solid twenty minutes before his eyes flutter closed despite his resistance.

He wakes in the morning, and there's no sign of Courfeyrac on the chaise lounge, no sign that he was ever there, in fact. He rubs his eyes and stretches, getting up and walking quietly down the hall so that he doesn't wake anyone, and pokes his head into Enjolras' room, as the door stands open.

All three of them are fast asleep, Enjolras wedged between Combeferre on his right and Courfeyrac on his left, all arranged carefully so they don't disturb Enjolras' injuries.

Grantaire rolls his eyes good-naturedly, but he feels a smile creeping onto his lips.

He supposes he'll make breakfast.