An Explosive Surprise (Ponine,Courf,Combe,Enjy)

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

Eponine's renewed show of dutiful girly-girl made Mylène laugh merrily and shake her head. Just doing her part for France indeed... If she had any ears for catch phrases, she'd say this sentence might rapidly become one, it was just too hilarious, considered what they were actually doing. „Please, Ponine, din' ye even find sum time te cover yerself?“ she scolded her friend with a good-natured grin. „I daresay the boys are more interested in yer cleavage than in the powder – even though half of 'em is desperately tryin' not te look.“ Especially Combeferre apparently tried his best in that aspect, but since Mylène knew exactly why that was the case, she didn't waste any more thought on it. He probably hadn't told Eponine yet what he felt for her, or otherwise her friend might have been in a far different mood. Maybe now was the time for such talks... or maybe there wasn't. After all, they needed to store the powder first, and only then there would be time for a real celebration – if that was what they wanted. Perhaps putting too much faith in their new supplies would be challenging the devil to intervene?

Apparently Courfeyrac himself wanted to get something off his chest, though he gladly did not attack her so forcefully as Combeferre had Eponine – and what would his reasons have been for that anyway?! He was calm, yet surreptitiously had slid his admonition into his teasing, accusing her of something like payback. As if she ever had thought of that! Crossing her arms, she raised her chin challengingly and remarked equally pointedly: „As a matter o' fact, we've been plannin' te do this even before ye rushed after me on tha' day, bu' we decided te not tell anyone jus' because o' such reactions. Are ye plannin' te tear me te pieces now, because ye feel copied?“ Of course he would say no, and of course she would believe him, for it was true. It was probably nothing but anxiety relief, the weight of some troubles falling off his chest combined with a sudden surge of 'what could have been'. It was highly similar to what she felt, but gladly they both seemed far too happy to renew their shouting matches of some days previous. She also didn't feel in any mood to slap him, which was definitely a plus.

In all honesty, she was grateful for Enjolras agreeing with Bahorel on the subject of storage. The idea of going out there again with the barrels had not rubbed well with her at all – this, too, could be tempting the devil to interfere. Grinning at Enjolras' well-chosen, official words, so different from how the others had reaction, she threw him a wink. „Ah, an' here I was thinkin' we'd finally see yer shell crack, orateur. Bu' ye remain reserved an' correct as ever. Or do ye have a rousin' speech up yer sleeve now yer fortunes have changed an' were jus' one more dawn away from the big day?“

[Deleted]

Before Combeferre could say anything else, Courfeyrac pulled him aside and reaffirmed that the two women were fine, and urged him to focus his attention on the matter at hand. Perhaps he knew that he was right, but he had come so close to losing her that he couldn’t think of anything but that. The way he had spoken to her, he would admit, was not as tactful as it should have been. His immediate reaction had been exasperation and he had—foolishly—not taken the time to think before the words left his mouth.

Despite his friend’s gentle warning, his ire had not subsided. Though it was directed at her, the one person that he should have been angry with—and was, he just wasn’t expressing it well enough—was himself. He had had plenty of opportunities to tell her how much she meant to him, but had failed to utilize them, being the coward he was. And it had almost been too late—she could have died without having the slightest idea of what he felt.

Eponine’s harmless flirting with Bahorel did little to ease the situation, nor did her retort. He watched her walk away, flabbergasted, to deal with the admittedly much more important matter of finding a place to put their supplies. He knew he should have let it go—he knew—but he couldn’t. This could and probably would be his last night alive. Could he really depart from this world without being completely honest with her? Then there was what Courfeyrac said—they had bigger things to worry about than his heart, he needed to stop being such a Marius. But this wasn’t even completely about that—why hadn’t they told anyone? Why had she been so reckless? If she had been captured and subsequently killed, no one would have known what had happened.

There were a million things he wanted to say but he held his tongue, realizing that he would make a bigger scene than he already had. “Forgive me, I spoke out of turn. I am very grateful for what you’ve done, it’s to be commended.” he answered stiffly, his still incensed eyes flickering to hers. “Of course I couldn’t have thanked you if you had gotten yourself killed, now could I? But yes indeed, thank you, mademoiselle.” he added abruptly. He then assumed his calm demeanor—although his voice was still a bit strained—once more, taking off his glasses and rubbing his nose when Enjolras came downstairs. He had told him to rest because he was overworking himself again, and he at least looked better than he had a few hours before.

He watched as he instructed the others to store the supplies in the basement, and then his eyes flickered back to Eponine. For a moment he considered just letting it go—maybe it would be better for the both of them if she didn’t know, especially if he did die. But then he thought of how she had risked her life the way she had, seemingly so nonchalant about it, as if she was convinced that no one would miss her—that he wouldn’t miss her, which was an understatement in itself—and realized that he had to come out with the truth. “That was an insanely reckless thing to do!” he continued, trying to keep his composure, but failing miserably. “Have you any idea what I would have thought had you died? You don’t have a clue, do you? Just like you don’t have a clue that I love—“ His face reddened—that was not the way he had planned it. “That I love you…” he muttered.

[Deleted]

Other than smirking at Mylene's half-hearted scolding of Eponine for her outfit, Courfeyrac was quiet for a moment until Mylene pointed out that she had been planning this for a while. “Oh, tha's convenient,” he replied with a grin. “When 'ave ye ever been one to do anythin' not on impulse, hey?” He was teasing her, of course. “No, Ah'm not gonna do anythin' te ye aside from thank ye again for what ye've done,” he said sincerely, meeting her gaze. He was distracted from any further banter, serious or not, by Enjolras' instructions. Sleeping Beauty had awoken.

Everyone remained still for a moment, and Courfeyrac assessed the best way to pick up the barrels and get them down the stairs. The wheelbarrows likely wouldn't make the trip, but the things must be heavy. They'd have to get them up the stairs again, assuming they'd need to use them tomorrow. Well, if Eponine and Mylene had been strong enough to carry barrels on their backs, then les Amis should be strong enough to do so, as well. “Gimme a hand, you lot,” he grunted good-naturedly, though just as he reached for the barrel, he paused, hands outstretched, from where he stood close to Eponine and Combeferre when he heard what was said.

Courfeyrac wasn't sure if he'd heard right. He didn't want to know. What a disaster. Such things were not meant to be heard by Eponine, and it would have been best if not Eponine had heard them. Surely Combeferre could not be so blind as to not know that she was in love with Marius; he must be ignorant, too, of her dalliances with Montparnasse. Though Courfeyrac was certain that Combeferre would have shown concern for the well-being of anyone who had snuck in gunpowder, and he was not out of line to want Mylene and Eponine safe, if he had just told the girl he loved her... Mon Dieu. Courfeyrac was grateful that they still had gunpowder to carry. It would be a distraction. Combeferre could have his heart broken without all of his amis watching. “Bahorel an' Enjolras are right. The basement's the place,” Courfeyrac agreed. “C'mon then lads, look lively.” He directed a pointed glance at everyone in the room aside from Combeferre. The young man had made a spectacle of himself enough already.

[FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY]

Joly perched anxiously on the edge of the table his eyes darting between his fellow friends, wishing someone would take control and move the extremely dangerous barrels from his sight. Out of sight…almost out of mind. He listened attentively to Bahorel, drawing his cravat closer to his mouth as a cough escaped from Bahorel’s mouth, and he found himself edging further away from him round the table, although he was still listening attentively. No one could blame him from not wanting to catch some horrible gems. He glanced down at his hands as he realised he had touched several places that the others had also and he felt a sudden urge to wash his hands and scrub away anything that might be living on the surface of his skin.

Bahorel held a strong point, although he didn’t like the thought of a tonne of gunpowder stored nearby, they would need to be able to access it very quickly. That was when Enjolras spoke, he had been quiet before and Joly hadn’t even noticed him enter the room. The man had a strong air about him, he was a clear leader and Joly couldn’t help but forget about his hand washing qualms and listen to the blonde gentleman that stood before him. Joly nodded, of course the cellar was an obvious place to store it, and it was unlikely the powder would be safe there…so long as Grantaire didn’t have a drunken episode and fall asleep by one of the barrels with a cigar in his hand. Joly shivered at the thought, but under Enjolras’s gaze he quickly stood and moved to the barrels to assist helping move them.

He was reasonably strong, but it would likely take two men to move the barrels, Joly quickly helped Courfeyrac with one of them before sending a glare to the other men. ‘Come on Lads, no time for a tiff now, we have important business to attend to!’ he said, somewhat jovially as he began to take the barrel down to the cellar.

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

As she shrugged off the barrel, she laughed at Bahorel. His flirting was certainly lifting her mood, much needed after Combeferre's frankly unwarranted scolding. "You've never experienced my kisses, monsieur. So how would you know the effect they have?" She briefly considered embellishing the story of how they got the powder, just to prove her point, but thought better of it. When Mylene made mention of the state of dress, Eponine rolled her eyes again. "With the straps of the barrel as they were, I was pretty stuck with the look. Made for an exciting trek through the city, I'll tell you that. I half expected to be stopped a dozen times before I got here." Honestly she was thankful her journey had been uneventful, but at this point she was enjoying the looks on the boys faces too much. some of them were glancing at her. Some were making a point not to look her way.

And then there was Combeferre, muttering his thanks, but tainting it with more admonitions about her reckless behavior. He went on and on, scolding her again. He questioned her, asking if she knew what it would do to him if she had died. Part of her was warmed at his concern, but her indignation drowned it out. As the boys moved past her to store the barrels in the basement at Enjolras's direction, she crossed her arms, frowning at the bookworm before her, her eyes just as stormy as his. Who did he think he was? He'd always been a bit of a mother hen, but good grief this was beyond reminding someone to eat or rest. She had done this for his benefit, for the good of all of them, for their cause. A cause she didn't even fully believe in herself.

"Oh good God, Combeferre! When did this become all about y-" Her arguments were cut off by his next words. Had she heard him correctly? Had he really just said he loved her? That had to be a mistake. A trick of the mind. Gentlemen like him did not say things like that to girls like her. She vaguely heard Courfeyrac directing the other Amis behind her, followed by the sounds of the barrels lifting and laden footsteps. But her eyes were focused on the man in front of her. How long had she wanted to hear those words? How long had it been since she had heard those words, from anyone in her life? Long enough that the sudden reemergence of them struck her dumb, a feeling Eponine was most definitely not used to. It took her a few moments to regain her senses, realizing she must look a fool, just staring at him.

"Y-you what?" She half-expected him to retract the statement, or that she had indeed heard him wrong in the din that was the busy room the night before their grand revolution. Even if she hadn't, life was playing a cruel joke on her. Yes, she'd waited a long time to hear those words. But not from him. When she dreamed at night, it wasn't blonde hair and glasses she saw, but red hair and a sprinkling of freckles. It was an easy laugh and a free smile and jokingly flirting at a back table of the Musain. Marius seemed to fill her head and her heart, his presence coming to her as a comfort in the night. It was his arms she imagined around her, keeping her safe and warm when the cold rains fell. It wasn't that she didn't care for her teacher. Far from it. She'd begun to cherish the afternoons at his flat. And after his intervention with Javert on her behalf, she'd let herself trust him more than she had with any other person in her life in a long time. Her was one of her closest friends, something she found herself in short supply of at times. But love? Would she even know what it felt like?

[Deleted]

“I love you.” he repeated, feeling braver by the minute for whatever reason. Perhaps it was because he was so very much aware that he might die tomorrow, and that he was unafraid of. The only thing that he had really feared more than rejection was her not knowing that he loved her. Combeferre could see Courfeyrac leading his other friends out of the room, and he took a steadying breath as he made his way across the room to her. “’In vain, I have struggled.’ But I can’t go on lying like this to you any longer, whatever the consequence. I love you—very ardently. I have since nearly the moment I saw you, and you may laugh all you would like, but it is true, the truest thing I’ve ever said.”

His eyes never left hers as he uttered his confession, because he was far past nervousness now that the truth was finally out. He felt relieved more than anything, even though she seemed to be in a state of shock and had not responded other than to question him. He felt foolish for hiding this for so long out fear, and had wished that he had told her much, much earlier instead of wasting time deliberating over the decision. Of course he had to tell her. It was only right to himself and to her. She had a right to know how he felt before he died, the right to know that she would be the last thing he would think of if it was his time to die.

“I meant to bring you something when I told you—it’s a shawl, a gift, so that you’d remember me if…if I fall tomorrow. Even if you don’t love me back, I want you to know that you are loved…” He trailed off because this was the most difficult part, the part that would require a response. Even if he did not survive—and although he wanted to, he could not be completely sure, one could never be sure—he wanted to know if she would have been willing. “If..if I do make it back, I have to ask you…if you’d be willing to wait for me—to marry me. I know that everything’s uncertain now, and I don’t hold you to anything if I don’t survive, but if you do…if you can love me back, please, tell me,” he pleaded, gingerly taking her hand. “Tell me and I promise I’ll do everything I can to make you—“

[Deleted]

“Joly's right. No time,” Courfeyrac grunted, half in annoyance and half because he was busy trying to take the weight of the gunpowder down. They were starting down towards the basement like Enjolras had suggested. Enjolras always thought of everything, even though he had just woken up. It was a good thing that he'd gotten some rest.

They were all having to get whatever rest they could these days, in the last days before the funeral. He doubted that they were going to be able to get much rest in the days to come. Well. Combeferre probably hadn't been able to sleep much recently, fussing over Eponine as much as he had been. Ugh. Hopefully he would just get this out of his system. The fool didn't know that Eponine loved someone else, did he? He'd tried to hint at it, but... Things would happen like they would happen. Courfeyrac couldn't control everything. This was between Combeferre and Eponine now, and they would leave them alone to figure it out. He had other things to worry about tonight.

They got down to the cellar, making their way carefully down the stairs. If they tipped anything, or accidentally rubbed one thing against another, it could be... disastrous, to say the least. But they moved prudently. The wheelbarrows and barrels were settled on the floor and covered again. It was ensured that the flame of the candles they were holding to light the way would not get anywhere near the stuff. Once everything was settled, Courfeyrac settled against a wall, leaning back. He had to think of something to keep everyone down here for a little while longer until he was sure that the lovebirds, if that's what they would be, had talked it out.

“An' what now?” he murmured, glancing around at his amis. “We've got te make sure that this stuff is well-guarded an' tha' nuthin' 'appens t' it in the meantime. But it 'as te be easily accessible, when the time comes.” He knew he was just talking unnecessarily now. He expelled his breath, looking to Mylene. “Get me a drink, love?” he requested impatiently, fishing in his pockets for a brochure and looking at it as he thought of the aforementioned coming time. "Please."

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

A barrel of gunpowder weighed more than Feuilly had quite expected it to. He adjusted his grip on it, lifting it as smoothly as he could. It wasn't so much different than moving around materials in the shop, except that there was very little that went into making a fan that might conceivably explode. He felt for the edges of the stairs with his foot. If there was any particular advantage to having a very nearly worn-out shoe, the ability to feel the ground below it would have to be one of them. He began his descent with a careful step. He could feel the sweat beginning to stand out on his brow, to tickle at his back and his neck. Unlike some of the others, he had not brought a candle down—but it was not so difficult to manage to find his way down the stairs in the dark, especially not on the heels of his comrades.

Downstairs, he lowered the barrel carefully to the ground, trying not to let it jolt. Supposedly it needed a spark to ignite, but he had heard rumors of enough seemingly impossible industrial accidents in his life to know better than to trust that it absolutely had to be the case. He pulled the edge of the cloth used to cover the rest of the barrels to cover his as well, then retreated with a yawn, trying to stretch the tightness out of his muscles.

“No sense in all of us standing guard down here.” He eyed the candles that flickered around them. That would be the biggest danger, but if the guard fell asleep or did not notice an intruder it could be nearly as ruinous as an explosion itself. His eyes settled finally on Courfeyrac. “We can guard it in shifts. And by ear; I don't know about the rest of you, but I don't like having a flame near this much gunpowder.” The creaking of the stairs would be signal enough that someone approached, and that would be a concern only if the intruder managed to pass through their gathering upstairs unnoticed.

He would have liked to build a ramp out of half the stairs into the cellar, to make it easier to drag the barrels and wheelbarrows back up when the time came—but the passageway was narrow enough as it was, and the materials that might be used in building the ramp could just as well be used in building the barricade.

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

This was neither the right place nor the right time for Combeferre to come clean with Eponine and his feelings, Mylène thought with an inward eyeroll as she stepped back, trying to blend out the blurting she had just witnessed. As little as Eponine wanted this to happen at all, she certainly might not want it with the whole bunch of the lads present. Mylène, as she had known both sides to this conflict, would have wished something better on her friend, but now it was out. The least thing they could do now was leaving them to their problem and back out. Therefore, Mylène shouldered the small barrel she had brought here and took Eponine’s with both her hands, slowly and carefully following the students downstairs.

It seemed as if Courfeyrac, for a reason she guessed to be the same as her, wanted to buy time, as he settled downstairs against the wall. He was annoyed, she could feel that. Maybe he was fearing the worst, that now on the eve of the revolution the community of Les Amis was crumbling, because their minds were occupied with personal problems that overshadowed their strife for freedom. Maybe he even feared that their revolution would fail, if just one more of them wasn’t in it with all his heart. They ought to be prepared to die, because only then they would fight as strongly as they could without holding anything back. And only with that force there was the chance of winning. Mylène swallowed as she thought about tomorrow. No matter what happened, the world would never be the same again, for any of those now here.

“Flames an’ gunpowder, oui”, she commented with a wry smirk. “Wouldn’ do much good fer ye nu te ruin everythin’. Din ye tell me once ‘bout tha’ fellow o’erseas, Feuilly, seekin’ help wi’ Napoleon? Emmet was his name, right? Blew up his powder storage twice, an’ tha’s why they caught ‘em, the English.”
Suddenly, Courfeyrac addressed her, but it was not in any way she would have expected from him. She didn’t know whether it was because he vented his frustration on her, but in the end it didn’t matter. It still felt like a slap to her face. ‘Love’… he might be frustrated, but that didn’t justify the condescenscion she felt in this word. Mylène was strong enough to not wince openly, but both her voice and her glare were cold as ice as she turned to him. “How nice of ye te add ‘please’, Monsieur Le Comte. I guess tha’s the difference between treatin’ a girl as a slave an’ as a servant. Vive l’égalité!” This was the first time ever since things had changed between them that she was calling him thus. And this time it was meant to be an insult.

Purposefully, she put the little barrel she had been carrying more heftily on the ground that might be advisable due to its dangerous content. Then she crossed her arms, showing him that she would not stand for being ordered around. What was possessing him?! Was he that keen to show the world he was not thinking of anything else but the revolution and therefore had to treat every girl around like dirt?! Where had his joy gone, from just a few minutes before? Finally she had felt like she had done something to earn their esteem, contributing a most valuable addition to their cause. But nothing had changed, not really. This was still only a world of men, women were viewed as a mere distraction for peaceful times - and obstacles in times of war.

It's only those we expect most from that can disappoint us profoundly, Mylène thought, remembering an old proverb. The best way to avoid that of course was never expecting anything at all. She should have stayed with that policy.

[Deleted]

Marius was a man in despair. After work, the first thing he had done was rush to his grandfather’s house—a house he hadn’t set foot in ever since starting university—to beg for his blessing to marry Cosette. The old codger had just laughed at him and told him to make her his mistress, insulting her honor as well as his. He would not let his idiocy kill his chances at happiness. He had the ring—which had cost him several suppers—tucked safely away in his pocket, and he intended to give it to his beloved this very night. The problem was he needed help getting there.

He trusted that Eponine could help him find his way back to her, which was why he was headed toward the café. His mind did not at all consider the upcoming revolution—in fact, if asked about it, Marius would be quite surprised and taken aback that Lemarque’s funeral was indeed tomorrow. Politics were the last thing on the young law student’s mind. He could only think of the fact that his dearest Cosette was leaving him, leaving France, for England soon, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

Except this. Surely, if he proved to her father to be a capable potential son-in-law, he would allow her to stay and wed him. He was nearly done with his two year course, and he knew that if he took the exam he would pass. He would be a good lawyer, he was sure of it—and he would earn enough money to take care of Cosette. Granted he was barely staying afloat himself now, but that would all change. He had motivation now to elevate himself, and he would, without his grandfather’s help or money. He would earn a decent living by his own merit and no one else’s.

He pushed open the door to the Corinth wine shop, having first gone to the Musain and changing directions after finding it empty. “Eponine! Oh, there you are!” He ignored Combeferre completely and hurried to her side. “Could you do me a favor, please? I have to speak with Cosette, it’s urgent. Could you take me to her house?”

[Deleted]

[/b] Aurélien said, his tone gone thoughtful, his brow furrowed. "Did any of you know?"He passes glances at the others, he can't say why it bothers him that he had no Earthly clue about it until now. [/ul]

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

Was this really happening? Was it just some joke? Had he simply taken leave of his senses in the face of what they were planning the next day? Eponine was grateful that the other Amis had busied themselves storing the powder in the basement. She hated being put on the spot. It made her feel trapped, uncomfortable and almost angry. Part of her tried to remind her that Combeferre hadn't meant to, but it was slowly being drowned out by the embarrassment welling up in her. She stared at Combeferre as he spoke a beautiful and eloquent confession of adoration, some of the most wonderful words she had ever heard. Words that she knew were not meant for children of the gutter like her. They were the kind of words she'd heard whispered to ladies under fine bonnets or lacy parasols, girls who hid their smiles behind gloved hands. They were the kind of words Marius spoke to Cosette. The kind she wished, imagined, dreamed, he'd say to her.

Eponine prided herself on being able to read people. A girl in her life had to be able to, or she wouldn't live very long. The wrong read on a person could quickly put her in more danger than even she might be able to handle. So of course she had honed those skills every chance she got. But Combeferre had always seemed difficult to read, his face impassive, his motives and feelings hidden away. Maybe that's why this had nearly blind-sided Eponine. Sure, she had some inkling that his feeling might have possibly gone deeper than that of a teacher for his student. But love? Someone like him couldn't feel that for her. She'd accepted that long ago, resigning herself to pining after Marius but never having him. So she had dismissed what little she did see from Combeferre, the stammering, the glances, the concern for her welfare, as simply concern for a friend. After all, what else could it possibly be?

And yet, here he was, spilling out those words, simple and gorgeous and wonderful. He declared his love for her. "Ardent" he called it, and though she wasn't sure what the word meant, she could guess. He spoke of a gift, of letting her know that she was loved, and she almost protested, telling him she required no gifts, no charity. But his next words cut her off. He wanted to marry her. Any objections she had died on her tongue. Marriage? That wasn't just a dream, a wish to keep her warm on cold nights. That was and always had been beyond her reach. Marriage to anyone, let alone marriage to one so well off as Combeferre. She'd always assumed from a young age that her father would arrange something for her, for alliances or profit. After she left, she dreamed of being with Marius, but deep down resigned to likely ending her short life with Montparnasse. But never did marriage figure into any of her dreams. And here, Combeferre was not only proposing the idea but looking for an answer.

In her daze, she almost didn't hear a familiar voice calling her name. When his freckled face came into view, Eponine blinked her eyes, snapping out of her stupor to look at him, her face lighting up like it always did. "Marius? What is it? Any favor, you know that." She'd walk barefoot to the gates of Hell can back for him, just for the chance he might finally see her like she wished. When he pleaded for her to lead him to Cosette again, her face fell, only for a moment, before she plastered her strained smile back on. "O-of course. I think I know where she might be. You know me. Ponine knows her way around." Twining her fingers through his, she started for the door, pulling him behind her. Eponine muttered her apologies to Combeferre, afraid to meet his eyes for a moment. "I'll be back. I just have to- I'll be right back." As she pushed through the door, she glanced back, the downcast look on Combeferre's face tearing her heart in two. Stupid, blind girl. You just lost one of your closest friends.

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly grinned at Mylene's memory of his stories, but saw immediately that Courfeyrac had caught her attention. He left them to their own conversation, not wanting to intrude on what he knew was developing between his two friends. It was good for them both, or at least he hoped so—the tension in both their voices could end that before a bullet would even have the chance. But then, shouting and blows were hardly unusual in such arrangements. Should he survive the revolt and someday have occasion to marry, he promised himself that he would never raise his hand against his wife. But such behavior, unfair as it was, was common. Normal, almost, except that he didn't want to dignify it with that designation.

He didn't believe Courfeyrac was that kind of man, though Mylene was certainly the sort of woman to protest even unintentionally rough treatment. The approach of revolution had worn on everyone's nerves, though it seemed each of them expressed it in his—or her, he corrected himself, with a quick glance at Mylene and Eponine both—own way. Setting down the last of the barrels in his part of the cellar, he began to feel the cuffs of his shirt for splattered paint he could pick off.

Marius' arrival tore his attention away from the—almost frustratingly minimal, as he wanted something to occupy himself with—paint on his shirt. Before he could extend even a greeting, the boy had moved in next to Eponine to... ask her to bring him to Cosette. Bad timing, in more ways than one, though there was always a degree of almost adolescent awkwardness in Pontmercy's behavior. He was likable enough, though sometimes he could stand as a one-man assurance that Feuilly's unfamiliarity with the social norms of the students' collective class background did not put him at any disadvantage when it came to following those norms.

Feuilly wondered if Enjolras had asked Courfeyrac about Combeferre's confession more because of their friendship or because he had seen the lit fuse between him and Mylene. But then.. their leader seemed honestly confused by the situation. It was true, Feuilly had never seen the man in love—but then, none of them had ever seen him in love, either. It certainly didn't indicate that he was incapable of a love affair, just that circumstances hadn't allowed it since he had come to Paris. Between work, education, and revolution there was little time for that sort of love... and he still wasn't sure he'd ever completely gotten over the girl he hadn't realized he'd loved until it was too late, no matter how many years it had been. Even if he hadn't know about what apparently had grown between Combeferre and Eponine—and he had seen hardly more than a collection of hints—it was hardly unheard of for a young a man to have his head turned away from his books by a pretty girl. It was a rare thing for Combeferre, but not so shocking or impossible.

“I don't think he will let it distract him from the task at hand,” he answered Enjolras in a quiet voice, trying to soothe what he could only guess might be his fears. “He is still the friend you know and trust, even if Eponine has won his affections.”

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Christian huffed in annoyance, not so much as Mylene as at himself. She knew from their conversations that he wanted egalite for everyone, and he loved women more than any other man he knew, as a matter of fact. However, right now, he wanted a damn drink, and she was still the barmaid even if she was also a revolutionary. He flinched just slightly as she set down the barrel. “Mylie... c'mon...” he sighed, taking her elbow gently from her crossed arms, even though he had no doubt she would jerk it away, as feisty as ever. Stuffing the brochure back into his pockets, he attempted to meet her gaze. He was reasonably certain that she couldn't look into his handsome face and still be angry with him.

And then Enjolras got his attention. He didn't have time for this. There had been no malice in his words. Women, he sighed inwardly. The revolution always came before love, or at least came beside it; their mistresses were just another thing to fight for. Surely not even Combeferre had forgotten that. “Ah s'pose Ah knew, yes,” he admitted, “jes' mebbe didn't want te know.” Combeferre hadn't hidden it too stealthily, at least not to someone who observed keenly as Courfeyrac did. However, Enjolras was not as observant, especially when it came to matters of the heart; perhaps that was intentional.

“Ah dun think it will be a problem,” he thought he should add, for Combeferre's benefit as well as for Enjolras'. They needed as many men as they could get; now was not the time to lose their amis to distraction. “When the time comes, he'll be as ready as any of us. Y'know we all 'ave jades an' it makes us fight all the fiercer.” He cast another glance at Mylene. “An' who isn't te say that they won't be fighting alongside us, if they want?” That had been a brief point of contention, even though he had taught her how to fire a weapon, just in case. He wanted her to be safe. But the best way to ensure their safety, now and forever, was to establish a republic of the people, which would take, naturally, all of the people.

(OOC: Sorry I missed my turn, hope it's okay that I post anyway since this thread isn't top priority anymore)

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His voice had been steady, for once in the history of their friendship. He had been certain, sure, unwavering, as he had finally said what he had been meaning to say, that he should have said, ages ago, if not for his own fear. And once the words left his mouth, he felt braver, stronger, somehow. It was done. He had told her that she was loved—by him—and it was as if a weight had been taken off of his chest. But then he kept talking, and had asked her to marry him—which he had intended to do, he wanted to make it clear that he did not want a mistress, he wanted a wife, a partner in life’s trials and tribulations, an equal—and that was nothing that he could take back.

Combeferre found that he did not want to take it back. He did love her, desperately, and if she was willing, he would spend the rest of his life devoted to her happiness and her happiness alone. He wanted her to know if God saw fit to keep him safe, he would return to her and marry her, if she would let him. He wanted her to know that regardless of whatever his father said against her, he would stand by her, and would be willing to declare his love for her to the world, not just in whispered rendezvous or here in the café. He wanted her to know that he was not ashamed of her because there was nothing for him to be ashamed of. He saw her to be a good person—no, an amazing person—and he didn’t want anyone else.

She had listened to him, unlike most of the candidates his parents had tossed at him, and she was his friend first. If he was to spend his life with a woman for the next forty or fifty years, he wanted them to be friends at least. He wanted them to like each other. This was far more than that—it was no infatuation. It was love, plain and simple. He knew it. Why else would it pain him that she still had not answered him? He was going to ask her what was wrong when Marius burst into the room, addressing Eponine and ignoring everyone else. His blue eyes drifted from him to the gamine, blinking in confusion, then widening in understanding as she finally spoke, but not to him, and gazed at Marius with the same expression he had aimed at her. Hurt flashed in his eyes and he took a step back, swallowing hard and looking at his feet.

Why had he been so stupid? Why had he acted so rashly? Reason, logic, structure—he was so good at those things. The spontaneous was nothing he had courted in the past, but now…now he had tried it, and he had made a fool of himself. He had embarrassed her, as well as himself. She loved Marius, not him. How and why could or should she love him? He was clever but there was not much more to it than that. The worst part of it all was that Marius didn’t seem to realize it at all. Did he know what he would give, for her to look at him that way, at least once? Just once, and he could go to his death with a smile on his face. He couldn’t look at her, even as she finally spoke to him, promising that she would be back. “I…I’ll be here.” he muttered, though it came out cracked and he could have kicked himself. He didn’t watch her leave, but instead exhaled shakily and aimlessly followed his friends to the basement, a stunned, rather broken look on his face. He hid it as soon as it registered what he must look like—as a man of his wealth had been taught to do since birth practically—and faked a smile. “How can I help?” They had to give him something to do. He needed something to do, if only to get the previous conversation out of his mind.