➳ i am a ghost, just a mirage

[seditiously]

( who chases traces of you )

Comments

[seditiously]

[Alexandre (Enjolras. Always Enjolras. His current name is a "familiarity" afforded only to his mother, and only then because she demands it.) doesn't fully remember when the dreams began. They seemed a constant in his life since he was a child, first only at night, waking him to cry for his nanny, and later as daydream flashes that left him gripping the sides of buildings to keep his balance. He learned quickly not to share these episodes, if his family's hushed whispers of "disturbed" and "hospital" were any indication of the potential consequences of honesty.

That is, until university.

Enjolras had barely begun his studies when he was almost knocked of his feet by Thomas (still bespectacled, which had triggered the flash in the first place; Combeferre had managed to retain poor vision in both lives) and gained new clarity. Others would follow, confirming his new reality: the fragmentary moments were not just nightmares or moments of waning sanity but memories of a past life not fully lived.

He found both pain in solace in that. He'd feel old bullet wounds when sitting for coffee with Courfeyrac, recall a quote from Lamarque's writings when studying his political theory texts with Feuilly, remember begging for sole use of a back room nearly two centuries ago while passing a shop near his flat. The moments were fleeting, fragmentary, and frustratingly vague, which left him to decipher them with impatience.

He felt it more keenly than anywhere when he stopped at the cafe near his afternoon studies; Courfeyrac had insisted on in the first time ("The same block that housed the Corinthe, what better to encourage more?") but he returned even without any of the others, urgently trying to trigger the next clue in between the passages of Mill and Thoreau. He sipped at his coffee at one of the tables underneath the awning, underlining a section in On Liberty about free discourse.]

why am i like this

[habitually]

[ Ignorance is bliss. And as such, the young man frozen across the street lived in a state of misery.

Rémi did not get flashes of his past life. He had full-on PTSD-triggering memories and nightmares. Psychiatrists dismissed him with, as a child, an overactive imagination and ADHD. The adult had since stopped seeking professional help for what the doctors had attempted to pin down as generalized anxiety, psychosis, and major depressive disorder. He felt more at home in a psych ward than his own bed by the age of 15.

Grantaire.

He had been born Rémi Francois Chirac to his teenage mother and seemed perfectly normal as he was brought up by his grandparents with lots of smiles and laughs. It wasn't until the age of six when walking down the Rue Soufflot one cheerful June that he felt as though he were struck like a bullet and his ears rang. The small child had ran to the wall of a restaurant, clung like an infant to the foundation, and began to sob uncontrollably. His grandfather picked him up and shushed him all the way home but after little Rémi continued to be unable to stop reciting the names of people he had never met and continued scratching at his chest, the baffled family had no choice but to take him to every specialist across Paris to try and help him.

Diazepam; Méthylphenidate; Risperidone; Quetiapine; once a day; twice a day, with food; at bedtime. Do not drink while on this medication. Do not operate heavy machinery. Side effects may include--

By the age of 16, Rémi had learned there was no use in trying to get anyone to understand that he had died; it was useless to try and tell anyone that his life was a worthless repeat. He had lived his life. Why did he come back? -- He stopped asking. Lie to the doctors. Everything was fine. The meds were working. He felt better. The delusions had stopped. In reality, he slept as little as possible to stop the nightmares. The medications went down the sewer pipes or were sold in the alleys in exchange for liquor.

Once a drunk, always a drunk.

The alcohol stopped his memories from taking hold of him so desperately. His body was too used to the downers and benzodiazepines to make them effective, but later in his teenage years he found whiskey and rum to treat him like an old friend. Looking in the mirror was always a strange and unnerving experience when the differences struck him. Old scars were gone. The nose was no longer broken and malformed. His eyes looked just the same, but otherwise a stranger of 24 years looked back at the old, dead man when he washed his face in the morning.

Finding a young man with a wide smile and bright eyes while in the park one day changed his life yet again, but in a way that seemed to bring some clarity to it. He grabbed the man by the shoulders, interrupting his chat with a similarly-aged woman and stared in disbelief. R watched as Michel's amusement turned violently from shock to anger to bewilderment to despair. He and Courfeyrac held each other until they reached an unspoken agreement that it was too uncomfortable for two men who had never met. R had hurriedly explained over that afternoon who he was- and who Michel was, aligning it with the few scattered dreams that the younger man had seen.

A text message from Thomas - Combeferre, but he couldn't call him that; it was dizzying to try and put the memories of a bespectacled man with a bayonet into the stoic computer science major - several weeks later had led Rémi to this coffee shop, watching a man with crisp hair sip his coffee and trying to stop the bile from rising in his throat as he found words. He lost track of how long he stood there, trying to think of something, anything to say to Enjolras that wouldn't be an 'I'm sorry,' or 'Thank you for everything.' How can you put that sort of pressure on someone who doesn't know you? He had to get his head on straight before he could even say a word to him.

Taking a shaky breath he crossed the street in a daze and used the ill-suiting name. ]

Alexandre?

i mean i didn't give u much to work with :3c

[habitually]

[ It might've been closer to 7:12pm when Remi sneaked through the little door that read "Meeting, Do Not Disturb". He took a breath and walked into the classroom lined with fold-able chairs and a few, mostly male, bodies filling them. With a sigh and a wipe of his brow, R walks properly into the meeting.

He took a seat toward the back to observe, two rows behind a group of three- two young men and a woman chattering quietly amongst themselves- and tried to ignore the bile caused by anxiety and stress. They were all here, for fuck's sake. ]

but nicole, how do you say so little with so much text

[seditiously]

[Enjolras is at the front because of course he is, naturally flagged by Combeferre looking over a mock-up rally schedule and Courfeyrac who going over a stack potential cases for the pre-law members of the group to try and volunteer assistance. He's used to the divested attention; as fiery as he can be with his speeches, the group has an unfathomable number of small, breakout projects. He's just focused on centralizing the message of it all.]

So as I'm sure you all remember from last meeting, Thomas is heading up a rally at the Place de la Concorde on the role of Islam in modern France, specifically to try and reinvigorate the discussion on the Hijab ban now with the new government in power. That being said, this is going to have heavy immigration implications as well, so I'll like to see two or three people helping him as their primary line of effort for the next two weeks. I know you're working it already Nathan, but anyone interested should obviously meet with Thomas and let me know so we can account for who is working what.

Michel is still in the early stages of the case advocacy project, which is probably going to a low-intensity, long-term effort for us. The law school has already agreed to pair up with pre-law students for the professional experience, but please don't feel discouraged if you are studying a different subject. Almost all of these cases are civil or domestic-related suits, meaning anyone with a educational, psychology, or anything along the lines of social work experience or focus will be an asset. Same rules as Thomas' group applies.

Now, that's all I have immediately tracking but if anyone has a suggestion or a topic they are passionate about but are not sure how best to impact it, please talk to your group officers: me, Thomas, or Michel. We have a large group, which I'm grateful for, but I don't want your respective talents or interests to fall by the wayside purely because no one felt they should speak up.

[He sees several new faces in the group, including Thomas' acquaintance, which always makes his heart sore; he was slightly worried about youth apathy (not unwarranted, given their previous track record) when the group had first been set up, but Courfeyrac had been adamant it would be different, better. With the group close to 60 people now, it seemed safe to say he was right.]

Just as an aside before people break out into their small groups; we have the room reserved until 9:00. After that, I'd appreciate it if Thomas [Combeferre], Michel [Courfeyrac], Julien [Prouvaire], Nathan [Feuilly], Axel [Bahorel], Elias [Joly], and Hugo [Bousset] would stay back for a couple of minutes just so I can go over one or two things.

clap clap clap— also let me enjoy this and then coffee not-a-date?

[habitually]

[ the next evening, 9:52pm ]

d’you ever think about the fact that smartphones are basically the new pocket watch?

good with meeee~

[seditiously]

[The typing bubble hovers for about 15 minutes menacingly on the screen, but the reply text is fairly short.]

No, that would be the wristwatch. It's why pocket watches went out of style.

[seditiously]

[So it's been two weeks of frequent texts, slightly less frequent videochats (always so late at night, does he even sleep or is he some sort of vampire), and biweekly arguments at the meetings in which he's pretty sure the actual point of the meetings has become some sort of side event to their now group-viewed debates.

Enjolras isn't really sure what to do with this new dynamic that has been foisted upon him.

Combeferre says it's nice to see him getting along with individuals outside his "core safety net" of the former Les Amis. Courfeyrac says they'd make a cute couple if Enjolras wasn't so eager to bite his head off, which he "wouldn't recommend as a potential paramour". Courf usually gets a (soft) object to the face for his insinuations.

But really, if Enjolras is being honest with himself, there's a nice level of consistency to knowing Remi. He's still as frustrating as ever, sure, but Enjolras almost finds himself looking forward to the weird questions and counterarguments every day. So maybe it only comes as a half-surprise to them both when he spots Remi on campus and flags him down.]

Ah, Remi! Wait up!

[habitually]

[ R may or may not have provided popcorn when he knew the topic was something he knew particularly well. It was requested by a certain other member. He’s got earbuds in and doesn’t hear the other young man, having been absorbed in some Indie bullshit that Spotify recommended for him on his way to “Chaucer and Medieval Literature,” in the hall across campus. A real page turner. ]

[habitually]

[ R snickers at his friends’ antics— specifically watching... well, Courfeyrac’s current shell is trying to convince Jean Claude- a soul called Bahorel in a previous life- that he could totally take him in an arm wrestle because he has been working out for a week. The beer deserves another sip for that. Ah, shit, it’s empty.

A walk up to the bar has his tipsy eyes catching onto some blond curls. There hadn’t been much talk between the black and blond haired men recently. A touch of alcohol and an lack of self preservation can fix that. He cups his hand and yells over the heads. ]

Alexandre! My captain!

[seditiously]

[Enjolras is nursing a vodka-tonic (because of course he's that person) and trying to flag the bartender to snag Jehan another glass of wine when he feels a dark-curled lump brush against his shoulder.

He expects the residual indignation to still be there, ready to come and have another strike at him but--]

Remi. Glad you could make it out.

[Oh it's clipped, sure, but the reponse lacks any bite to it. He takes a long swig of his drink, finishing the glass, and renews his passive-aggressive attempts to flag the bartender.]

[habitually]

[ R wakes suddenly, alone in an unfamiliar bed. His chest heaving, he presses his eyelids closed to try and stop his ears ringing. A new memory- an old memory? The man felt his chest and was surprised for a moment to find it bare. Ah.

Oh.

His eyes open again as he lies in the strange bed and the images of blood spattered wood leak out of him like water from his ear against the pillow. New memories. New- a brick wall at his back with Enjolras at his- no. Against him. Rémi touches his lips to make sure- yes still chapped. A little tender to touch, but not painful. Loved. Abused. The man smiles as he sits up. The scars on his chest aren’t aching- but his lips are sore.

Rémi’s undershirt from last night didn’t go far and he grabs it from the bed with stretched fingers to put on over his boxers and go in search of the man whose sheets he was tangled in. ... and he smells coffee. ]

[seditiously]

[Enjolras's hair is still a little mussed up from sleep as he sits quietly at his kitchen table and nurses his coffee (a Nespresso, because he's that combination of wealthy and lazy). He cranes his neck far to the right until he hears a soft crack and sudden relief from the tension. He didn't sleep poorly per se, but just a little "off"; unused to another body beside his own in bed.

He's still trying to will the coffee into getting his brain ready for a conversation he feels woefully unprepared for when he hears a second pair of feet pad into his flat's living space.]

...Morning. Pods are in the box next to the machine, I wasn't--I didn't know when you'd be up. There's several types though, so whatever you're into.

[seditiously]

[The walk to the cafe was short but peppered with the sort of hypersensitivity that comes with walking alongside a...someone, undefined, new and raw. Enjolras's fingers flex out to the side several times along the way, never quite reaching out and touching Remi's.

It's when they're seated at the cafe, his usual place just along the way from his flat to the metro, that Enjolras realizes he's never actually eaten here; it's always been a grab and go situation as he makes his way to campus, a borderline unpatriotic act of efficiency. Naturally, he plays this off completely cool.]

So I might need a second with the menu...anything you think you want?

[habitually]

[ Grantaire is smitten with someone. Specifically, the man who is capable of defying authority to its face and speaking to a crowd of people with a megaphone, but can’t look R straight in the eye or do more than brush his hand before shying away again. God, before he was haunted by a smile, a nod, and two hands joining, and now he’s... eating breakfast with him. He slept with him. (And it was incredible.) New memories. All he could think was maybe, just maybe, if he made enough new memories with this soul then... maybe Grantaire’s mind wouldn’t reach for the others as much.

By now he’s realized by the silence that the aforementioned soul spoke to him. R clears his throat and looks down at the paper menu in front of him. He smiles absently as he’s almost lost in thought again, one hand being used as a prop for his jaw and the other on the table. ]

Hmm, nah. I’m all set whenever you are.

[habitually]

[ R dug the ball of his foot into the half-finished cigarette before entering the university. He reflected on the last week and a half as he walked toward the room where Enj- Alexandre’s club met. Grantaire had never felt so humiliated as he did paying the bill for a half finished breakfast from a totally botched first date. What did he do? He didn’t want to know. Which is why he failed to show at the meeting last week.

There was also the matter of the emptied handles of liquor in his recycle bin. Grantaire wasn’t one for emotions. If you felt things you were disappointed, as this case in point displayed perfectly. If you admit feelings you get a fuck and half of a confession of attraction. He itched for another cigarette as he walked, stopping to breathe against the wall. Why? Why did that happen? Why was- His friends.

Courfeyrac convinced R to come to this meeting- stressing that E missed him. Courf knew how to make shit candy coated and rose colored though. He couldn’t trust the idiotic optimist if he wanted to.

He desperately wanted to.

R didn't want to want it. He didn’t. He wanted to go back to his haunted head and forget that happened. The memories of what happened with Alex, the memories of his drunken past life and the thought of his drunken week and his drunken future— fuck it all. Hope was for suckers, and that’s what he told them all last time.

The door clicks behind him as he slides in late to he start of the round table, sitting at the back and feeling for the flask in his coat.

He told them all. No one listened. No one. Least of all, Grantaire. ]

[seditiously]

[The past two weeks have been...difficult, to say the least. Enjolras spent most of the days immeadiately following the not-quite date leaning on the pillars of his triumverate; it's not every day a man relives and retells his own death, the feel of the bullets hitting his chest, the calloused hand in his slip from his grasp.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac both look stricken when he tells them of his most recently gained memories and what triggered them, but he has little to give them beyond that initial tale. Courfeyrac doesn't linger on his trist with Remi and worries his lip as he asks about The Man's face and voice, a sure sign he knows more than he says; Combeferre simply looks distant, asking only what Enjolras thought it meant, to have ghosts of past martyrs dredged up but a not-quite-lover.

Enjolras has no reasoning to give him.

He waits out the next few days with strategic walks around the campus (all turn up empty) until the next meeting when he can talk to Remi, attempt to explain himself. When the night arrives though, the would-be beau is nowhere to be seen.

Until tonight, that is. Enjolras has been out of sorts all meeting, eyes fixtated on the stubbled brunette across the team far more than any of the tasks at hand. He has a distant memory of a M. Pontmercy but his mind rejects any comparisons of objectivity.]

All right, once your respective teams are done for the night, please turn in all paperwork and materials with either Elias and Nathan. Great work all, have a nice night.

[Eyes boring into Remi, he beelines across the room as soon as his announcement is made, people already beginning to clear.]

...You came today.

france before pants. but R’s pants before france. muahaha.

[habitually]

[ Rémi kisses down his spine lazily. He smiles as he triumphantly touched his lips to the skin of this gorgeous human being; he lies in the beautiful blond’s bed for the third time in two weeks. And it’s the first time he’s awake and Enjolras is still next to him so he’s abusing the newfound position of power accordingly. Why wasn’t Grantaire in charge all the time? Honestly.

He muses about the memories as they flickered each time he held the man in his arms. Less tragic. Still painful. They were doomed, before, but— the leader entranced him before. He was even more thoroughly entranced now. Enjolras... Absurd. Absurd that R would find him again. Absurd that R would be here with him, now. His skin this morning was beautiful, and R touched the little pockmarks at the back of his rib cage; gunshots echo in Grantaire’s ears dimly.

More memories surface, but R doesn’t feel his chest tighten. In fact, his stomach feels butterfly wings scrape their insides again which is just. Well, absurd. — E’s hand holds his as they watch a film, and though there is an unmistakeable tight clamp at first, he stays. Enjolras laughs at a story R is telling about a concert in which he accidentally got his nose broken from a sudden mosh pit (but he got a signed drumstick out of it). R watches while E talks at the meeting the following week, and watches his ears get red and he pulls his face into that awful frown when someone (who isn’t R) contradicts him. ]

I have to go, [ a kiss reaches to the back of his ear. ] but meet you later?

rebuttal: no pants, endless france.

[seditiously]

[Normally Enjolras would be up already; Saturday or not, there's always a demonstration to organize, a pamphlet to outline and print, a charity to run a donation drive for. But last night has left him...sore, and exhausted to boot. He groans as he feels kisses graze down his back, face still half planted in the pillow.]

Mmm. How are you this awake this early...? Where are you going?

[habitually]

[ R comes up behind his boyfriend as the blond scrolls his phone with an intense expression. It’s just his face, honestly. Resting bitch face was not gender exclusive by any means. And it made it all the more fun to guess when he was actually mad about something. ]

I realized something. [ He cranes his neck to rest on Alexandre’s shoulder, looking over at the battlefield painted to his left. R hums thoughtfully and lifts his head to look at it better. Ah, the classics always made him stare for a moment. ] Also I’m done with this wing— I noticed you didn’t take as long as I did. My bad.

[seditiously]

[Enjolras is trying to kill an adequate amount of time scanning through the latest updates on his twitter feed and fending off texts now from not only Courfeyrac, but Joly and Jehan as well (“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do! Or you know, do, lord knows you could take the edge off ;)” ; “Try to take your time in the rooms okay? He won’t say it but he’s got a big soft spot for classic paintings and sculpture” ; “Take some cute photos, we all want to see next meeting!!”)

He perks up at Remi’s voice and touch, turning so that their noses almost touch.]

Oh, and what is that...? [He furrows his brow at already being called out.] I just go through museums quickly...I’m still having fun, you take your time.

[Granted, Enjolras had sped through this particular section faster than the others based on the sheer quantity of Napoleonic propaganda, but Remi doesn’t need to know that...]

[seditiously]

[ Enjolras places his keys on the counter, next to the phone he so carelessly forgot when he left this morning. He shoots off the text he had wanted to send two hours ago as he lost his boyfriend in the Louvre’s crowded hallways: ]

Hey is everything okay? I couldn’t find you when you walked off and I left my phone. Did I say something wrong?

[ He throws the phone onto his mattress with a soft bounce, joining it soon after, face first in the smoothed comforter. Sighing deeply as he flips himself over, he tries to run through the events of his soured date: Lowkey sandwiches in the park; Moving to the Louvre to cater to Remi’s love of art; Remi almost cackling at his poor attempts at art critique, but offering kisses in apology; Remi saying they’d already been dating 3 months, like he didn’t already know, wasn’t excited by it all; talking about his exes? But Remi seemed to be happily joking; running into the Liberty painting; Enjolras asking for yet another art critique from Remi; Enjolras inevitably turning a date into a debate on political ideology, albeit in a history lesson Remi didn’t know he lived.

He seemed so hurt, he doesn’t understand; they’ve had worst arguments over what’s happening now. He grabs his phone again, texting an SOS to his group chat with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, urging them to come over and sort him out. ]

[habitually]

[ "A history lesson Rémi didn't know he lived." Oh, Enjolras you wish that was true. Rémi was dry heaving over his toilet, taking deep breaths to stop himself from vomiting again. A cold sweat prickled his brow and an empty glass bottle is rolling into the table leg innocuously as there are vibrations from other apartment occupants' movements nearby rattling their ceiling.

It is another hour and change before Rémi is feeling well enough to find his phone where it was left on a counter in his kitchen alcove of his cramped studio for two. The roommate is at an art show, so Rémi has the space to himself to drown his sorrows and self-conflict in ethanol with. Which, in this case, ends with him holding his spinning head with his sweat-drenched shirt abandoned in the restroom, opening a message from Enjolras. He feels his eyes prickle as he winces and laughs. ]

Did you say something wrong? [ The words are hoarse and broken, a combination of his raw throat and the thoughts that keep telling him that he needs to stay far away from the man who led him to death that he relives on an at-least-weekly basis. ]

all good! stomach upset from lunch and i got claustrophobic and felt sick. sorry i bolted. xx

Go fuck yourself, Apollo. Fuck your revolution. [ R throws his abused phone into the couch cushion. With a sob, he buries his head into his hands and doubles over. ]

[habitually]

[ It’s been... a rough couple of days. R hasn’t been this ill in a long time- not since the first time he saw Alexandre. Enjolras.

“Be serious.”

Rémi had cried and embraced Courfeyrac and Bahorel when he met them in this time period. Grantaire had felt the pain of bullets in his chest and nearly fainted when he saw the man holding Enjolras’ essence for the first time. Michel had warned him- But he remembered them. He had prepared himself for Alexandre to see him and know him— to remember the useless drunk. The man who had slept through the revolution and been barely worth a scathing remark when R tried to help as best that he could given his cynicism for the cause.

But. Nothing. R walked past Alexandre after he recovered and his chest ached. Their eyes met briefly, and Enjolras turned back to Combeferre to continue the conversation. Grantaire shuddered and his insides felt like falling out. It was only Courfeyrac promising to introduce Rémi to him- It was the only thing that could get him to stop drinking his thoughts into silence. So Rémi sweated and shuddered for 24 hours as he let himself sober up, but survived, and met the leader- anticlimactically. But. A second chance. He wasn’t just the drunk anymore- They fought, they argued, R laughed at him- at the passion he held- and. They kissed, they fought more, they laughed together—

Rémi winced and pulled on the hand rolled paper again, blowing the smoke out his nose and enjoying the smoke through his nostrils as he blew it after a hold. He stepped out the butt and opened the door after a failed attempt. R used the wall and made his way to the classroom. Forehead against the door, he listened to the insect buzz inside the room. Enjolras’ voice, dimmed through the wood, makes him shiver and he wishes he could smoke another one. ]

He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t remember- you have to tell him, asshole.

[ He’s too much of a coward to wait out here. Too cowardly to call him, return his texts, find him when Enjolras offered to meet. But tonight was the meeting and Enjolras would be at his best- it was the only way he could attempt to do this. Scrunching his face, the handle of the door dips and he goes into the room. He opens his mouth to announce his presence and he can’t make a sound. The faces blur as he closes the door behind him. He isn’t paying attention to who is speaking now (it’s not Enjolras-) as he finds a lone chair and settles into it. If he closes his eyes the buzz dies down a little and- well the spinning is worse so bad idea— ]

[seditiously]

[ Enjolras is uncharacteristically hanging back from the central speech heading off their grassroots meeting tonight-- that honor is reserved for Jehan, who, despite his trepidations about projecting his voice and passion on the topic, is outlining his foodbank drive neatly to a rapt room. Even if he had been the main orator of the night, there's too much else on his mind to give it his all.

The texts from earlier this week were slightly disconcerting, but at the time Combeferre talked him away from violating his beau's personal space and revealing a lack of trust in his words (and by extension in Remi himself). Enjolras had fought instinct against his better nature, relegating himself to occasional status checks that went largely unanswered.

He will never do that again.

Enjolras' bright blue eyes lock on to Remi as almost as soon as he enters the crowded hall, soaking in his beleaguered expression and darkened eyes with a sinking feeling settling into his stomach. He can't interrupt Jehan (it'd undermine him as a friend, plus Bahorel and Courferyac would kill him) but he keeps his stare on Remi, trying to will him into giving him some of sort of answer (facial cues? telekensis?) for his appearance. ]

behold, i wrote too much

[seditiously]

Of the many things Enjolras is (a student, a reborn martyr, a hypocritical ass about a third of the way through a bottle of scotch his uncle had given him two birthdays ago--) a drinker is not one of them.

So, it goes without saying that when he calls Combeferre (and, inevitably, gets Courfyerac in the background of that call) he's pretty well sloshed. Although his slurred, mournful speech is basically unintelligible, Combeferre and Courfeyrac come to visit all the same: he's made to drink water until he feels he's about to be sick, plied with homecooked pasta he consumes without really tasting, and put to bed on his side, the world spinning off-kilter as he closes his eyes.

His head, despite his friends' best efforts, is splitting upon waking. He gingerly pads out to the living room to see Combeferre sitting on his couch, reading quietly, and Courfeyrac nowhere to be found.

"Hey, how are you feeling? There's some paracetamol on the counter you should still probably take. You slept a good amount; if you'd made it to 3:00 it would have been a full twelve hours." He places his bookmark and turns over the seatback to look at Enjolras, the blonde's curls still disheveled and eyes bleary. "Courfeyrac went out to grab a spare set of clothes for us back at the flat. He left about an hour ago now, should be back fairly soon. You should think about investing in a new pull-out, incidentally; there's very little back support in what you have right now."

Enjolras just stares Combeferre, his calmness strangely grounding. "All right. As good as I could have. Thank you both for coming, I...it's all a mess, 'Ferre. God, I messed up so badly." He runs his hands through his hair, fingers catching in the waves. "He told me he's the same as us, that he was there in June and that I had known him, and I...I just freaked out."

Combeferre's eyes aren't fully visible, the glint from the window reflecting on his glasses and obscuring them. "Why do you think you 'freaked out'? Do you not believe what he's telling you?"

"No!" The reaction is knee-jerk, and Enjolras immediately feels guilty for it. "...God, I don't know, maybe. How can I? I have all those memories of the barricade. I got them back years ago and there's no man who died there that I don't remember. Unless 'Grantaire' was some old man..."

"Ah, so he told you his name." Combeferre is noncommittal as he gets up to move to the fridge, pulling out a sparkling water bottle and pressing it into Enjolras' hands along with two pills.

"...He told me to ask you and Courf. Used your real names. So, do you? Remember him, know him." Enjolras isn't sure what answer he's hoping to hear from Combeferre. He unscrews the lid of the water and takes the pills, swallowing hard.

There are a few beats before Combeferre finally answers. "...We did, and do. He was hurt when he found out that you were...what was missing, but he wanted it to come out at its own pace, so we agreed to what he wanted." He pulls a second water out of the fridge, screwing off the cap and taking a small sip. "...Neither of us wanted to keep any secrets from you, I hope you know that. It just about killed Courfeyrac, you know how he gets."

Enjolras looks stricken; he's not only pained Rem--Grantaire, (his name is Grantaire, remember, remember) but his closest friends as well. "No, I...I know." The conversation dies off as both men quietly take sips of their drinks, unable to think of what to say. Seemingly summoned by this awkward silence, Courfeyrac enters with a series of bags draped on his arms.

"I'm baaaaaac--Oh. You're awake! Hey, both of you stop looking at the floor like you broke a window or something and catch me up on what you've been talking about." He sets several of the bags on the couch then joins them in the kitchen, placing some vegetables on the cutting board purposely left out to make lunch, Enjolras now realizes.

"Combeferre said you both remember R--Grantaire, knew him when we were all at the barricade. Which doesn't make sense, how can one person be missing from just my memories?" Enjolras huffs, running his hand through his hair again.

"You told him? Without me?" Courfeyrac looks mock-affronted at Combeferre, but it doesn't last in the face of Enjolras' obvious misery. Courfeyrac reaches over the counter to clean off a few carrots in the sink, smiling sadly but sympathetically. "Well, who says he's completely missing? There's no one from before the barricade you can think of, who's shown up in your memories? Someone besides the core group?"

"No, there's noone I--" And like that, it clicks into place. Enjolras' memories of The Man come back into focus, playing like a movie reel, but now with so much more clarity: the green-vested man, with his barbs and wine and stubble, now has those tell-tale hazel eyes; his voice, slightly scratchy but still charming in its own way, still asks Enjolras what he can do to be useful, even asks to 'shine his boots'; when he fails in his mission, Enjolras can remember turning him away from the barricade and their fight, watching those hazel eyes darken as he accuses him of being 'incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying'; and of course those last moments, of Grantaire, who he'd turned away so flippantly the night before, yelling out his allegiance and condemning himself in one breath, those hazel eyes still so uncertain as he reached out his hand and asked if he'd permit him to--

Fuck.

"Oh my god. He was--I was--We--I'm such a fucking idiot." Enjolras says this as he springs up from his seat, cheeks heating.

"Yeah, sometimes, but we love you all the same." Courfeyrac says with a smile as he shuts off the faucet, placing the carrots back on the cutting board.

"I--I need to go. I need to find him and--god, what do I even say? 'Thanks for dying with me, sorry I didn't realize the guy I kept comparing you to was you'? Jesus, where are my shoes...??" Enjolras is now frantically rushing about the apartment, slinging his jacket over his shoulders.

"Well, maybe you should put on pants first." Combeferre points down at what Enjolras just now registers are, yes, just his boxer-briefs. "But it's a start. You have time, I'm sure you two will work it out. Now go grab some pants, I'll get your shoes."

[habitually]

Embers fall from a shaking hand as Grantaire’s mouth pulls on the raised cigarette. He’s not been to work, he’s not been to class, and money ran out. Without alcohol after his last binge for several days, R has resorted to finding Euros and cigarettes on the street to get by until his landlord comes after him for rent.

”Éponine, please— just one drink, half a drink— anything?”
High pitched laughter as the woman shakes her head. “You owe me too much from before, Rémi, go find your rich, asshole boyfriend, and stop begging for a fix.”

R snubs the tiny, fully smoked dart with the tip of his shoe. He checks his phone, frustratedly putting it back in his pocket when he remembers that its battery is depleted. The twitchy anxiety makes him check it anyway, though he knows it’s dead. Something. Anything.

“Space.” He wants space. He can’t stand the idea of Grantaire being right and leaves him standing half-drunk, hurt, and feeling lower than before. Why did he expect that to turn out any differently? Rémi muses that he didn’t, really. That would be why he avoided it for so long.

It was too good to be true. And R knew that. You don’t get a second chance after wasting one life to get a better one the second time. His art talents were sorely lacking this time, and it only got worse from there. He looks out over the Seine, the way the setting sun lit the water. The beams shining on the surface like ignited gasoline, and he muses for a moment that the river looks more splendid than ever. Cleaner, for starts.

“He’s not worth remembering. Enjolras is... much better off only knowing Rémi. Why would you throw that away?” His voice is raspy, and R realizes how lost and alone he feels, watching the light slowly dim around him.

[seditiously]

[ Finally clad in pants, shoes, and jacket, Enjolras made it out the door, professing continual apologies to Courfeyrac and Comebeferre about leaving them alone in his apartment and promising to buy them both lunch another day in place of the one he was missing. He had a diced carrot piece thrown at him for his troubles.

What started out as a casual walk turned brisk, then into a light jog, and before he knew it, Enjolras was full-out running to the Metro entrance like some sort of maniac. Once onboard, the pauses between the stops left enough time for fun questions to pass through his mind like, 'Am I remembering the correct stop?', 'What if he won't forgive me?' and 'Should I have grabbed like...flowers, or something?' Enjolras uses the reflection of the car's windows to check his hair and face, feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious.

After what feels like an eternity, Enjolras is outside Grantaire's apartment, fingers hovering over the buzzer to his flat. Right. We're doing this. We're...god. Biting the bullet, Enjolras presses the button slowly and with probable unnecessary force, pressing it flush against the metal electrical panel and holding it for a long, shrill ring.

...That goes unanswered. Waiting a beat, Enjolras presses again, more urgent and shorter, but still no reply. It's really only at this moment it occurs to Enjolras that Grantaire could, in fact, not be home, and he has run halfway across Paris to an empty apartment. ]

...God damnit.

[ He runs his hand through in his hair, trying to figure out what, if anything, to do next. He can't just go home and sit by himself with his (old) newfound knowledge, he doesn't know exactly where he's gone, and he can't exactly text his reincarnated paramour 'hey just remembered you died for me, up for coffee?' Enjolras leans against the building's exterior and pulls a cigarette out of his jacket pocket, taking a long drag as he tries to wrack his brain for what, if anything, he can do. ]

[habitually]

[ R turns to go home when the night grows colder than the balmy afternoon attire he picked out and his teeth chattering becomes more than he can bear. His pleas to a passerby give him a light on a cigarette he held onto from a generous stranger.

“You look like you could use this, darling.”

The trembling man coughs against a gust of wind and holds the lit paper in his mouth to put his hands in his pockets against the chill. A storm seems to be blowing in- and he quickens his pace, flicking his half-used cig into a puddle as he approaches his building. His hood is raised to protect his ears from the wind and without the peripheral nearly trips over a loiterer. ]

Sorry— Oh.

[ He pulls down the hood as he looks at the person he ran into. Grantaire is struck dumb, and thinks quickly he should have remembered to charge his phone. ]