Archive of Our Own ^beta

It’s a gradual thing: the sense of dread when he goes to pick up his phone, the restlessness during any free moment, the increasing familiarity with delivery food. Enjolras has felt the stress building for months now, but it isn’t until he’s passed his fourth consecutive day in planning sessions that he finally gives the feeling voice.

“Nothing we do feels like enough.” It’s said to the wall as he drinks yet another mug of inadvisably late coffee, but he knows Combeferre and Courfeyrac hear him even so. “We’re doing battle with a hydra: one problem begins to resolve, and seven more sprout up while we’re looking away. How are we meant to be keeping eyes on the election, foreign politics, defunding the police, indigenous lands, the rights and welfare of sex workers, Big Pharma’s role in the production and distribution of a vaccine, workers’ rights, and all of the thousands of components of the nation’s pandemic response at the same time?”

“I mean,” says Courfeyrac carefully, “I don’t think we are meant to.”

“We can’t just not.”

“I agree!” Courfeyrac is quick to correct. “I just mean, there are limits to what we can do.”

Enjolras grits his teeth: this much, the past several months has made him painfully aware of.

“It’s not up to a handful of people to fix the world,” explains Combeferre. “In the beginning of the pandemic, we were able to take advantage of the pre-existing momentum: lots of people were working from home or unemployed and receiving pandemic assistance. They had the time and energy to be educating themselves and getting angry and going out and taking action.

“It’s been nine months now,” he continues, voice beginning to sag. “Everyone is growing tired of being inundated with information and feeling like we’re making no progress for our efforts.”

Enjolras sighs, putting down his now-empty mug and turning to face the table where his friends are still seated. Courfeyrac’s hair is wild, and he has purple bags under his eyes that weren’t there in the beginning of all of this. He stopped bothering putting in contacts before coming over sometime in September, a daily habit Enjolras has been coming temptingly close to dropping as well.

Combeferre manages to look slightly more composed, mostly by merit of his body from the waist down being obscured: his hair has grown out since quarantine began, and these days he keeps it in tight cornrows that Cosette comes over periodically to maintain. They’re neat and tidy, but under the table Enjolras knows Combeferre is wearing one of a rotation of flannel pajama pants and his ever-present racecar slippers; today he’s chosen to dress up, pairing them with a collared shirt and argyle sweater instead of his usual t-shirt and navy fleece robe.

“The people are tired,” says Enjolras slowly, “and so am I.”

Combeferre gives a sympathetic nod, and Courfeyrac’s mouth presses together at a decidedly unhappy angle. “Are you thinking of taking a break?” the latter asks.

There’s nothing embarrassing about it, Enjolras knows this, but for some reason he can’t look at them, eyes instead training to the white tile floor. “I think I should.”

“It’d be good for you,” Courfeyrac tells him.

“A break could be exactly what you need,” observes Combeferre out loud. “It could be good for all of us.”

“But!” Courfeyrac tacks on. “You don’t have to return fully refreshed and recharged! There’s no pressure for you to push yourself to come back better than ever. Power down for a bit, let yourself relax.”

Almost in spite of himself, Enjolras smiles as he huffs, walking back toward the kitchen table and sinking into his usual seat. “You’re talking about this like it’s already been decided.”

“Hasn’t it?” The tilt of Courfeyrac’s head seems sincere.

Enjolras glances from him to Combeferre, who finishes his sip of coffee before responding, “You wouldn’t have brought it up unless you were sure.”

It has been on Enjolras’s mind for several weeks now, but he’d rather been hoping his friends might talk him out of it.

Something on his face must give this away because Courfeyrac’s expression goes plaintive. “Jojo, you’re not a one-man show here: we will continue working without you. The world will move without you, change can happen without you. And before you say it, I know every person helps, and I know you want to be a part of that change. All I’m saying is, you don’t have to feel like all progress will come screeching to a stop without you. A couple of days off won’t change our trajectory, especially while everyone’s hands are tied as they are.”

Enjolras’s mouth sets, but he already feels as though a massive weight has been lifted from his shoulders. “Okay then, I’ll do it.”

—

The following morning, Enjolras allows himself to sleep in. It’s a rare and indulgent treat, but the novelty wears off rather quickly once he realizes that he has nothing else to do.

Normally his mornings would consist of reviewing the news, backreading groupchats, and making notes for their action meetings later in the day; the night prior, however, he, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac had agreed that if Enjolras is to take a true and proper rest week (and it was decided that it should be a week), he should mute his activism groupchats and block his news apps and sites; at the time it had seemed like a good idea, but now that Enjolras is staring down at his blank phone screen he isn’t so certain.

He gets out of bed, showers, and gets dressed. By the time he’s collecting breakfast, only twenty minutes have passed; his first class of the day is coming up, though, so he has that to look forward to —

Or so he thinks. It soon becomes painfully apparent that he is accustomed to spending most of the three-hour class multi-tasking, and despite his greatest efforts, nothing Dr. Blondeau says seems to require more than half of his attention to process.

[12:00] You: hey u free?
[12:07] Prouvaire: Enjolras!!!!!!
[12:08] Prouvaire: Courf told me abt ur media blackout!!! thts GREAT!!!!!!
[12:08] Prouvaire: but yeah wdyn

He takes a deep breath.

[12:09] You: i need somethng to distract myself
[12:09] Prouvaire: frm?
[12:10] You: everything
[12:10] Prouvaire: hmmMMMMMMMMMMMM
[12:11] Prouvaire: we could watch smthng 2gether?

Enjolras pauses a moment to consider it: a movie could be good.

[12:12] You: sounds good
[12:13] You: im in class until 1
[12:13] You: is that ok?
[12:15] Prouvaire: PERFECT
[12:16] Prouvaire: tht gives me time to finish what im doing rn nd eat
[12:17] You: great
[12:18] You: !!
[12:20] You: ::smiley:: ::smiley:: ::smiley::
[12:21] Prouvaire: lol

The final hour of class passes by much more quickly without the rest of the day looming ominously before him. Before call Enjolras makes up a sandwich, one of the same three types he’s been making for the past two months because it’s fast and easy; it’s gone before he even reaches the sofa, and as soon as Prouvaire sends him the Zoom information Enjolras sets to work copying it over.

“Hey! Can you hear me all right?”

“I can,” Enjolras tells em. It’s not that he doesn’t see Prouvaire these days, but it’s been a while since they’ve spoken recreationally, and he hadn’t realized until now how much he’s missed it. “What have you been doing lately?”

Ey produce a large storage container from off-camera beside them. “Insulated cat shelters! It’s starting to get cold, and my street has a lot of strays.”

“That could be a good low-pressure local community project,” Enjolras observes out loud. “We could put up instructions on social media, and whoever is able can make them in their own time. How accessible are the materials?”

Prouvaire hums, and Enjolras realizes what he’s done.

“Surely cat activism doesn’t count.”

A shrug is eir only response, but Enjolras feels the full weight of eir judgment nevertheless.

“What did you have in mind for us to watch?” he at last sighs.

Reaching past eir screen, Prouvaire answers, “I was thinking you could choose.”

“All right then.” This is fine, he has a list of things he’s been meaning to watch. Enjolras flips through his phone until he finds the corresponding note. “Feuilly recommended this documentary on the privatization of the American prison syste —” This time Enjolras stops himself. “Right, that’s out. How about … Combeferre has been wanting me to watch The Good Place.”

Prouvaire’s head tilts. Eir fingers are tangled in teal yarn. “Are we watching that because you want to or because Combeferre wants you to?”

“Is there something wrong with wanting to watch a show for the purpose of discussing it with a valued friend?”

“Well, no,” ey shrug, “except that you don’t seem very interested in it.”

He really, really isn’t. It’s been on his to-do list for so long, though, and he feels like he should be trying to be productive with this time if it isn’t going to be used for activism — maybe that’s part of the issue, though. “Why don’t you pick something?” he asks, half pleading. “I don’t have any preferences.”

“I really think you do.”

“I don’t.”

Ey don’t look particularly convinced, but ey pass one long needle to eir other hand and begin mouthing words to emself as eir eyes flit back and forth over the screen. “All right then, let’s watch this one.”

Prouvaire has to spell it for Enjolras, but he finds it quickly enough, and soon Prouvaire is counting them down to start the first episode.

It’s not a bad show, especially once Enjolras finally gives up on playing with the subtitles and switches over to English audio, but when 45 minutes have passed and Prouvaire looks at him with one cocked eyebrow and a half-finished hat in eir hands, Enjolras is forced to capitulate.

“What’re we gonna watch, then?”

It’s silly because Enjolras neither cooks nor is interested in learning how, but when he asks Prouvaire to pull up The Great British Baking Show ey smile like it’s the answer ey’ve been waiting for the whole time.

They’re only able to get through one episode before Prouvaire has to leave, but Enjolras continues watching without em, knocking out another two on his own before his Monday evening class and leaving it up in the background while his lecturer speaks.

It isn’t until he’s in bed that night that Enjolras realizes that he hasn’t thought about checking the news for hours.

—

Tuesday morning Enjolras finishes the rest of the season that he’d begun the day prior shortly after his only class of the day. He still has seven other seasons at his disposal, not to mention an entire shelf of books that for the past three years have been, for all intents and purposes, purely decorative; Enjolras had gotten another full night of sleep in, though, and the thought of remaining sedentary for another hour is not a pleasant one.

His phone vibrates loudly on the coffee table, and Enjolras leaps up from his laptop for it.

[14:14] Lègle (?): Hey !!!
[14:15] You: how r u
[14:15] Lègle (?): Oh you know
[14:15] Lègle (?): Omw from scylla to charybdis

Enjolras takes a moment to look those up, receiving another text as he does so.

[14:17] Lègle (?): (im starting a new job tmrw)
[14:18] You: ok
[14:18] Lègle (?): Hey tho if ur free do you wanna hang ?

They decide to meet at a park, which in hindsight was a terrible idea.

“I almost didn’t recognize you,” Laigle tells him.

Except for the occasional grocery run, it’s the first time Enjolras has worn any of his cold weather clothing this year, so it’s a wonder Laigle recognized him at all: he’s wearing the oversized puff jacket Combeferre had left behind when he’d gone to Courfeyrac’s that morning, a lumpy knit hat and scarf that Prouvaire had gifted him back in March, and mittens that Bahorel had made over the summer and begun distributing the first day of September, which are so bright they hurt Enjolras’s eyes to look at. On top of all of this, he’s wearing one of the masks he had taught himself to sew back in March, a plain black one with a wire over the nose that is meant to keep his glasses from fogging up but, he is quickly discovering, leaves much to be desired in its effectiveness.

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.”

“Oh.” Enjolras blinks. “I should have said.”

“You’re fine!” Laigle reassures him, looking like he’d like nothing more than to clap Enjolras across the back. They’re social-distancing, though, so instead Laigle gestures in front of them, an eyebrow barely visible but nevertheless raised under the brim of his matching lumpy Prouvaire hat, and they set off.

“You’re starting a new job?” Enjolras prompts after several minutes of silence. It’s strange to be with Laigle without being able to see his face, and Enjolras is rapidly becoming aware of how much he usually relies on Laigle’s body language and touch for communication.

“I am! Though I don’t expect to keep it long.”

“Why is that?”

Despite his words, Laigle’s tone remains cheery. “I have held six different jobs since March, and with one exception they have all had rounds of lay-offs or closed within the month.”

“More luck with the sixth one?”

“They shut down before I began.”

A puff of white air steams Enjolras’s glasses, and he has to pause to unfog them. “Do you have enough for food and rent?”

“I don’t pay rent for the time being.”

“Has your landlord suspended it?”

“The city is my landlord.”

His frown deepens. “You’re homeless.”

“I have made a safehouse in Joly’s sofa — a sof-house, if you will.”

Enjolras is already mentally running through the options at hand for housing and pandemic assistance when he realizes his companion had come to a stop several steps behind him. Laigle’s expression is difficult to read behind the N95 mask, but Enjolras can see his eyes softening at their corners.

“I’m fine, Enjolras, really. Please don’t worry about me. The eagle always builds a new nest.”

“For now you are satisfied flying on four ailes?” he guesses.

“Aye.” The grin is audible in Laigle’s voice. “Jolllly serves me plenty well until I can soar on my own.”

“And yet we walk.” Walking in December would not have been Enjolras’s foremost choice for socializing.

“Eagles and angels alike have feet for walking, and that’s just what we’ll do.”

Enjolras senses a pop culture reference that someone else would probably recognize, but he is going to have to disappoint Laigle. “Is this your activity of choice since quarantine set in?”

The exposed strip of skin between Laigle’s hat and mask turns thoughtful. “I have always enjoyed wandering — not to be confused with wondering, which I haven’t half the faculties for and shall leave to our Prouvaire. Just as I drove her in circles in our younger years, when we grew older my sister enjoyed driving me in circles when either of us felt unwell. Eventually I applied for my own license, but following lycée — that is, high school — law lay where Laigle’s Lincoln could not.

“Besides, I prefer the bus.”

“The bus?”

Laigle nods. “Subway is good as well, but often I hunger instead for an above-ground view. Before all of this business, Grantaire and I used to pass entire days passing the city by on our passes. He has a good sense for keeping us from losing our way — not the same as keeping us from losing our sense.”

“If we weren’t in the middle of a pandemic, then, would you and I be having this meeting on a bus?”

“I suspect we would not be having this meeting at all.”

Sighing, Enjolras gives a reluctant nod. “I suspect you’re right, though I don’t like it.”

“You’re a busy man with much business to attend to.”

“Never too much for a friend.”

“I — hm.”

When Laigle doesn’t say more than that, Enjolras looks over and sees crinkles in the corners of his eyes: a smile.

They part ways after several more laps of the park, and by the time Enjolras is back home his skin prickles at the warmth of the flat, and his muscles ache from exertion.

Perhaps he should go on walks more often.

—

Wednesday is Enjolras’s busiest day for classes, which is just fine with him because between them and finally getting around to watching the Hobbit movies (terrible but strangely fun), he doesn’t even have time to think about what he’s not doing until the sky is already growing dark.

He has eaten nothing but PB&J sandwiches for three days now, and it’s starting to get a little old. If Combeferre were in, Enjolras would invite him along for food, but since the start of the activism blackout his flatmate has been heading to Courfeyrac’s place before Enjolras wakes up and isn’t back until past 8 most nights; he seems pleased enough with Enjolras’s daily reports, but Enjolras can’t ignore the vague sense of uselessness he feels each time he remembers that work is continuing without him.

(The one time Enjolras mentions this, Combeferre fixes him with a look so dry that any intent Enjolras might have had to weedle his way back into action meetings early withers on the spot; nevertheless, it chafes.)

The restaurant he’s heading for is one that, of late and despite its proximity, he has been ordering delivery from more often than not. It’s nothing fancy, just a soup and salad shop that’s been around for a couple of years, but their vegan options are good, and the owners are always nice when the ABC meets up there in better times.

Enjolras is nearly there when he hears a familiar voice call his name.

Turning toward the sound, Enjolras squints at the figure. “Feuilly?”

Sure enough, there he stands, green canvas apron loose around his waist and a pile of locs peeking out over his visor. He has a single-use medical mask on that someone has written something on, but it’s too dim to see what. “What brings you here?” asks Feuilly.

Enjolras nods toward the restaurant. “Picking up dinner. Did you just get off?”

“Yep.”

“I didn’t realize you worked here.”

“It’s a recent development,” Feuilly admits. “My hours have been slashed at my other job, and they were looking to pick up part-timers here.”

Again, Enjolras has been afforded the privilege of being able to ignore the ugly reality of the pandemic. His hands turn to fists in the pockets of his coat. “I — I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“It’s fine, you’re fine,” Feuilly is quick to assure him. He does sound fine, too. “They’re really nice here, they pay better than my other job, and I was able to find it quickly enough that I never even skirted dipping into savings.”

It should never have been a fear in the first place, but Feuilly is hardly the person to preach to about the nature of America’s housing issues, much less during Enjolras’s blackout week, so instead he says, “Well, if there is ever anything you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Of course.” Glancing between Enjolras and his destination, Feuilly tilts his head minutely, a stray loc freeing itself from the bundle. “Have you already ordered your food?”

“I should have,” admits Enjolras. “I was going to wait outside.”

“You …” Feuilly’s eyes narrow on him. “You haven’t been eating just PB&J and takeout, have you?”

The best answer here is none at all.

The disappointment in Feuilly’s heavy sigh is apparent anyway. “I’m off for the rest of the day: if you want and are okay with waiting, I can come over after I shower and change and whip something up for us.”

The opportunity to spend time with Feuilly is a tempting one. “You’ve been on your feet for hours,” Enjolras points out, “and I wouldn’t risk your health to have you wait on me.”

“One,” Feuilly tells him matter-of-factly, “I am not making anything by myself: you are definitely helping. And two, I miss talking with you. Groupchats haven’t been the same, and also, I feel like we haven’t had a chance to hang out, just the two of us, in months.”

Enjolras tries to hold strong but feels his fortitude falter. “We can both wear masks.”

“We can do that.” Feuilly’s eyes glint. “See you in an hour?”

“See you in an hour.”

Feuilly shows up fifty-five minutes later in a BLM mask and fresh clothes, which seems impossibly fast given that Enjolras was under the impression that Feuilly lives farther from the restaurant than Enjolras. He doesn’t get the chance to ask about it, though: upon being granted entry, Feuilly lifts two heavy-looking reusable bags, and Enjolras immediately steps aside to let him through.

“I didn’t realize you were going to pick up groceries.”

“Nothing much and nothing fancy, I just had my doubts that you and Ferre have been doing enough cooking to warrant having onions on hand.”

Enjolras’s eyes find their produce bowls, barren but for a solid-looking lemon, and his mouth purses. “I have a twenty in my room.”

“It only cost me fifteen.”

“Consider it my thanks for going out of your way to do me a favor.”

Feuilly raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything, accepting the money without complaint when Enjolras places it on the counter between them and tucking it into his back pocket. “All right, well,” Feuilly announces, clapping his hands together before beginning to empty the bags, “I guess we’d better get cooking then.”

Before they prepare anything, they clean all of the fresh groceries using soap and water and use Lysol wipes for the containers. Feuilly has Enjolras peel the garlic and onion while he sets to work on a butternut squash, and by the time Enjolras is done with his task he’s embarrassed to see that Feuilly has already peeled, gutted, and chopped the whole gourd.

“I don’t suppose you guys have a scale around here?”

As it would turn out, they do, and Feuilly has Enjolras use it to measure out how much they need while he finishes with the garlic and onion.

“I’m gonna be very honest,” Feuilly says as he pours a seemingly arbitrary amount of oil into the pan and drops some leaves in. “I’ve never made a vegan version of this, so we’re playing this fast and loose.”

Enjolras nods, watching carefully as Feuilly narrates the rest of the steps. It seems pretty straightforward, though apparently his mask doesn’t hide the face Enjolras makes when Feuilly produces a box of Barilla pasta to add to the water boiling on on the backburner.

“It was on sale.” Under the light, the dents and imperfections of the box become clear.

“I would have paid you back.”

Giving the sauce (apparently that’s what they’re making) a stir, Feuilly sighs. “Yeah, but who knows how many other places I might have had to run to to get it? I have a hard enough time shopping for myself half the time without stressing myself over ethical sourcing.”

“Well yes, but I have the resources —”

“You do, and I know you try to do the best you can with them and be as responsible as possible, but sometimes that just isn’t going to happen. I mean, it’s good to do, don’t get me wrong, but grocery shopping shouldn’t be this whole ordeal where you have to run between four different farmer’s markets and hand-make your own yogurt just to be able to eat. Sometimes it’s enough just to have the food around for more than sandwiches.”

Enjolras glances guiltily toward his near-empty fridge. “I suppose.”

The response isn’t acknowledged, Feuilly instead dipping the broad side of a spoon into the sauce and lifting the edge of his mask enough to taste it. “I think this is about finished. I’m gonna rinse this off, just kill the heat and give the pasta a stir.”

The shells are pronounced done several minutes later, and Enjolras invites Feuilly to eat with him on the balcony. Socially distancing the way they ought to, it’s a tight fit, and they both agree that it’s safer to eat facing outward over the railing.

“This is really good,” Enjolras tells Feuilly halfway through his bowl. “I have not eaten this well in a long time.”

Feuilly doesn’t respond at first, but a minute later he speaks up. “Hey, Enj, you’re … you are eating all right, aren’t you?”

Brows furrowing, Enjolras waits until he’s done chewing his current mouthful of pasta to answer. “Of course I am. Why do you ask?”

Still looking ahead of himself, Feuilly shrugs. “I know it’s been a while since I last saw you, but you look like you’ve lost weight, and … I mean, I have other friends with different dietary restrictions — vegan, vegetarian, paleo, keto — and sometimes they really stress themselves out trying to stick to it and end up hurting themselves.”

Turning back to his bowl, Enjolras feels his body go rigid. “I’m not going to stop being vegan.”

“And I’m not saying you should,” reassures Feuilly. “I’m not trying to talk you out of it, I don’t even want to talk you out of it. There’s plenty of options for you to eat. But like … okay, so I had this friend in Romania who, during first lockdown, had just moved and didn’t know where to get ingredients for or order vegetarian food. She ended up barely eating for a couple of days before she finally caved and had meat. Once those forks were removed, she went back to being vegetarian. She isn’t a bad vegetarian or anything for doing it, it means she put her own mask on first.

“Airplane breathing mask, not face mask. Well, face mask too, but I’m talking about the metaphor.”

Feuilly’s concern is now painfully clear, and Enjolras regrets his earlier indignance. “You’re right. I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Okay.” The relief in Feuilly’s voice is palpable.

Taking another bite of pasta, Enjolras chews slowly and carefully swallows. “Catching up has been nice.”

Feuilly nods. "Yeah."

“I’m glad we ran into each other.”

“For sure, for sure. It was really lucky, hey?”

Feuilly is busy and polite, so Enjolras needs to say this right. “Would you like to do this again?" comes the tentative question. "I could get the groceries, you could help me prepare them, and we could split any leftovers; if you have the time, we could even make it a regular appointment.”

Enjolras is glad that Feuilly’s mask is still off to eat because his smile is one million watts when he looks back and beams.

—

Enjolras honesly isn’t sure how he let himself be talked into this. One minute, Joly had been texting him about how much they were going to miss visiting their family and Christmas cake and natural onsens, and the next he was being texted safety precautions to take before heading over to their house.

Joly lives on the outskirts of the city amongst layers and layers of rowhomes. If he really wanted, Enjolras could probably have gotten Combeferre to drive him, but he’s already lukewarm enough about the plans without having to involve yet another person. In any case, their house is only a fifteen-minute walk from the nearest subway station — not long at all, and Enjolras had been too involved in binge-watching bad spaghetti westerns to go for a walk earlier today.

Using his elbow to ring the doorbell, Enjolras is already removing his hat when the door opens.

“Enjolras!” Joly cheers. Today their mask is yellow with a cartoon dog’s mouth on it, and they’ve traded their usual cane for a wheelchair. “Step inside and lean over so I can properly take your temperature.”

He does, and apparently he passes because Joly allows him beyond the threshold.

“Here you go,” they say, gesturing toward a large plastic storage bin from beside the door. “Put your effects in here, and I’ll lead you up to the bathroom.”

Enjolras wants to protest, but Joly’s chairlift has already begun its steady route upstairs, so Enjolras has no choice but to place his shoes, socks, coat, and accessories into the tub before following them up.

“And here we are!” Joly turns on a light and wheels into the immaculate bathroom. “I already cleaned and sanitized everything, so you should be safe. The lighter’s on the sink, and bath bubbles are on the corner of the tub — there’s a couple, so take your pick; for bath bombs you have your choice of Deep Sleep, Winter Garden, and Sex Bomb.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, but Joly is already cutting him off again with a clean spin of their chair.

“All of the bubbles and bath bombs are ethical and natural, and the candles are soy and locally made, so please don’t worry about using them.”

It takes another beat, but Enjolras at last finds his voice. “This all seems rather extravagant.”

“Of course!” Joly says as though this is obvious. “Sometimes one deserves to feel extravagant.”

The discomfort Enjolras has been fighting back the past two hours finally finds its voice. “I really don’t think it's necessary.”

“Baths aren’t about what's necessary, they’re about what's delectable.” Leaning forward on their knees, Joly continues. “Living ascetically is all well and good, especially if there isn’t enough to go around, but there is, Enjolras. There’s plenty, and denying yourself nice things when it’s in your budget doesn’t benefit anyone.”

“But I —”

“Get in the damned tub, Jojo.”

Enjolras allows Joly out of the bathroom before stepping in. “Thank you, by the way,” he says, because he hasn’t yet.

“Of course,” they answer brightly. “There’s a clean robe on the door, and the towels are all freshly laundered. Let me know if you need anything!”

With that, they’re gone.

Shutting and locking the door behind him (he doesn’t expect Joly to intrude, but if Laigle or Joly’s girlfriend come over he’d rather spare everyone the encounter), Enjolras sighs deeply. No one is suffering for his enjoyment of his.

Once the water is running, he removes his mask, carefully folding it on itself before placing it on the counter. The rest of his clothes follow suit, and he moves to sit on the bath’s edge as he waits for the tub to fill. The hot water stings his still-cold feet until he properly warms up; while this happens, he examines the basket containing the bath bombs.

The labels are useless in determining how they’ll smell or react, so he chooses the purple one with cloth over it, hesitating only a moment before dropping it unceremoniously into the water. The effect is immediate: purple plumes of color disseminate from the satchel, and the bathroom is overtaken by a blast of lavender. It’s nice, and Enjolras feels himself finally beginning to be excited about this.

Standing, he finds the lighter where Joly had indicated it would be and lights the candles (jasmine) before turning out the lights. He pauses at the bubble baths before deciding that he may as well, selecting the lavender-scented one to match the bath bomb. Before long, the tub is filled with purple suds, and Enjolras begins to sink into the water.

Wait.

If he’s doing this, Enjolras decides, he’s doing this all the way: his hands are still dry, so he reaches up to the counter where his phone rests on top of his clothes. Opening an app, he quickly scrolls through until he finds what he was looking for; he presses play, replaces the phone, and reimmerses himself in the water to the dulcet tones of Dan Carlin.

When Enjolras is finally toweled off and in his street clothes again, his fingers are pruned, he smells like an herbiary, and he has two more episode of Hardcore History bolstering him. The towel and robe he used are deposited directly into the washing machine, and Enjolras begins the search for his host.

It’s a short search: Joly has deposited themself on the first floor sofa and appears to be examining their tongue in the selfie cam of their phone.

“Thank you again for letting me use your bath.”

“Oh, it’s no problem at all,” Joly dismisses with a wave of their hand, lowering their phone. “Will you sit?”

“I think it’s better if I don’t.” No use causing unnecessary trouble when their friend is clearly already tired. “I wiped down the inside of the tub with the wipes I found under the cabinet and sprayed down the surfaces, by the way. The fan is still on.”

“You didn’t have to do that.”

“It cost me nothing but a bit of my time, and now you don’t have to.” They’ll never say it, but Enjolras suspects that a deep-clean of the bathroom may be the cause behind Joly’s wheelchair this evening. “Am I looking at Laigle’s bed?”

“Hm?” Joly looks down at where they’re seated before laughing. “Oh, no, he’s been sharing with me. The pandemic has forced my mistress into hiding — well, to look after her mother — and the heating bill is much lower with someone warming my bed at night.”

Whether this is an innuendo or not is lost on Enjolras, but it’s none of his business either way. “Is there anything I can do before I head out?”

“Besides keeping me company, no, but — Enjolras.”

“Hm?”

Joly’s expression softens. “I’m really glad you’re taking this week off. You’re a very dedicated, serious person, which is fantastic, but I worry sometimes that no one is as dedicated or serious about your wellbeing.”

“The nature of privilege is that no one needs to be worried over my wellbeing,” Enjolras says automatically.

“The nature of humanity is that we do,” Joly counters, “and I’m glad you let me do that tonight in my own, albeit small, way.”

Enjolras’s lips purse before he concedes the point. “I’m glad I let you, too.”

He still smells of lavender when he crawls into bed that night.

—

“Have you eaten yet?

The question feels a lot more pointed after his discussion with Feuilly, but Bahorel hasn’t even looked up at Enjolras yet, so he gives it a pass. “I have.”

“Good, you’re gonna need it today.” Bahorel finishes wrapping his hands before nodding to a desk pushed against the wall of the garage. “There’s hand sanitizer and some fresh wraps for you to use. You know how to put ‘em on?”

“It’s been a while,” Enjolras admits.

“No worries, I’ll talk you through it. Did you bring a jacket like I asked?”

It’s already on under his heavier coat. “I did.”

“Once you’re all wrapped up and ready to go, strip down to that, and we’ll start on warm-ups.”

Enjolras has never worked out with Bahorel before today; with the exception of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who he’s known since elementary school, Enjolras doesn’t think any of the Amis even know about his athletic history. He hasn’t taken classes since he started college and hasn’t paid much mind to keeping up with his exercises since grad school, but last night he’d mentioned to Combeferre that he missed it, and Combeferre had directed him to Bahorel’s garage.

Before the pandemic Bahorel had belonged to several gyms and attended none of them with any regularity; lockdown had forced him into something of a routine, though, and apparently he’s been itching for a change of pace. Despite Bahorel's cavalier attitude about the whole thing, he seems to have thought through a lot more of the particulars of safety in working out with another person than Enjolras had bothered to.

“I only have one set of pads,” he explains through his bedazzled mask, “but the rubber gloves should help while we hold them, and we’ll disinfect in between.”

So far they’ve already done basic core exercises, duck and weave drills with what Enjolras is fairly certain is meant to be a cable for strapping items down in vehicles, shadow boxing, and more rope-skipping than he’s done in years. He’s long past ready to shed his sweat-drenched jacket by the time Bahorel indicates that it’s time to spar, and he feels good.

“Combeferre said you haven’t done any of this in a while,” Bahorel says, patting a towel over his forehead once he’s drained his water bottle.

“I stopped having time for it. Other things took precedence.”

He receives a dubious look for his explanation, but Bahorel doesn’t say anything more until he’s already standing. “How do you feel about opening the garage door?”

It takes four consecutive rounds of defeat before Bahorel seems ready to admit that it may not be by luck alone that Enjolras keeps winning. “Where the hell did you learn to box?”

Refilling his canteen from the corner sink, Enjolras shrugs. “My parents started me young. Apparently I had ‘a lot of energy in need of a healthy outlet.’”

That makes Bahorel laugh, a big booming sound Enjolras has missed. “Yeah, okay, I can see that.”

“Also,” he admits sheepishly, “I generally pass pretty well, but I suppose they figured it wouldn’t hurt to be able to defend myself either.”

“I’d say heaven help the transphobe that crosses you, but honestly? Fuck ‘em. Jesus,” Bahorel hisses, easing off of what is apparently becoming a very tender spot in his side.

“You’re not so bad yourself,” Enjolras tells him sincerely. It’s been a long time since he’s gone up against anyone capable of landing a hit on him at all. “You have quite the left hook.”

“Thanks, my mom says I got it from her.”

“Your mom has a lot to answer for.”

“My tina agrees; a couple of my professors do too, but they say a lot of things I don’t pay much mind to.”

“It sounds as though this one may have merit.”

“Sounds like.” Bahorel glances up at the wall above the sink and stands. “Speaking of, I have class in thirty minutes, which means I have a Mario Kart tournament with the TA in thirty-five minutes, so I’d better get going. We should do this again, though: you need to show me that combo you slammed me with in round three so I can verify that it didn’t break the laws of physics, and, if it did, how I can too.”

Grinning, Enjolras removes his borrowed gloves; they go on the table next to the pads to be wiped down. The rubber dish gloves and wraps get tossed into a bin for a more thorough cleaning that Bahorel has already threatened Enjolras with overwhelming amounts of emotional distress should he attempt to help with, so he leaves them be and begins to collect his jacket and coat.

“Oh, hey.” Bahorel is hanging halfway out of the door into the house. Behind him, Enjolras can hear a loud TV show and banter of two women. “The sweet bread on the table’s for you, compliments of my tina. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Thank you,” answers Enjolras gratefully. “I won’t.”

“Good. Catch you later?”

Enjolras smiles. “Of course.”

—

Later that evening, Enjolras is curled up in an armchair and finally feeling the full range of aches and pains from the morning’s exercises when his phone starts vibrating.

He frowns at it. As far as Enjolras knows, he’s the only one of their friends who calls people; otherwise, it’s just telemarketers, his parents, and the occasional professor.

It’s a blocked caller, but these days lots of people have their numbers blocked by default; on the off-chance that it’s important, however, Enjolras marks his place in his book and answers.

“Hello?”

“Mon ange!! You picked up!”

Ah. “Hello Grantaire. Is everything all right?”

“Oh, well you see, I was out on the town — I’ve been awfully busy of late, I’m sure you noticed my absence — and I encountered a store and thought to myself, ‘Look at all of these faceless masks!’ And then I went outside and thought, ‘Look at all of these maskless faces!’ Capitalism and the ideal of independence really have made beggars of us all. Why, if we cared about human life, masks would be free, and you would not see a single bare face in a crowd! Of course, if we cared about human life, we also would not see a crowd — but restaurants call to us! Restaurants and gyms and little $5 collectible bobbleheads in storefronts. Should humanity survive another hundred years, you and I shall be the new bobbleheads, heads suspended above our bodies, our actions void of the thought that moves them toward logic. Oh, but that we were all the height of men, Casey Freys living long and being free! Instead, I find myself Michael Bluth in possession of a paper bag.”

It takes a moment, but Enjolras does think he may have parsed together Grantaire’s meaning. “My only plans for the evening are to finish this book; if you’d like to meet up —”

“Ah, books! There is no finer way to pass time. To walk into a bookshop is to walk into a time machine. Why, last year I came across a bookstore and said, ‘Here is Doc Brown’s delorean, with Doc Brown inside!’ And I approached the owner and asked him how much for his time.

“We are surrounded by the hours and years and lives of all of the souls of existence, and our generation lifts them up! We shun Saint Peter and Saint Paul for Saint Gaiman and Saint Martin! In our starry-eyed wonder at these distant souls we abandon those beside us! Civilization will be remembered in hieroglyphs, and Rowling will be our Rosetta.”

“Grantaire, it’s fine, where would you like to meet?”

“Well, I did have designs for my evening, but if you insist, who am I to deny Beaumarchais’s cherubino? When I walk down the streets, my name is a chorus: I am the hype man of New York, but I am only one man, and I must tell them, ‘I am sorry, good people, but I must not disappoint our American Saint-Just.’ They have poor taste: if they are told Swift’s album is cottagecore, they will buy it; when they are told that cottagecore is trash, they dispose of it. Thus: composting. I am the wretched apple of New York City, rotten at its core, and the people have acquired a taste for me. If you are, however, committed to being my Pylades, then I have no choice but to oblige.”

Hearing that Grantaire has finished, Enjolras closes his book once more. “Good. I’ll be at your flat in thirty minutes.”

Without waiting for an answer, he hangs up.

When Enjolras knocks on Grantaire’s door thirty minutes later, he is met with the sound of several great crashes and a muffled curse. The door at long last swings open to reveal Grantaire, sans mask, shirt, and trousers.

For a moment, Enjolras falters. “I … I said ‘thirty minutes,’ didn’t I?”

“You did, and I was prepared! But then thought I, ‘My home is so magnificent! I would not want Enjolras to feel humiliated in the face of its splendor —’”

“Please get dressed.”

“Okay.”

Enjolras steps in, using his foot to nudge the door shut behind him. Grantaire has already disappeared, presumably to his room, but it’s clear that until Enjolras arrived someone had been cleaning: the kitchen counters are spotless, but the sink is piled high with dishes, and beside the half-filled trash can is a very full tied-off trash bag; he respectfully ignores the contents of the recycling bin, instead glancing over to the coffee table in front of the TV set. The TV is still on but muted, an ad featuring green anthropomorphized blobs highlighting the layers of dirt caked onto the coffee table.

“Ah, yes, that would be the maenads.” Grantaire is still doing his belt as he walks barefoot down the hallway, but at least he has a mask on now. “Very messy roommates. Fiendish.”

It benefits neither of them to point out that Grantaire lives alone, so Enjolras politely doesn’t mention it. “What did you have in mind for this evening?”

“What do I ever have in mind?” asks Grantaire as he pulls on a sock. “A few stray ear worms, dots reserved for the servicing of Shane Madej alone, and a Mad Max action shot. When I was young my mother took me in for a PET scan, and after the doctors took her aside and very seriously informed her that they found no activity whatsoever. Their diagnosis? Bisexuality. To be forced out of the closet at such an early age! My mother pitied me, my father disdained me. Why? Because I should be celebrated in my lifetime where he was shamed. The father cannot accept what he has never known and cannot rejoice what he has never been given reason to celebrate. He recently came to find his second chance: a queen called Essie Trojan, soon to be his first life. I shall weep to lose a father and rejoice to find a third mother, my high school English teacher playing the unaware cuck in this estrogen-addled threesome.

“With that said, if you’re ready, I sense a red shell close on our heels if we are not off soon.” With that, a Grantaire fully outfitted in winter clothing exits his apartment, leaving Enjolras scrambling to follow.

They’re in a part of the city that Enjolras doesn’t recognize, which might make him more nervous if Grantaire weren’t leading the charge six feet ahead.

Until now, Grantaire has given up digressions in favor of humming a variety of songs, some recognizable, others not, and still more that Enjolras doubts are published at all. Now, though, he speaks.

“Did you know that in September there was a series of police raids of illegal karaoke bars throughout Brooklyn and Queens? Hundreds of patrons chased out, tens arrested, and a mere handful of snitches disdained in anonymity. Now, I know what you’re thinking: ‘Grantaire, son of Dionysus and heir to the jester’s throne, is this a metaphor or a real episode? You tongue so oft meddles and mingles the two until they are indistinguishable.’”

The thought had occurred to him.

“Well, oh mighty marble, it did occur, a marriage of the unscrupulous and unruffled. Alas! The swine swindled me of the soirée I had hoped to introduce you to, and in its place I have only this.”

Enjolras turns to see … a bodega. No more, no less. He might even have been here before and not even realized it, it looks so unremarkable. “Here?”

“Here indeed!” Grantaire proclaims, arms thrown wide as he starts toward the doors.

Following a cautious distance behind, Enjolras enters the bodega and confirms that it does indeed still look like a bodega on the inside. Grantaire’s Prouvaire-hat peeks out bright pink over the aisles, and Enjolras winds his way through the aisles until they’re at the back of the store.

“Pick your poison,” Grantaire offers with a sweeping gesture.

Enjolras glances over toward the shelves’ contents. “No.”

“Come now, why not?”

“I don’t drink.”

“You don’t drink, or you don’t let yourself drink?”

“I don’t drink, I don’t want to drink, I have never drank, and I never want to.” It’s more snappish than he usually is with Grantaire, and Enjolras braces himself for exponential pushback, but it never comes.

Instead, when he looks over at Grantaire, the only reaction is a devil-may-care shrug. “That’s fair. What are your feelings on ginger ale?”

Now that he has some assurance that he might not be talked down or over, Enjolras invites more nuance to his explanation, albeit cautiously. “Nestlé is awful in the countries they operate in.”

Grantaire stares at him a beat before looking back at the selection, uncharacteristically quiet as he steps back to survey the options. “They have locally made nonalcoholic ginger beer for three times as much.”

Enjolras has never really acquired a taste for carbonated beverages of any kind, but for the first time it feels like Grantaire is making an effort to meet him halfway. Their other friends like Grantaire, after all: he deserves a chance.

“I could try ginger beer.”

Grantaire, perhaps predictably, bought alcoholic beer for himself — some craft brand that Enjolras forgot as soon as he saw it; for some reason, it isn’t until they’re outside of Enjolras’s apartment building that it occurs to him that they might not enjoy their respective beverages together.

“Wait, that’s it? You’re not coming up?”

“No? Were you expecting me to?”

When he puts it that way it sounds silly, but — “Well, yes. I thought we had purchased these to bond.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nods, “and it was a spiritual experience, truly. Why, the look in the cashier’s eyes when he referred to me as your friend and you didn’t even correct him —”

“Because you are my friend.”

“— was pure poetry. Even as we speak, the footage from that security camera is being retrieved. What will become of it, you ask? Why, unparalleled cinema, to be sure. Audiences around the world will weep to see that great Enjolras at long last accept his Pylades —”

“I thought I was the Pylades.”

“That was when you were asking a favor of me, keep up, the colors of the world are changing day by day: for example, this morning I was Grantaire the skeptic, Grantaire the drunkard, Grantaire the cynic and coward and clown —”

“Have people really said all of that?”

“— and I remain all of them," continues Grantaire forcefully, "but now I am also Grantaire the friend, Grantaire the once-Grinch whose heart has grown only two sizes because Whoville is far and I also remain Grantaire the lazy. And now I shall truly earn the title of Grantaire the noble and leave you to your peace.”

Enjolras frowns at him. None of this follows Grantaire’s usual unwieldy double-speech at all. “I am inviting you, you wouldn’t be intruding.”

“You misunderstand me, Enjolras! If I spend even a moment longer in proximity to you, I fear I shall hate you forever. I am beloved by the people and disgusted with them for it. I was on tinder only last week and saw a beautiful woman. I swiped right, she swiped right. By all means, our conversation should have continued right. Wrong! When I saw that she would settle for my companionship, I detested her! Such is the fickle heart of people! We want only what is out of our grasp. I want my drunk eBay purchase until it is won; NASA is attractive until it is time to open our Louis Vuitton purses; the poor are only worth caring for until we are tasked with providing that care. I reject you, Enjolras, and your ethical nonalcoholic beer and your do-gooder tendencies. Begone from my life, delete my number, forget my face. Let me be but a fart in the wind of your existence, a passing Five to your 7, Homer Simpson returning to the depths of the hedges.”

Enjolras blinks several times before finally saying, “I’ll call you next week then.”

Turning on his heel, Grantaire lifts his free hand in a wave as he walks away. “I won’t answer.”

—

Enjolras isn’t allowed to start attending action meetings again until tomorrow. The idea of ‘not being allowed’ continues to chafe at him, but its bite has lessened as the week has gone on; with that said, there is still one thing that hasn’t gotten any easier to go without.

“Enjolras, this is still a No Fire Signs Allowed club until tomorrow, and you are definitely an Aries, don’t try to tell me you’ve forgotten your birthday again.”

Blinking at Courfeyrac for the first time in nearly a week and taking in the doubled muss of his hair, crossed arms, and fleece robe that he would never be caught in public wearing, Enjolras simply says, “I’ve missed you.”

This isn’t difficult to say: it’s a very matter-of-fact thing, and to one of his best friends no less. He’s sure he’s said it before, but once the words have passed his lips Courfeyrac’s reaction makes him reconsider.

“Yeah. Okay,” Courfeyrac sniffs, the door opening wider behind him. “Combeferre, put away the laptops, we’re cuddle-puddling. Marius, I suggest you find a room or get out.”

“It sounds like you had a really nice week,” Courfeyrac hums into Enjolras’s hair. A kiss might be pressed there, or maybe just Courfeyrac’s cheek; it doesn’t seem important to ask right now.

“It was,” he says instead. “What about you? Both of you?”

“It was good! We, uh. Tell him, Ferre.”

“Well, we … hm.” One of Combeferre’s limbs, or perhaps several, shift behind Enjolras. “Temporarily classified tasks were accomplished.”

They’re all quiet for a long beat before Courfeyrac finally says, “We kinda suck at just hanging out, huh?”

“We could put on a movie,” suggests Combeferre.

Enjolras eyes open just enough to squint in the general direction of one of the stuffed Lightning McQueens. “That isn’t a documentary or poignant message on the state of the world?”

Silence. “We could watch … Star Trek?”

“I hear they’ve put Voyager and Deep Space 9 on Netflix,” Courfeyrac volunteers.

“All of the original series, Next Generation, and Enterprise, too,” Enjolras slowly recalls, pushing himself up onto his elbows and spearing someone’s intestines for his efforts.

“And a documentary on Leonard Nimoy.” Combeferre has somehow already pulled the preview up on the TV. “We’re watching it, of course.”

“Wouldn’t dream of stopping you,” says Courfeyrac earnestly.

“The board seems to be in agreement that it is a preapproved topic,” Enjolras grins. As long as he has his friends, he decides, social justice can wait one more day. “Let's boldly go.”