THE TWO HOTHEADS had not spoken for weeks. Elizabeth would write down what they talked about during meetings, hand it to Enjolras, and then leave without speaking anything. Although he wanted to say something with her, he was just as stubborn as she was.
She loved spending time alone inside the cafe. Sitting at the window, pen in hand, for hours on end. She had minimal interruptions until the evening when everyone gathered in for meetings.
She had undoubtedly become closer to the other boys. Particularly Courfeyrac and Combeferre. They frequently included her in their mischief, but Combeferre maintained an even head. He did not want them to have too much fun. Grantaire was always extremely pleasant, perhaps overly friendly. She enjoyed hearing Grantaire whine about Enjolras.
On this particular day, she decided to go to the cafe a little bit later in the day. Only an hour before they were scheduled to be meeting. She had spend the morning reading a novel she picked up at the library the day before. She made tea, and settled into the couch, reading Le Malade Imaginaire. It was one of the only books she had brought with her, and she'd already read it a million times but she enjoyed it nevertheless.
She packed her things in her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and proceeded to the cafe. The cold winter air caused her nose and cheeks to turn red. She double-tied her scarf over her neck, afraid of being cold. Her red coat didn't offer much protection; she merely liked the color.
She wasn't anticipating anyone else to be there because young revolutionaries rarely awoke before noon. So, when the door swung wide to show the one boy she despised, she was not thrilled.
She halted in the doorway, unsure if she wanted to enter and risk more fighting. But Enjolras' steely eyes spotted her before she could flee. She grimaced and made her way inside. She sat at the table and was facing him.
The sun streamed through the café windows, spilling warm light across the cluttered tables.
Enjolras did not acknowledge her presence, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scribbled furiously on a piece of paper. The scratching of quill against parchment was the only sound that dared to disrupt the stillness between them.
Elizabeth stole glances at him, watching as he crumpled yet another sheet and tossed it into a growing pile of failed ideas. It was as if the defeated pages mirrored their own recent exchanges, each argument flaring to life before collapsing in smoke and frustration.
"What are you writing about?" Elizabeth ventured, her voice piercing the silence like a hesitant wind. She regretted it the moment the words escaped her lips, bracing herself for his indignant response.
Enjolras looked up, his striking features painted with a mix of annoyance and exhaustion. "A protest," he said curtly, then returned to his work, his frustration palpable. "But I'm not satisfied with any of my ideas. It's a waste of time."
"Planning a protest is never a waste of time," she countered, leaning forward, intrigue lighting her eyes despite the tension. "You care so much about this, don't you?"
His hand paused briefly, and he shot her a glance that was more curious than confrontational.
"Of course I care," he sighed, his voice dropping an octave. "Every day I plan meetings, rallies... always feeling as if I'm never doing enough. It's exhausting."
"It is exhausting," she admitted, her tone softening. "But it matters, doesn't it? Just like this book I'm writing, it's my way of caring. My voice in this world that often feels silent."
"Your book?" Enjolras's focus sharpened, his irritation rekindling. "You think documenting our struggles will change anything? You're just pandering to the masses with tales meant to inspire their apathy."
Elizabeth felt the righteous flames rising within her.
"And you think being a martyr is the only way to effect change? Tell me, Enjolras, what would you do if no one ever heard your speeches? What if no one ever became impassioned by your ideals? You might as well be speaking to walls!"
"Better than to dull the message for the sake of... of-"
"Of what?" she interrupted, fists tightening in her lap.
"Of ensuring that what we fight for is remembered? You dismiss my work, but maybe if you weren't so busy posturing, you'd realize we're aiming for the same thing."
It was a dramatic moment; the fire in her eyes ignited a response from him.
"I am not 'posturing!' Our revolution demands more than words on a page. It demands action!"
"Then let's work on your protest, together," Elizabeth offered, almost pleading, willing to smooth over the crackling tension. "You need someone to bounce ideas off of, and I need to understand the true impact of what we're fighting for."
She made a valiant attempt, and for a moment, it seemed he might relent. They brainstormed back and forth, each of her suggestions stirring seeds of inspiration within him.
But soon, every idea she offered met resistance. The cracks in their conversation widened.
"No, that's not how you inspire people!" he snapped, his voice rising again. "You've got to hit them where it hurts! You've only been here for a day, you have no idea what you're talking about!"
"I'm not going to incite fear, Enjolras! That approach only leads to chaos, a chaos we cannot control!"
That was the final straw. Elizabeth felt her face flush, and she stood abruptly, chair screeching beneath her. Without a backward glance, she stormed toward the door.
In an act of fate, she flung open the door and froze, eyes wide. There stood a little boy, tousled hair framing a wild grin on his face, hands shoved into his pockets.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle! You must be Eliza! Everyone's been talking about you, especially after that little kerfuffle." A mischievous glint danced in his eyes as he continued, "You should know, about your book. I'm a character too, and I demand to be the hero!"
Elizabeth blinked in surprise, a laugh bubbling up despite herself, coaxed by the lively spirit of the young boy. The door swung open as more revolutionaries piled in, drawn by the enduring tension that hung in the air.
Feeling eyes on them, Elizabeth turned back, searching for Enjolras, but he remained brooding at their table. Though the camaraderie of the friends surrounded her, she sensed a swell of discomfort still clinging to the aftermath of their argument.
"Promise me you'll write about me!" Gavroche insisted, eyes brimming with earnestness. "It'll be an adventure worth telling!"
She nodded slowly, a warmth blooming in her chest at the genuine enthusiasm radiating from him. "Alright, Gavroche, but you must make sure to be as heroic as you claim!"
The boy's laughter was infectious, and she felt a spark of joy at the thought of writing about the revolutionaries she'd come to admire. Gavroche made a point to sit between her and Grantaire.
As they settled in for their meeting, Elizabeth couldn't ignore the lingering tension between herself and Enjolras.
But, perhaps, it didn't matter right now. She had a story to write, and the revolution had only just begun.
✎ᝰ
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