C'EST LA GUERRE | LES MISÉRABLES

XVI.

A miracle had occurred within the damp streets of Paris.

Sabine was to live.

The news was received with joyous and exuberant reactions, embraces shared and laughter harmonising across the crowded cellar. Hettie had collapsed onto Alexandria in relief, giggling and declaring that they drink wine in celebration.

No one knew how the woman pulled through, but she did so without a doctor's intervention. Her fever broke overnight, Véronique had told Sonnet, who had told the revolutionary groups. The redhead then disappeared, back to her sheltered life as a bourgeoisie. Jehan found himself frowning amongst the celebrations.

By the time the sun had set that fateful evening, the gaggle of young men and women were tipsy on life and wine. Reality had threatened to rip into their idealistic minds, attempting to crumble their wildest hopes.

Alexandria rested her head against Combeferre's shoulder, her brown eyes sparkling. It had been a long time since her eyes had been influenced by alcohol, but it was for a worthwhile cause. The revolutionary groups had never felt more connected as they downed wine and bickered about the importance of life. Sabine was to thank for the spontaneous moment of bonding.

She caught the eye of Enjolras from across the table and smiled. Something had changed between them, and they seemed to be alright with that. He was drinking too, not as much as Alexandria was, but enough to bring a twinkle to his eye.

Her return to normality had been stunted by palace guards that stood outside the Musain at unplanned hours of the day. The café in itself was fine, bar a broken window and a blackened eye for Grantaire, who managed to bluff his way out of arrest by emphasising his drunkard nature.

For now, Alexandria was shuffled through the shadows. Enjolras was studying remotely when he could, grateful he opted for a different persona for the ball. Jehan got lucky, and Marius was keeping his eyes open before every step.

Their temporary home was a cellar owned by a middle-class revolutionary, fuelled by barrels of wine rolled down the hill as a gift from Madame Houcheloup. It was a strange kind of thrilling, hidden to the world with political plots whispered between exclusive ears.

Alexandria rose to refill her cup from the barrel, and Enjolras took the moment to follow. She stumbled back when he arrived, her footfall buoyant as the next serving of wine hit her stained lips.

"How are you, Monsieur Julien?" The slurring would have frustrated her if she were sober.

"I am not as drunk as you, Mademoiselle Alexandria." Enjolras darted his eyes towards her loose feet, raising his eyebrows in amusement. Alexandria snorted, hand extending to rest on his forearm. Partially for a crutch, but also to enjoy the sheer feeling of his skin against hers.

"What's going on you two?" Courfeyrac bellowed from across the room. All eyes flickered to their two leaders.

"They're in love, you idiot!" Hettie bellowed in response. Those who were drunk enough simply laughed it off and continued drinking; those who were sober stared at them in curious amusement. Alexandria shrugged at Astrid, who was one of the latter few. She grinned at her leader, and then found herself confronted with a rambling Courfeyrac.

"Are we in love, Julien?" Alexandria turned to Enjolras and swung on her heels. A girlish grin danced across her lips, and Enjolras laughed. He grabbed her waist to steady her, but also as an excuse to hold her closer.

"We are indeed." He leaned in to kiss her, but Alexandria gasped and put her hand over his mouth.

"I am not kissing you," she slurred, index finger pushing his lips away. Enjolras' eyes flickered in confusion, and Alexandria's face fell. "No I want to kiss you, but I am not kissing you in front of our friends. We are their leaders, we must be pro-fesh-ional."