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April 1831

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Enjolras' apartment differs greatly from the little house that she has been residing in with her Papa and Gavroche, a second-story thing with traditional Parisian windows, a single bedroom and furniture that indicates a modest lifestyle. It's everything she'd have expected of him, if somewhat devoid of the red revolutionary deco she'd been picturing.

The bare minimum of her things have been moved into the space, a truck full of her clothes, a duo of boxes containing her notebooks and the writing utensils she favours. All in need of unpacking but Cosette has neither the drive nor the willpower to begin the task, let alone complete it. She would, in the very least, have to rummage through Enjolras' things in order to create a space for her own to occupy and she rather thinks she's put him through enough today.

Cocking her hip against the nearest poster of the bed, Cosette turns her gaze upon her husband, drinking in his form. He's still in the monkey suit that somehow qualifies as wedding attire, though Enjolras, as always, manages to make the fabric look remarkably handsome. Never mind that upon another person it would look utterly ridiculous. Perhaps that's her modern sensibilities though, perhaps the women who were born in this time and knew of no other way to dress for weddings would assume this is the height of high fashion for events such as these?

"How do you want me?"

"Excuse me?" Enjolras stiffens you before the wall-mounted mirror, piercing gaze searing through the reflection to land with pinpoint accuracy upon her. His fingers are tangled up in the cravat that rests around his neck, halfway towards loosening it but paused by the conundrum her words present. Sucking in a low breath, Cosette seats herself on the edge of the bed, brushing down the white shirts of her dress, keeping her eyes fixed upon the ring that will now forever reside on her finger.

"You've made it blatantly obvious that you don't care for physical touch, though I don't doubt you are unaware of what exactly is expected to happen tonight. Regardless, I have no problem in lying through my teeth to whoever asks, dependent on what you want others to know." Sighing, Cosette runs a hand through her hair, plucking the pins and ribbons from the strands, depositing one after another on the bedside table in as neat a pile as she can manage. The bulk of dark hair drops down her back, falling just a few inches short of pooling upon the bedspread. A hundred years later and she'd have been able to wear her hair in a no-nonsense bob and it'd have been in style. No matter how much she detests some of the standards the populous are held to here, she has to abide by the majority or lose all respect.

Enjolras continues to stare at her for another breath. Then, he tears his eyes away, making for the screen that has been retrieved from her own home, sectioning off a part of the room so that they may change behind it in privacy. Once he has disappeared behind it, it only takes a moment for his wedding jacket to be laid across the top of the divider, followed by the trousers he'd been wearing.

For a moment, Cosette wars with the idea of getting up to change or simply stripping down to a single layer in order to sleep. She should not feel so discomforted with this but… they are in uncharted territory at present. When she had pushed for the marriage, Cosette had never once considered the immediate aftermath. That she would be expected to live alongside her husband, to share his bed and his living space. It is a blatant invasion upon what has previously been Enjolras' escape, a place to feel, if not safe, than less stressed than the environments offered by the rest of the world.

Cosette stands, making for the door to the bathroom, collecting a negligee as she goes.

.

Sharing a bed with another is... an experience. Cosette remains perfectly still upon the mattress, hyper aware and utterly focused upon the stillness that hangs heavy in the air.

Enjolras (she cannot address him by anything else, despite acquiring the knowledge of his forename) must be of the same mindset, for he too shifts very little.

"Why are we so nervous?" It is not a question she expects an answer for, but Cosette feels all the better for voicing it aloud regardless. "Labouring away under these intangible laws of society; why is it anyone's business but our own if we have sex?"

Rolling onto her side, Cosette glances over at Enjolras, taking careful note of how his white sleeping shirt lays across his chest, wide collar exposing the sharp jut of his clavicles. He is gorgeous; in the very least, she has eye-candy for a husband, that much is clear. Blue-fire eyes continue to stare upwards, burning figurative holes into the canopy and ignoring her as much as he can. Almost as if, were he to acknowledge her point, the barrier he has built between them will crumble into a useless nothingness.

Propping her head up on her arm, Cosette pulls the covers a little tighter to her chest. She's not going to lie; Enjolras is perhaps the most attractive man she has ever seen, in both this life and the one prior to it. She's far from opposed to the idea of having sex with him. That he's very much against the action settles it, however. No sex. It's not as if she cannot live with that, she's yet to gain any sexual experience with another in this life, just because she is a married woman does not mean that she has to do so even now.

"Look, what I'm trying to say is, society may proclaim what is supposed to happen on a wedding night, but we are our own people. If in five years things haven't changed between us and people start asking questions over the whole childless thing, I don't mind telling everyone I'm barren. The point is, if you're not willing, then even if we do begin an amorous relationship, it wouldn't have to lead sex." Unsaid, in her mind, is that such a thing would stand far too close to coercion to rape for her to be comfortable with the idea.

At last, Enjolras is looking at her now, blue fire spitting from the corner of his peripheral vision. It's apt, comparing him to the sapphire flames, a fire that has no soot, consuming more air than a regular flame. Cosette forcibly quirks her lips up, burrowing deeper into the covers until they're tucked tight around her chin. The very tight, very small smile she gets from her husband is reward enough. It's not an expression of happiness, but a show enough that he appreciates the lie she would be willing to tell.

It's hardly a difficult thing to offer up; a life as Enjolras' wife with the public believing her barren is far superior to a life with another, most of whom she expects would have forced themselves upon her now. Though she doubts he is the only man that would have allowed her such freedoms, Cosette is not foolish enough to believe she would ever meet another like Enjolras.

"Besides, the Greeks had seven different types of love. I think I favour philia for what is shared between the two of us. Or, rather, I suppose that is what I would like to aim for. Philia love for the good, two friends who appreciate each other's character for what it is and wish it to remain as such. Perhaps it is greedy of me, but I hope we have a chance for storge love as well, a desire to care compassionately for each other." Burying her nose into the blanket, Cosette rolls again onto her back, putting a bit more space between herself and Enjolras. It seems as if all she has done is speak today while he has listened, only every offering a few words. And, while she can revel in the comforts of her life now, she cannot help but feel she has done Enjolras a disservice by cornering him with the idea. It will take time to restore their relationship, that much is clear.

"Enjolras? I am sorry. Not for my actions, or for their outcomes. But I am sorry for how they have impacted upon your life."

"Just sleep, Cosette."

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Waking up is an experience. The previous day, she had been in own bedroom, waking with nerves in her throat and a stone in her stomach. Today, she finds an unfamiliar room revealed by her opening eyelids, the dawning sun leaking in through the great glass panels that make up the high windows. They light drapes across the bed, leaving thin crosses of shadows between each section, dividing the bed between Enjolras and herself. Her husband still sleeps, now on his side with his arms before him, one tucked beneath the body of the pillow, the other resting upon it.

Adjusting her own position, Cosette lays her head upon her pillow, soaking in the sight of Enjolras. For once, his face is utterly free of his mind, the habitual pucker between his eyebrows smoothed by sleep, the stern downwards tilts of his mouth absent. In fact, now that he is no long conscious, she can see that his lips naturally pull up ever so slightly at the corners. Gods above, how does he look even more angelic when he sleeps? The halo of golden hair, the pretty face, it's terribly unfair.

Cosette scrubs a hand down the side of her face, slipping free of the bed and its thick duvet as stealthily as possible. The chill of morning nips at the bared lower half of her legs but Cosette soldiers on, digging her teeth deep into her lower lip as she slips her feet into the slippers she'd left by the bedside.

Upon entering Enjolras' apartment last night, she had taken note of the small kitchenette off to one side. It takes only a bit of rummaging to source a loaf of bread and a jar of preserve. What kind, she'd not too sure but it looks edible enough. Her first instinct is to reach for her Frankenstein of a toaster. The thought falls flat. Even if she had thought to have that included within the things she had brought to Enjolras' apartments, he does not have a generator, as her original home did. Does. Will still have. Truly, she needs to get focused on creating generators available to the public, though it will undoubtedly be a dangerous undertaking. She will be beating Edison out on the design by near half a century, but needs must in the name of progress.

Finding a toasting fork isn't so difficult, nor is starting a fire in the fireplace. Cosette keeps the flames small, jamming two slices of bread onto the toasting fork, taking a seat upon the floorboards with two plates resting beside her. She coats the first two slices in the preserve once they are done, eating them as she prepares Enjolras' toast. It is… different. Usually, she is the one to make breakfast for her and her father, so that isn't too big of a step away. But her papa is an early riser, oft up before her and more than willing to help out. For all she knows, Enjolras may not even eat a proper breakfast. There certainly isn't enough available for him to break his fast with in his kitchen. Unless he eats out, that is.

.

It is as she is smearing the second helping with toast that Enjolras wakes up. The steady thrum of his breath that has echoed through the room hitches, breaks as he draws in a deep inhale, she wonders if he can smell the difference, can tell another as inhabited his bed this morning. He releases a groan that she would never have predicted him capable of completing and then he sits up. His nightshirt is rumpled around his shoulders, the sheets pooling at his waist. Adonis in the flesh, life breathed into marble with every rise and fall of his chest. Only, Cosette is not a goddess. She has not fallen in love with this young man's beauty, has not been spellbound by his appearance. Certainly, there is no exchange of lust between them. No matter how astonishingly pretty he is.

Sleep glazed eyes find her and Enjolras' brow scrunches, that all too common frown working it's way into his lips.

"I've made you some toast," Cosette says in lieu of a true greeting, meandering across the short length of the room to present Enjolras with the plate, careful to remain as physically removed as she can. "I'm sure you have plans today like I do, but I was hoping we could set some boundaries."

Enjolras regards her, not a hint or slip of emotion on his face as he accepts her offering of breakfast, one long-fingered hand plucking up a single slice of toast. Cosette considers seating herself upon the bed but thinks better of it, taking the chair beside the dresser instead.

"Boundaries," Enjolras repeats, taking a bite of toast. The crunch of bread between teeth echoes through the room and Cosette hums, looking to the window instead of the apollonian figure residing in her matrimonial bed.

"Yes. I'm well aware of just how large a favour you have granted me by agreeing to all this. I want to make it work so that we can be amiable with one another. So, establishing ground rules for, say, the frequency and intimacy of touch means we won't step on each other's toes. For example, one kiss a month in public to show we are, in fact, a couple would be the only kinds of kisses we share. And they should be rules we can review later, if you feel we need to remove or further an action."

"Acceptable. Any form of intimate touch that is unnecessary to keep up this ruse of marriage is not one I am willing to partake in."

Cosette nods her head. "Done." She smiles when Enjolras regards her suspiciously, folding her hands in her lap and wishing dearly she'd though to grab a dressing gown, away from the open fire as she is now. "They must be rules we're comfortable with. If we're honest about what we are willing to accept and not accept from one another... well, that is probably how all relationships should work, no? A clear line of communication will settle many future issues."

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They spend a disproportionate amount of the morning organising themselves. A lot of touch is off the tables; Cosette had been expecting it, but the loss of physical comfort is distressing. She will manage, will crawl to her Papa for hugs when she feels the need. Discretion shall be the name of the game here, that much is clear. One of the things Enjolras wishes to retain are their discussions and debates, to the point they even make a list of topics that they could spend time covering. Cosette requests the use of one wall of the apartment to stick her notes to and Enjolras agrees amiably, gesturing to the wall left of the kitchenette.

"I will try to be as honest as I can," Cosette promises, her voice soft and light, fingers cascading through her hair, sectioning it off to be twisted back and up into braids. "So, in that respect, I'd like you to come to visit the factories at some point, present a unified front, as it were. The workers have been worried, knowing I was marrying and that, as my husband, you would gain control all of my assets." Her smile is a brittle thing, bitter from corner to corner. How absurd, that she cannot claim to own all that she makes. Any income that floods in from her intentions will now go to Enjolras. In the eyes of the law, everything she created, everything she earns, belongs to him. She's relatively certain that, in a figurative world where they have children, he would be the one to retain custody if they were to split. Not that such a thing is allowed in France, as far as she is aware.

"Which day?"

"Whichever is more suitable to your schedule, there's no rush but I would appreciate it if we could reassure them sooner rather than later?"

Enjolras nods, standing and collecting his clothes for the day. Cosette looks away as he makes for the bathroom, resolutely keeping her eyes upon the floor, removing even the temptation of staring.

He is so astonishingly attractive.

"I don't really plan on going out today; do you have any place within your apartment you do not wish my presence?"

"The dark drawers are yours," Enjolras states, not quite calling but his voice is crisp and clear despite the bathroom door that divides them. "Do not disturb my papers."

She wouldn't dream of it. With carte Blanche to begin unpacking her things, Cosette selects her most feasibly available night gown and gets to work.

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It takes five hours; five hours of steady unpacking, of maximising the space available to ensure her belongings do not appear to dominate what will have been Enjolras' space for years, but Cosette finishes. By that point, Enjolras is long gone, having disappeared off to who knows where. She won't become that stereotypical wife nagging- no, wait. That is an invention of her past (of the future).

In truth, Cosette has little idea of what a wife should behave like in these times. In this life, all she has known is Madame Thénardier, a woman she would no sooner follow than she would a dictatorship. Truly, the lady's one redeeming quality had been her tendency to spoil her daughters, the only way she had been capable of showing her love for them. Cosette has always felt terrible for the boys, but she had been in no position to aid them. Not when she had been stealing scraps to feed herself.

How funny, the twists and turns life takes, how she would be sitting here now, a bastard daughter now married to the only son of rich parents. But, to describe Enjolras in this way alone would be to do him a disservice. He is so much more than just his parents' offspring, that much is clear. She wishes to snoop, to read his learnings on the government and revolution, for she doesn't doubt he has them written somewhere in this flat. No, she will wait until he gives her permission to peruse.

Cosette draws herself a bath, starting a fire in the small box beneath the metal tub and waiting within the bathroom until the water reaches a comfortable temperature. It's been sixteen years now and she's almost, almost used to the extent of technology and what she has to work with. Almost.

She still dreams of indoor plumbing, real indoor plumbing. The kind with a boiler and hot water on demand. She's working on it, but getting the pressure right so that it doesn't explode with the metal she has a viable and the safety tests she doesn't have access to is proving... tricky. Speaking of plumbing, she'll have to check what the pipes are made from in this building. She refuses to die of something as droll as lead poisoning, which means swapping all the pipes out for copper if it turns out that the plumbing is lead-based. That will be a job and a half. A water filtration device like the one back at home- no, it's not home any longer. This is her new home now. The cottage, that belongs to Papa. She is a Madame now, all at the tender age of sixteen. Madame Enjolras.

Ha. It sounds utterly ridiculous in her head, never mind aloud. Sure, in the eyes of the law, that may be her title.

But she is so much more than that.

Shimmying out of her dress, Cosette ensures the fire is out beneath the bath before she climbs in to the metal tub, sinking until her shoulders disappear beneath the water, liquid lapping at the edge of her chin. Her knees rise from the steaming surface like two small islands, more mountains in their incline than flat land. The skin is pale, unaccustomed to the Parisian sunshine, even during the height of summer. Nonetheless, she has shaved all of the hair off, has been doing so ever since this body began transitioning through puberty. It's stupid and vain and no one is ever really going to see her legs to care about such a thing.

The first tear drips from her eye and it is the last she allows to fall. Crying has never seen progress made. The only sudden changes come from forcible changed in society. From wars or events of natural disasters... from protests and revolutions. The suffragettes, Martin Luther King's movement, Stonewall.

It would seem that she and Enjolras have a great deal to discuss.

While her invasion is far from welcomed, Enjolras cannot deny that being able to select the topic of Cosette's writing to read is a pleasant outcome in all of this madness.

Following several hours of roaming the streets of Paris, of listening and watching and inhaling his beloved city, he has returned to the home he now shares with another, mind still spinning and whirling. It would seem that Cosette has put her time alone to good use; her trunk is now against the wall, papers and books in a familiar hand now stacked neatly upon his desk on the left-hand side, all within alphabetical order. There are newspapers pinned to the wall he had selected out for her, some of the words circled in red pen, some with crimped additional words rammed into the margins. Analysing the current evens, as told by the Bourgeois.

He dallies between two tombs, one entitled 'The Worker's Rights' and another Cosette has penned as 'Feminism'. The word is unfamiliar, for all that the root word is easily identifiable. Both are equally as intriguing as the other, but- he cannot deal with the silence that permits his home despite the presence of another. Prior to all this foolishness, before Cosette had seen fit to take her own future into her hands and ruthlessly pursue him, they had spent a fair few afternoons whittling away at the daylight hours, discussing anything and everything. The government, the people, the logistics and motivations of a revolution. Of all those he knows, Cosette is the one who can speak the most objectively about events and ideals, who can ping back ideas from the opposing side as to where Enjolras stands and force him to think that little bit more.

He picks up 'The Worker's Rights', vowing to leave the other book of a questionable topic for another day. This, at least, he has the ground knowledge on to begin to understand Cosette's point of view.

.

That is how he spends an hour of his time, flicking through the pages upon pages of handwritten notes. There are quotes taken from workers, sketches of workstations in factories and notes crammed around the illustrations on what is acceptable working conditions and what is not. There's a full chapter dedicated to the health and safety of the worker, detailing the employer's duties to ensure that a working environment is safe for any worker within and insisting that there should be readily accessible proof that the employer has thought about and reduced the risk where possible. Then, there's a chapter on a 'worker's union'.

Enjolras devours page after page, entranced with the ideals. This is what he expects, this is how France should be; a country that cares for one another, one that encourages social grown among all citizens, that protects and nurtures it's people.

"Eventful day?"

Enjolras finishes his page, closing the book around his finger with every intention of opening it up and continuing once this is over.

The door to the bathroom is open now, Cosette attempting and failing to fill the threshold with her delicate shoulders. She has a dressing gown drawn shut around her body, a towel clasped between her hands that she is working against her hair, drawing moisture from the dark locks that lay like glistening rats' tails against her collarbones. It's a remarkably striking image for someone he has always seen as presentable. But then again, what other choice as she had? After all, she's had to fight to get her ideas listened to and he doesn't doubt any of the so-claimed 'learned men' of the university would be more than happy to dismiss her for the smallest slight. How utterly imbecilic.

"You've unpacked."

"And you have helped yourself to a book." Cosette smiles, though it is a timid, hesitant thing. While he appreciates it that she is now holding herself accountable for her actions, it does not change the fact that they are in this situation. Their social situation has changed, how they interact with one another has changed and now they need to come to terms with it all. Cosette needs to accept that this is where they stand and, for all that he shall never be certain in her underlying intentions, he does not wish for her to cut away at pieces of herself in order to fit into some ill-conceived mould of the ideal wife. Had he any interest in that before, then Enjolras would have had no shortage of potential wives to lay to rest within his bed, had be been so inclined.

He is also progressive enough to recognise Cosette is not the only one who needs to change their ideals, their approach. He must cease dragging his feet, must pick himself up and run with the circumstances he has found himself shouldering, must make the best of what is available to him in order to continue his stride towards the betterment of France.

"It's riveting. Your concepts on the working man and his rights within the working station," Enjolras allows, plucking up a sheet of paper and sliding the piece into the space his finger creates between two pages. Now capable of closing the book in its entirety, Enjolras places it upon the coffee table, meeting the dark sapphire of Cosette's eyes as she remains by the door. The room breathes, seems to fill and contract all at once. Then, Cosette makes her way forwards, taking a seat upon the parlour sofa. Her feet are clad with slippers, the calves of her legs exposed until the dressing gown manages to claw itself down just far enough to offer coverage for her knees. It is the most skin he has seen her expose but, given that they now live together, he doesn't doubt he shall have to grow used to the sight.

"It shouldn't be though. It should be the standard. We've come so far as a society and yet, we're still leagues behind where we could be. Think about it, before machinery, farming accidents would have been far and few between and largely down to animals, though I'd have to look at some kind of census to support that. Now, as we begin to industrialise, the protection and education of the worker are not keeping up. They will not know how to keep themselves safe in a working environment and those instilling the machines will just be too lazy to explain; why bother educating when there is another to fill to the working role, should the worst happen to the current worker, am I right?" Cosette drums her fingers on the coffee table, lips pressing into a hard, thin line. "And yet, those in charge will find no need to change their business practices while they still see the working man as expendable."

She's right, of course. Enjolras is well acquainted with the mentality of those who oppress the majority, has spent his most recent years studying and learning all he can about this interaction between the classes. It's condemnable, the attitude that is presented to their fellow man, people who are citizen of France. They belong to one country and should be looking to build it up instead of focusing on tearing each other down.

"This is why revolution is necessary."

"And yet, where will the unification come for such a thing? At present, no worker will be willing to risk their livelihood, the pittance of pay that keeps them and their families, if not happy and healthy, then alive. There is no true contact between the different brackets of the poor man, the working men. They don't recognise that they hold the majority and, should there be an uprising, that they could very well succeed. They're despondent with nothing to tie them together, to unify them. For revolution to happen, you will need that key uniting element."

"What do you propose would be the key to this unification then?" Enjolras asks, a discomforting sensation bubbling within his stomach, like water over heat, surface shimmering and a mote more of energy away from spitting and frothing. The picture Cosette paints is a bleak one, a terribly depressing thing and he refuses to allow his dream, his ambitions to rise Paris to grander, higher things, die much alike a candle in the wind.

"I'd propose educating the masses as much as we are able. As they begin to perceive the slights made against them, then will come to understand that it doesn't have to be this way. Society as a whole is corrupt at the moment; I know that, you know that. And, as more people come to recognise this, more will become angry, discomforted over the way their lives are. After all, no one would be born poor if there was a choice. If one could choose the circumstances of their birth, we could be a country full of princes which would result in a toppled society anyway. The thing to unify the people will come; how can it not with France in this state? All we can do is prepare."

And this is it. This is one of the leading reasons why he had agreed to Cosette' proposal of marriage between them, a joining of minds native to one another. Their thought processes only encourage one another, build and develop and- and he needs to go to one of Cosette's factories tomorrow. Enjolras considers himself an educated man, but he doesn't doubt there is evermore to learn.

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May 1831

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They go to the Salon.

It has been a week since they married in late April, but this is their first outing as a married couple. Cosette's hand is tucked into the crook of his arm, the sleeves of her dress so thin they are sheer, still acceptable according to the standards of high society, but light enough to combat the early onset of summer. The women in their silks are not the only thing to be melting either; the icy contentment that Enjolras has allowed to remain between them is slowly disappearing. As the hours and days begin to pass, it becomes more and more evident that the changes are minimal; Cosette occupies his bed, his apartment. But she is out almost as often as he, always accompanied by her father who picks her up at the foot of their building with a warm smile and sad eyes.

Yet, their discussions, their debates and discourses continue. If anything, they progress more, develop and evolve into something further now that they are within one another's company more oft and no longer bound by time constraints or social niceties. He can scoff in disbelief over one of her ideas, can tear into her supporting material without worry over what their audience will think because there is none; no one watches them, no one polices them. And, it is the same for Cosette. She grows bolder, offering ideas that would have had even some of the Les Amis cringing over the subject; the sex trade, the xenophobia that exists in near every nation in the world- now that they are wed, it seems no topic is left undiscussed, no rock left unturned. She speaks clinically, an academic in every sense of the word, for all that he has to correct some of her knowledge on the subjects. Sometimes, she overestimates just how bad some things are, others, she underestimates.

"Are your thoughts polite enough for present company?" Cosette asks, rising to her tiptoes in an attempt to meet his eyes without moving to stand before him. Enjolras thins his lips, teeth toying with the flesh as he considers her words. It is probably not polite to note how they are behaving as a married couple given they are out in public. He doubts few would understand the intricacies that have led to himself and Cosette joined in holy matrimony. Neither he nor she believes in the Lord, for all that her father appears to be the epitome of a holy man. There's too much unanswered for, it's too vague and there's so very little evidence. If anything, this Lord in Heaven only seems to be a name to invoke in order to justify the atrocities committed against men. The Lord must have wanted it, otherwise it would never have happened; what an awful, fatalistic view. The inaccuracies in that book when comparing human behaviour to the passages, especially some of the messages of the tales, is staggering. The Good Samaritan comes to mind when looking upon the state of the world at present. Regardless-

"No, it's not a topic best suited for our current company."

"Looks like we have tonight's discussion then," Cosette decides, stepping forth into the Salon, her pace matching his own perfectly. Then, Enjolras halts, his eyes soaking in the artwork that resides before him, around him. Statues and landscapes are exactly what he had been expecting. The paintings that can be of nothing other than the revolution that occurred a year past -the very one he hadn't been in the right place to be involved within- those he hadn't been expecting.

"I thought you might like to see them; as soon as I learned they were featured here; I knew we had to come." Enjolras turns his gaze on Cosette again, tracing the soft curves of her face, the dark kohl she has carefully outlined her eyes with. There's a slight flush to her cheeks, a gentle smile on her lips and an expression that highly suggests she is waiting on his reaction.

"I wasn't aware these would be featured." Hadn't thought the owner of the gallery would dare to place icons of revolution out in the open such as this. For all that they are mementos to a time passed, their significance cannot be dismissed. He wonders if the people who have come to view these paintings are aware of the brewing discontent of the working class, wonders if they are aware that they stand in a centre of calm as the storm gathers upon their doorsteps. Even now, they look upon the imagery of the past tempest to tear through their lives, oblivious to the reality within which they reside. Enjolras can feel the lightning churning within his veins, can see the downpour in the blue of Cosette's eyes.

"I've been keeping an ear to the ground on anything remotely relevant to your favourite topic," Cosette admits, gently stepping to the left and Enjolras allows her to steer them through the gallery, the intent present in each step indicating that she does have a destination in mind. "I know this isn't ideal for you and I won't pretend it's all sunshine and roses from me. You were my best option in order to keep the freedoms I hold so dearly, but there are other elements I've given up. A discussion for another time. For now, I want to show you a painting, the one I saw when I came to scout this place out with Papa yesterday. You've made sacrifices for me and I want to make it clear that I'm standing with you. Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I will be left out."

They stop before a painting wider perhaps than himself and Cosette put together. Taller than he is too. Featuring a woman leading a varied group of people up and over a barricade and the bodies of the fallen, it's clearly an attempt to capture that moment of revolution. The tri-coloured flag of France is held aloft in the woman's hand, a bayonetted musket in the other. It's riveting.

He's not sure how long he stands there, drinking in every last detail. The variety in the people Liberty leads, the striking image she makes striding over the barricade, propped up by the sacrifice of the fallen. A few people pass by, but it is only when Cosette waves one off with a claim that he has a fine eye for detail and is focused on appreciating the art that he has been presented with that Enjolras manages to pull himself together.

"Is there any art you wish to observe?"

"Ah- no. I came with Papa yesterday. Are you done?"

"Yes." There will be no other piece of art here that can topple the masterpiece he has just spent every ounce of energy within himself memorising. His emotions are swirling, roiling with the need to be expressed. They are not yet a year passed a revolution and already the unrest grows. Already they are ripening for another political upset. It is as Cosette had said previously; all they need is one key event to unify the people and then they may even tear down the monarchy, install a true democracy in which every citizen gains the right to vote.

His eyes find Cosette as she walks alongside him, her hand still tucked within the crook of his elbow, a slight slip of a smile gracing her mouth. A France in which a person's voice is based upon the content of which they speak, not the gender of the body it hails from.

.

They make for the factory next. The May sun resides almost at its apex within the sky and there's no cloud cover to offer a gentle shield for their skin.

"The factory we are visiting is the biggest, though it is in actuality the third we took up. There shouldn't be a need for a grand speech and I would rather not have all of the workers distracted from their duties; some of the machinery they work with is rather heavy and potential dangerous without full concentration."

Enjolras hums, making it clear to Cosette that he is indeed listening to her words, taking careful note of each fact she presents him. According to Parisian law, these are, in fact, his factories; it is his name upon the building's deed, shall be his name that is signed upon the documents for exportation of goods and importation of materials, for all that Cosette has so far handled the entity of the paperwork and only offered him the documents when all he needs do is sign. He had, of course, read them regardless. He studies law; it would be all too easy to get caught in a trap by not caring enough to read through every piece of parchment he puts his name to.

"Should the workers ask," Cosette continues, "then we are very much performing the annual risk assessment two months in advance, just because we had the day free and it gives me plenty of time to inform you why we undertake it and impart why it is so important. Last year, we didn't find anything that hadn't already been accounted for previously but, because we had shown the workforce we care, their output near doubled that month. It just goes to show that caring for one another lays the pavings towards utopia." Yes, more evidence that human greed weighs heavily upon the society they live in.

Cosette introduces him to the director of the workers, declaring their intentions to complete this 'risk assessment' and that the tour will act as a semi-formal introduction for him to discover how the factory works. The man had looked somewhat nervous, right up until Enjolras had made it clear he had no intention of changing anything unless the idea itself had come from Cosette, stating that the woman had been in charge long enough and successful enough that he knew better than to mess with success. That appeared to reassure the man, who nodded to them and offered his partings.

For most of the tour, Enjolras is a silent observer; he watches Cosette interact with those of the 'floor' of the factory, listens carefully as she addresses them. Marie has just returned to work after birthing her third child and Jean's eldest daughter has just married; Cosette is the one to bring this up in conversation, asking after the event and the worker's well-being. Had he not seen the little book titled 'workers' on their now shared desk, Enjolras would have just assumed the girl to have an exceptionally good memory. Instead, it appears as if she writes everything down to later be referred to; certainly, it makes her popular among the people.

Enjolras knows little of how factories operate, knows even less about how Cosette operates her own. So, he walks, he listens, and he learns.

.

Cosette retires for the night after that, waving off his, admittedly half-hearted, offer to join him at the Café Musain. Designs to create, she had claimed and Enjolras had not sought to change her mind. Part of him still reels from the events of the week, from the marriage he had partaken in. It clashes against the experience of the day, of being exposed to a painting he'd been unaware was occupying the Salon, one that Cosette had sought out upon learning it was here to share with him. They agree upon the concept of revolution, the need for a better society than what they know, what they have experienced. He recalls her words on their first night as a married man and woman, the thoughts of love and it' different faces. Romantic love has never been something he has desired; not a day-dream has been woven within his heart for such a thing. Yet, he can admit that love is more than the lascivious act of sexual intercourse. The tangled web of human emotion is not something he wishes to begin picking at so Enjolras pushes the thoughts away, running a hand through the curls of his hair as he makes for the café.

"Monsieur Enjolras! You're here!" Gavroche all but melts from the shadows of the street corner, a wide smile on his dirty face. His hair is recently washed, though the clothes he wears are less than clean; no doubt the scamp has been running around Paris for the entirety of the daylight hours.

"Gavroche. Are you well?"

"Just fine, I am. Mademoiselle Cosette's seen to that; her Papa says she's insisted I keep the room at her old house even though she's living with you now…" the boy trails off, cocking his head back and up to meet Enjolras' gaze, fair brows scrunching together above his nose. "You are gonna look after 'er, right? Cause if not, I'll work hard and get a job when I'm older and she can marry me instead." The little rascal. He cannot blame the boy for coming to idolise the young woman, not when she has so cleverly weaselled him off the streets and into some semblance of education and comfort. His little job as an errand boy isn't too shabby for an orphan plucked off the streets, but Enjolras doubts the boy will amount to the kind of job that could offer a woman the kind of lifestyle Cosette is accustomed to. Just another thing wrong with the world; a person's place should be decided upon by merit, not the status of their birth.

"Cosette and I are working together, Gavorche. We are both adults who are capable of expressing their thoughts and we have already agreed communication between the two of us is essential in order for us both to live as comfortably as possible."

"Huh." The kid scratches at the back of his neck and Enjolras eyes him, wondering if the boy is as clean as he appears to be (barring the dirt on his clothes). If needs must, he will pass on his concerns to Cosette and see if she can encourage the boy to clean up. Lice isn't exactly something he wishes to see spread through their ranks. "But aren't men supposed to lead women?"

"That is what society would have you believe. Tell me, Gavroche. Do you think Cosette is any lesser than us?"

"Well, she's weaker, ain't she?" The boy frowns, mulling over the worlds and Enjolras allows him some time to consider it all, pushing open the door and greeting Madame Houcheloup as he strides within. The two waitresses look his way, smiling with red cheeks and bright eyes. In that respect, this agreement he has with Cosette is a blessing; now, he needs to longer glare and scowl in an attempt to keep the women back. All he needs do is draw attention to the ring upon his finger, to mention his young wife and her impressive… beauty? Mind? Fortune? He does not know which of these would push back the women who seem intent upon expressing the interest in him; Enjolras can only hope that the mere mention of a significant other will be enough to offset the flow.

"Is it only physical strength that makes a man great?"

"'Course not," Gavroche grumbles, huffing out an agitated breath. "Lemme guess, I'm missing something 'ere."

"Most of the population is missing something in this respect, Gavroche. You, in the least, are making an attempt to learn which places you above the many already." The rapscallion smiles, snapping of a quick salute before he disappears towards the backroom. Perhaps it is ill-advised, allowing the other to join them in their discussions. Yet, he has already drawn Cosette in, despite their previous policy of no-women. Gavroche is rather proficient at getting in and out of places unseen; he'll probably have a greater understanding of the people's opinions than most of them. He'll just have to ensure the boy is trained up on how to identify discontent.

He's unaware of it, but they had conspired against Enjolras. There had been no ill-intent behind their actions, only a desire to see their friend and leader actually put forth a significant effort into his marriage. After Combeferre had managed to weasel the date from him. Making themselves unavailable for a meeting in the first week their Apollo had spent as a married man hadn't been too difficult, though it had been the hot-topic of discussion whenever he had met up with others of the Les Amis.

He supposes it shouldn't be a surprise; their marble-man had never expressed any interest in the opposite sex prior to his first interaction with Cosette and, even then, he had treated her as if she were one of them. Never any due consideration for her gender; they had discussed and debated in a way Combeferre knows he himself has done with Enjolras, how others have spoken to their leader. The duo attending the opera had come as a bolt from the blue, a shocking jolt into the current events and then, in what seems to be the blink of an eye, they were married.

It had been passed between them, an agreement to not question Enjolras upon Cosette, be she present or absent from their next meeting. He can only pray that they others stick to this settlement; Combeferre can recall with perfectly clarity the last time Grantaire had brought the girl up during conversation. None of them had dared to do so again.

So, Combeferre listens to Enjolras as he talks, as he discusses his ideas for revolution, the concept of democracy replacing the monarchy, how they would ensure the right of men to vote would be upheld, how they would ensure that the system runs without interference, without being rigged in the favour of one candidate or another. He offers his own ideas, places them upon the table calmly, his words soft but firm. And yet-

His eyes flicker over to Marius, who sits up to the table and appears to be making a valiant effort to focus on the words being batted around between them all. He has yet to add his voice and, when the other man's eyes flicker over to Apollo's hand, he can see why. The ring is a simplistic thing, understated and subtle. But it is a clear sign that the woman Pontmercy had his gaze upon when Cupid's arrow struck him. He does feel sorrow for the other, though he does not understand him. Marius cannot have spoken more than five words to the girl, why he would be so entangled with the thought of her, Combeferre's unsure. It is not a topic they need discuss though. After all, they are here for the future of France, not that of one girl.

.

"What do you think, then?" Grantaire, half sprawled over the backrest of the chair he has turned around to seat himself improperly on, asks with a slur. He's cuddling a bottle close to his chest, the pittance of liquid still swishing about in the bottom with every movement he makes. Combeferre blinks, turning his gaze on their resident sceptic, waiting for him to continue down whatever trail he's stumbled down in his drunken stupor. "Apollo. He doesn't seem any more relaxed, does he?"

"Why would he be relaxed?"

"I believe I can answer that one," Courfeyrac declares, pulling up a chair beside them. He continues, but not before sweeping a quick look over one shoulder to place Enjolras within their ranks. Only once he's assured the illustrious leader is occupied on the other side of the room does he offer his two Francs. "Our resident drunkard is referring to Enjolras' new matrimonial status. Probably unsure why he's not a tad calmer now that he's known the loving embrace of a woman." Here, Courfeyrac allows his dark brows to wiggle, a sly smirk crossing his features and certifying the fact he's spent some of his time in the past few days also in the loving embrace of the feminine variety.

"Sex cannot solve everything, it would seem."

"The world would certainly be simpler if that were the case," Courfeyrac muses, lifting his won bottle and taking a generous swig. All the while, Combeferre sits and absconds from adding his own thoughts to the pile. He has spent a few afternoons discussing different aspects of the world with Mademoiselle- no, Madame Cosette. It feels… improper to be discussing her relations with Apollo in such a fashion. It is not something he wishes to consider more on and, thankfully, the duo he sits with see fit to leave the conversation there.

It is only as they are leaving for their beds that Courfeyrac sees fit to enquire after the lady, wondering if she will be in attendance at their next meeting, even jokes that Enjolras is now keeping her under lock and key. It is a jest; the other is still subjected to a quarter of an hour's lecture about the freedoms of man (and women, in this case) from their leader and Combeferre has to suffer too for he'd been foolish enough to allow Courfeyrac to stand in the door as he voiced his question.

Exhaling, Cosette runs a hand down the side of her face and gives up the ghost for the night. She's been pouring over designs of weaponry ever since Enjolras left; the sun set long ago and her candles are now burned down to the base, wax pooling into the collector beneath the holder. She'll retrieve the new candle in morning, once the substance is cool enough to solidify. For now... With a sigh, Cosette gets to her feet and blows out the little flame still burning at the wick, making her way towards the fireplace. Even after years of exposure to this time period, part of her still balks at the idea of leaving the fire going, even knowing Enjolras will be back soon and will put it out before he retires.

Instead, she seats herself on the thick rug before the flames, drawing the thick fabric of her dressing gown around her body. Parisian homes aren't quite built to retain heat, not when the summer season can climb to such high temperatures. She's almost always cold, wrapped up in layers indoors but sweating in silks outside. Only ever in the summer months, but that could span near a third of the year sometimes. It would be easier, she supposes, if her husband were the kind of person you could curl up next to on a chilly night and luxuriate in the shared body heat. But Enjolras is far from tactile.

Agreeing to his request for minimal physical contact had not seemed difficult at the time but now, a week on, she is beginning to see just how much she took for granted. Papa had never denied her a cuddle, no doubt shamed by the thought of what her life has been like prior to his rescue. There's Gavroche, the boy who is becoming something rather like a favoured cousin; not quite a little brother, but certainly a younger male relative to be doted on. Yet, he lives with her Papa now (and if she had applied some heavy handed, psychological trickery to get the boy to stay under the guise of ensuring her father doesn't grow lonely, well, Cosette feels no guilt for that lie). The boy's hugs had been hesitant, cautious little things, but they had been there. And now...

Cosette draws her arms around her shins, hugging her knees right to her chest, breathing slow and steady as she sits by the fire.

Now the only comforting arms she can find in the place she calls home are her own.

"Cosette? Are you well?" Probably not, given she had not heard him approach.

Shuffling around upon the seat of her bottom, she considers Enjolras as he removes his outer jacket, her voice lost somewhere in her throat. She does not wish to admit she is craving physical contact already when all but a week has passed. To do so would to seem as if she is pressuring him into initiating that which he has already requested they avoid. Nonetheless, her mind whirls with half-remembered facts from a previous life, how tactile relations improved mental health and the lack could lead to a significant detriment of the mind.

Above all of that though, she had suggested they be honest with one another, that communication between them should be open and free. She cannot, will not be the one who ruins this tentative settlement they have begun building.

"I am feeling out of sorts. I am used to more physical contact than what I now get. It's no fault of yours and I do not expect you to do anything to resolve the issue. But may we discuss this as one academic to another?"

Enjolras watches her, his eyes dusked from the night, irises turned the dark of twilight by the fire's glow. He removes his boots, places the pistol from his waistband upon the counter top, and then joins her on the floor. There is a distance of about two feet between them, his legs stretched out so that the flames may warm the soles of his feet.

"I'm listening."

"Humans need physical contact. When a baby is birthed, the first thing the mother does is hold the infant close. One of our primary responses when faced with comforting another is to take them into our arms and press them close to our bosom. We speak both with our words and with our actions, the latter used for things that we cannot give voice to." Cosette frees her legs from the cage of her arms, laying them straight until her toes dip close to the fire, the proximity heating the tips. "Though I as of yet have no way to prove it, I think physical contact can help calm the brain and soothe the soul. Your thoughts?" She wants to know what he thinks on the matter, wants to know why he is so averse to tactile relations but she won't push. Whatever he wishes to share at this point, that is what Cosette will accept. That is how she wishes their relationship to work.

"I dislike others in my personal space; such close contact with another strips away an element of control within both parties as you cannot determine what the other will do."

"What about if the other is none reactive to the touch?"

"Such as?" Enjolras eyes her, his face void of all emotion but his eyes alight with curiosity, a willingness to delve deeper into the current topic which is... not what she would have expected from him.

"Say, there is the hugger and the huggee. The huggee remains still for the duration of the hug, placing the hugger in control of the situation. Would that combat the lack of control?"

"Will you keep your hand still?"

Cosette nods, her silent agreement to the request and, after a single glance to her face, Enjolras reaches out and closes his hand around hers. His grip is neither tight nor loose, his fingers and thumb neither stroking or pressing. It is a hand-hold in the most literal sense of the word. Cosette can feel the rough callouses on the flesh of his palm, the lengths of his fingers, all from holding both a pen and a pistol. His hand is warm in comparison to her own, larger and stronger; her hand is kept lax and yielding, non-reactive.

Slowly inhaling, Cosette keeps her eyes on their joined hands, tracing the pale cast of her own skin in the fire's glow, the tanned flesh that covers Enjolras' bones and tendons. "Would it be alright if I turned my hand over?"

There's a pause before Enjolras hums, voicing a soft, "Yes."

With her knuckles now resting on the floor, her fingers don't quite lay flat, not until Enjolras rests his own palm against hers, long fingers pressing up against her own and straightening them out. Her hand is so much smaller than him, still that of a teenager's, not an adult's, for all that society seems to accept she is one, was willing to see her married as one. For all that is far from the most comfortable physical contact, the weight of Enjolras' hand upon hers is comforting, enough that she can feel her shoulders relaxing, her muscles loosening.

Before them, the fire crackles lazily, little spits of sparks snapping about within the flames as smoke curls up the chimney. The whole room smells warm, that smell of home heavily influenced by the scent that is Enjolras. It's been a week, she's almost used to how this places smells and yet, every so often, something will metaphorically punch her in the face and she'll forget. She'll forget she's not in the little cottage with Papa, will forget that she's no longer sheltered from the world by his wide shoulders and unwavering stance in God.

Then, she'll blink and realise the room she's in is an apartment, that the scent she can smell belongs to Enjolras. She'll recall that thing that stands between her and a world that would suppress her is the back of a man willing to place the world upon his shoulders if that one act would be enough to right it. She knows that, in the distant future, there will be a time when she can walk the street of Paris, if not completely safe, then with the assurance that she too has human rights. The right to own property, the right to have a child out of wedlock and not be spat upon, the right to run a business and succeed.

It's not something she can see happening in this life time. And that stokes an anger, a fury that she can see has found a home in Enjolras. The drums of revolution beat ever so loud within his head and the more she listens to him, the more the beat finds a home within her too.

"How have you spent your evening?"

"Developing machinery. Specifically, weaponry."

"Weaponry?" Enjolras repeats, sitting up straighter, his eyes now drawn from the fire to stare at her instead. Cosette nods, drawing her lower lip back, teeth scraping across the surface.

"You want a revolution, don't you? It's true that we'll need people, but you can't exactly arm them with pitchforks and torches in this day and era. So, weaponry." Though the logics of introducing something uncomfortably close to an automated gun in this time period is probably far from the wisest thing to do. So, she'll hold back on the actual making for a moment. Just work on the designs.

"France needs to see enlightened change. It won't be long until everyone realises this." Yes, Cosette agrees. Looking down at their hands, she can only wonder if it will approach in the grand revolution Enjolras dreams of.

The fic lives! I don't have any excuse of explanation of the wait/return, only that I have 10,000+ words for you.
Enjoy.

Again, a disclaimer of historical, engineering, social inaccuracies. I'm not a historian/engineer/politician/anything else relevant to this.

Tsume
xxx