DS/E 3: Introducing Madame and Monsieur Enjolras… Sr. A week after they've made up and settled back in, Lynette remembers something she'd been intent on doing since the day they'd gone to visit her family—encountering his. But will the revelation of Enjolras's past transform her determination in meeting Madame and Monsieur Enjolras Senior?

"No."

"Why not?"

Enjolras sighed, closing his eyes for a moment in exasperation. This debate had begun before their little dispute of a few weeks former had even taken place, and he'd been hoping that the callous events they'd just undergone and recovered from would make her forget all about it. But no, it seemed as if Lynette had all but read his mind and once again become obsessed with the idea of meeting his parents. He had to admit; it was rather unfair that he had not rested until she'd agreed to take him to her family and was now refusing her the same right, but she just couldn't meet his mother and father. They were part of a past he'd left behind him many years ago.

He turned and walked over to her place in the bedroom doorway, looking down at her with a raised brow. "It's too far."

She stared back at him with an equally fervent glint of challenge in her lovely eyes, saying, "A rejoinder other than 'no'? I consider this progress. Well fine then, good Monsieur; humor me. How far is it?"

"They live in Saint-Saëns, Lynette."

"That's but a day by carriage!"

"But have we a carriage?"

"Have we not the money to rent one?"

He huffed, shaking his head. "No, Netta."

"Is that a no to the extent of our income, or to the notion of the trip?"

"It is a no to both!"

Lynette looked at him with a furrowed pout, crossing her arms irritably. "That's hardly fair, you know."

Enjolras pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes and letting out a loud exhale. "Mon dieu; don't try this again."

She raised an eyebrow accusingly, though she couldn't hide the elated look in her eyes as they probed him meticulously. "Why? Because you know it's true?" she inquired innocently, biting back a victorious grin. Enjolras glared at her, unwilling to let her gain any footholds in this attempt to guilt him into submission. "No." he reiterated defensively, trying to make his tone as stern and adamant as possible.

But she shifted her arms akimbo and smiled sassily in response—for somehow she was always able to culminate a debate with one obstinate word yet never fell for the tactic herself, much to Enjolras's irritation. "Even you know you're lying to yourself… it resounds in your voice," she stated evenly. Enjolras glowered tersely—standing resiliently, but also knowing that she was probably right. For he knew deep down that this was rather unreasonable of him… but he'd be damned if he admitted that fact.

"I am not," he answered curtly.

"You are too," she shot right back, a chuckle forming in her words. He snorted, rolling his eyes. "Quite the childish answer," he affirmed, watching her with raised brow as she got up and walked towards him. She mimicked his inquisitive expression, inching closer and closer; all the while smothering him with the gaze she'd quickly learned made his will waver… if only for a moment. "As is 'I am not'," she retorted matter-of-factly.

"Well you can mock me all you want; that isn't going to change my answer," he resumed, reverting them back to their original topic of debate. She scowled up at him. "Fine then. I'll just go myself."

"You know not how to get there.'

"I'll find an address."

"How do you plan to do that when I won't tell you?"

"I'll find someone who will."

"Who else knows the whereabouts of my parents besides their only son?"

"Marius?"

"He knows nothing of my family life."

She huffed in exasperation, eyes flashing irritably. "I just don't understand why you're so adverse to this idea! I simply want to meet the people who raised you as you did mine!"

Enjolras opened his mouth to respond just as briskly, but then stopped, his words hanging in a state of unspoken anticipation from his open mouth. He wasn't going to be able to argue his point much longer. Or, at least not the same way he had been going about it. He would have to tell her the truth… perhaps then—once she was better informed—she'd be willing to let these crazy notions of hers burn out and be forgotten.

"Alright; if you really must know, it sounds like it's time for me to start confessing. Well, the truth is that I have not spoken to my parents in years," he admitted; eyes darting to the floor darkly as it all came flooding back. He was surprised to hear her laugh; and looked up to see her shaking her head at him with a tickled smile on her face. He couldn't help but stiffen slightly. What about that was funny?

"That's all? Perhaps you should not have spoken after all, Blondinette; for now I have the basis to remind you that I too walked out on my family and experienced a lack of communication as a res—" she started as if reading his thoughts. But he was quick to cut her off. "But I did not just move out, Lynette. I packed my things and left with a barely civil goodbye before completely severing all contact between us," he elucidated gravely. Her jesting mien disappeared, leaving in its place an equally somber guise to match his melancholy tone. "I still cannot help drawing some similarities, cher," she began, "though because of that fact I now know that this is no joking matter."

"I admit that they are similar; but it's just… well, while you have disputed with your family but still drop in every now and again, I quite literally have not seen or spoken to either of my parents in almost ten years," he sighed. She looked up at him sadly; mouth ajar in a silent 'o'. She was silent for a moment, to his surprise—he'd thought she'd surely continue pointing out the parallels between her family life and his. But instead, she simply whispered, "Why?"

Now it was Enjolras's turn to fall silent. Faint reminiscences flickered to life in his head… and he was a bit stunned by the vividness to which they danced through his thoughts. It had nearly been a decade, after all. Shouldn't they have faded into a hell of a lot more obscurity than these clear pictures he was getting?

"Enjolras? Please tell me what happened," she murmured, her voice smooth and pleading and intoxicating as a siren's hymn. He let out a voluble exhale, unable to keep himself from caving in any longer. "Well, as I've told you before, my opinions began to form at a very young age. I was a very bright and eager child; and my parents were delighted by that fact when it began to become apparent. So, they began advancing my lessons more and more until I was up to five years ahead of my level of schooling in some subjects. One of these particular subjects included history. My tutor was a very intelligent man with an even quicker tongue. He told the world's stories with the vivacity and passion of one who had actually lived through it, and that never ceased to enthrall me. But before long I started to notice strange feelings stirring inside me whilst I listened to his factual tales... sentiments of anger and sadness and conflict. And soon I realized that these feelings only seemed to show up when the event I was learning about had something to do with injustice... even if the event was something France had been involved in. At first, this notion troubled me; for my father was aristocratic but had also always taken great pride in what he called the 'achievements of France'... which basically consisted of all of our country's little victories and advancements from over the years. But, mind you, that included the conquests or triumphs where what was being done was completely and morally wrong."

"So, I went to him to speak of my newborn feelings of controversy. But when I did, he brushed it off like it was nothing; telling me that I was simply going through the changes of manhood and was bound to be a bit disoriented as consequence. And for the longest time, I believed him. But that didn't mean that I held my tongue when speaking on these matters. It wasn't long at all before I got over my original timidity at these new, unruly ideas and began openly crossing my father's philosophies whenever I disagreed with them. At first my parents seemed to find it rather endearing; always chuckling amusedly before "correcting" my statement. But soon my constant rebuttals began to wear down their smiles, and my father stopped chuckling altogether as he realized I was completely serious about my beliefs."

"At one point—on a day I'd been particularly stubborn in one of our many debates—he called me into his office and sat me down before him. He told me that he was extremely displeased with the way I was, as he called it, 'defying him' by means of my frivolous notions. He said that it made no sense that I felt the way I did, as the régime had done many wonderful things to benefit all its citizens. But then he made the mistake of saying, 'Just look at us! We have a large estate, a lovely and contemporary home, and the clothes on our backs are comfortable, resilient, and highly fashionable. Do you think we would have any of these things if not for the subsidies those officials have provided us with?' and I snapped. I stood up so that I towered over him in his desk and bellowed that while we lived in luxury and comfort, there were children starving to death on the street while their parents turned to corruption in order to pay for them. That while we worried about fashion and style, some lose limbs to the curse of frostbite and disease. That while we never saw a grey day, some were suffering in misery; and all because of the damned hierarchy we live in. And he said not a word more after that, so I simply stormed out in ire and locked myself in my room for the rest of the day."

"So he sent you away? Just for having an opinion?" Lynette asked; eyes flashing and voice trembling indignantly.

"Well, not exactly. That is in the end the reason for my leaving, but I am not banished just yet," he replied; and he was not even able to chuckle as his rage bubbled up inside him from the depths of his memories. But he took a deep breath and swallowed it down, continuing, "He would not speak to me for several days straight, but my mother—fragile as she was—just pretended that the whole incident had never happened and he managed to forgive me for her sake. They tried to forget… but I sure as hell couldn't. I began looking into the different institutes of higher education around us, both in yearning for more knowledge of the world and in desperateness to get out of this house of injustice and greed. I tactfully waited a few months before confronting my parents about it, and to my relief, my strategy worked and they did not even think of the possibility that it was a method of escape. They were both very enthusiastic towards the idea, though my mother was not ready to see her son leave them just yet and insisted I wait a few more years. So, in silent reluctance I agreed; also consenting to letting my father help me find the best seminary for my needs. But that also meant that we were spending more time together… and that meant that we clashed more than ever."

"But it wasn't until I had just turned seventeen that any of our arguments did any real, instantaneous damage. Yes, they made me see the pretension of my own father and that fact diminished his esteem in my eyes, but until that point, we never really spoke of our displeasure of the other. But one night my father came in, ranting irritably about how he'd been late to a seminar that afternoon because 'some useless prat' had started a rally in the street. He went on to describe how traitorous his words were and how lowly and unkempt the people following him looked, then began to laugh as he expressed how they had gotten a bit too rowdy and a squadron of officers stepped in, resorting to violence to scatter them. 'The man didn't look so mighty once he was cowering like a dog!' he'd roared." Enjolras seethed, stopping for a moment to attempt to calm himself.

Lynette studied his face carefully; gaze sweeping over his burningly intensified eyes and scowl-furrowed brow. She nearly laughed—and would have had she not been so angry—for even when his face was etched with indignation he was so, utterly handsome. Oh yes, he'd always been a fearsome thing to behold when he was angry. Looking so angelic that you could hardly believe he could harbor wrath, and yet there he'd stand: practically spitting fire and proving you wholly and entirely wrong.

"And then, as soon as he began chortling heartlessly at the expense of this poor radical, I let all of the thoughts that had been building up over the years burst forth in one vast, furious tirade. I can't even remember all I said, only that it was something along the lines of, 'Your intolerable cruelty towards those weaker than you and your unstinting support of oppression and maltreatment will be your downfall in the end, but until then I will no longer stand by silently while you pledge your support to these tyrants! Your beliefs are unjust, and until you and people like you start seeing things the right way, France will never truly be free!' To which he replied that I was a bloody fool if I believed that scum like that should have the same privileges as the 'sophisticated and educated' do and that if we were to speak of any downfall, it would be of France as a whole should 'the gutter rats' be allowed to take part in decision making. I was utterly stunned for a moment that such spite could come from one man in one singular, derogatory sentence. But I soon came back to my senses and erupted into a barrage of accusatory attacks, but each was met with a rebuttal so malicious, they probably could have held their own against your aunt. The dispute started out as a mere battle of the perspectives—not unlike the others we'd found ourselves in over the years—but soon enough it spiraled out of control, taking a turn for the more intimately wounding. I told him that his loathsome arrogance and conceit had brought the violent destruction of his sympathy and overall humanity, and he told me that I was a waste of intellectual talent. I spat that his greed was the world's curse, and he retorted that 'radicals' like me were the true filth of the earth. And finally, after we'd been at each other's throats for at least a quarter of an hour, he struck me across the face before looking me in the eye and growling, "This is an absolute outrage! In these moments, you have turned my thoughts towards that of, 'This boy is no more my son than I am his father.'" But as soon as he had my mother rushed in sobbing and demanded that he take it back. But his eyes never left me, and mine never him. It was as if our perpetually raging war was even still going on in complete and utter silence; severing whatever slight bond we may have had left completely."

"The very next day I announced that I would be leaving for the university as soon as could be arranged. My mother was devastated—knowing now that it was the direct result of my father's and my conflict—but my father, on the other hand, would not even look at me. I continued on to say that I had chosen a Parisian institution with a very good reputation for fine education, and that they were generous enough to let me join their student body though I was late for admissions. My mother had listened quietly up until this moment, at which point she began to weep, declaring that Paris was 'too far!' and she 'couldn't stand!' the thought of me living there. And I am rather shamefaced to admit that I replied unnecessarily coldly, saying that my choice had been made, and that my loving father had helped me make it. This caused the war of the stares to start up again, but my mother seemed oblivious to it in her inconsolable hysterics. She ran to me and pulled me into her embrace, crying out that I was breaking her heart with all this talk of leaving her. That's when my father left the room, presumably disgusted with the notion of his wife blubbering over an all-but-banished son. And as soon as he'd gone, I let my guard down; apologizing to my mother and telling her I still loved her. It took quite a while, but I managed to assuage her tears; after which she sighed, told me that if this was what I wanted, she'd support me, and subsequently patted my cheek and told me to go begin packing before she went and changed her mind. I thanked her and flew through the task, vowing to bring along only the bare-minimal essentials and leave behind anything that would dub me as hypocritical to my views—anything that would make me in the least bit like my father. When I had finished and sent ahead a messenger to Paris to bring word of my eminent arrival, I went downstairs to find my parents standing in the front hall. And before I could say anything to them, my mother stepped forward and said that they had agreed to let me go only under the conditions that I allow them to purchase a flat for me and that I promise to connect with my dear old childhood friend Combeferre once I arrived in Paris. I replied evenly, saying that neither of those was in any way a problem considering Combeferre already attended the university I'd chosen. I was a bit apprehensive about the other prerequisite—since I figured that meant he would accompany me to Paris—but, as if reading my mind, he suddenly piped up for the first time saying that he would just be providing the up front payment and the address for any official documents regarding the purchase to be sent to. I was more than a little relieved to hear this, though it caused new concerns to surface in my mind as well: for it was obvious that my mother had forced him into assisting me financially, and that notion mixed with those of his opinion of me and his holding the deed to whatever place we bought discomfited me. But I simply shot back a curt thank you—more pointed towards my mother than him—and went into the parlor with them to sort out all remaining affairs. After that came our parting, where my mother showed enough sentiment for all three of us while my father and I were not nearly as enthusiastic. And then I was off to Paris, and all I could think in my teen-aged mindset was, "Free at last!"

"When I arrived I went straight to Combeferre's garret, where I asked rather spur-of-the-moment if I could stay with him for the duration until I found a place of my own. He was more than surprised, but thankfully too glad to see me to realize it. And by the time I did purchase my little flat, we'd grown so accustomed to being both classmates and roommates that the transition to living on my own was more difficult; though in the end I managed. Within two days of my arrival a letter arrived at the university from my mother, asking how things were going, if I needed anything, and to inform her when I got my permanent address. I replied back that everything was fine; I was staying with Combeferre, and that I'd let her know when I found a place to live. After that, other letters came almost every other day, but soon enough I just stopped answering—my last explaining that I'd found a little flat in which to settle in, but that I couldn't continue to answer her letters so regularly because that in addition to my classwork was becoming too overwhelming. She always has been a rather naïve woman, refusing to believe in anything that doesn't fit into her own little world. My little excuse was no exception; she responded to it with unconstrained conviction, and her letters became much more outspread in arrival. But after a while, they just stopped coming as more and more went unanswered as a direct result of my lack of time or patience. I figured my father had something to do with it when the influx halted completely, probably having convinced her that my lack of rejoinders stemmed from lack of sensitivity," he stopped for a moment to look up at her, but her expression was unreadable. "And the rest of the story you can guess if you have not already put two and two together," he culminated in a tone barely over a mutter.

Lynette remained completely and utterly silent, watching him prudently with the furrowed look of someone trying to make a difficult decision. Enjolras couldn't help but let hope rise up in his chest; perhaps now that she knew why he was so resistant to her request she would stand down—

"If your mother truly has not heard from you in nine years, I'm sure she would be more than overjoyed with a visit."

Enjolras found himself clenching his teeth in frustration. Was she really going to be so stubborn that she rudely ignored the entire story of his childhood so she would get what she wanted?

"Did you go deaf for the last ten minutes of this conversation? I'm not even considered his son anymore!" he exclaimed crossly. His goaded tone did not phase her in the least; but then again, when did it ever? She simply walked over to stand before him, taking his fisted hands and lightly kissing his knuckles. The docile touch pacified him slightly, but he was not about to show her that when a visit home was in the air. That was how she won arguments. That was his weakness.

"I understand. Truly, I do. But you don't seem to understand me," she began softly, eyes silently pleading him to let her finish before he retorted, "When I took you to meet my family, it ended catastrophically. But if there was one thing positive that came out of it, it's that it helped me to purge my demons, in a way. To let go of a past I'm no longer a part of and prepare myself for my future with you. So yes, the insults my aunt threw at us hurt. But in the end, it's helped me to leave all that behind. And after the things you told me today, I think you need to do the same."

Enjolras said nothing. For he was afraid that if he did, he would end up zealously agreeing to go back to the very man who had all but expelled him from his own household so many years before. And though "purging his demons" and moving on with his life—especially when she described it so resplendently—was beginning to appeal to him, he was not about to go crawling back like some heartbroken maiden to his cruel father. Why was he even weighing the option in his mind? It would bring nothing but more dander and suffering. He might as well forget his lovely fiancé had ever said it—

"Please, Enjolras. Let me help you as you helped me," she whispered, breaking off all thoughts of denial with one, beseeching look. He'd caved. Again.

"Fine. Fine, fine, fine. You are too charming for your own good, you know that?" he grumbled, crossing his arms in irritation… with no one but himself. Lynette beamed at him. "And don't you forget it," she winked teasingly, though her mien glowed with true contentment. "When should we set off?"

"We shall send them a letter first," Enjolras told her, foolishly hoping that perhaps if they did they could end all of this without even physically visiting, "I have a feeling they'd be as adverse to the idea of a surprise visit as I am."

Lynette's face puckered. "But we will still visit, yes?"

"Only if they agree to it. But don't get your hopes up too high, I wouldn't blame even my mother for coming to hate me after I've isolated myself from them all this time," he retorted.

"She will not hate you. Of that I am sure," Lynette chuckled, "Now, go and write that letter before you 'forget to'."

Enjolras's cheeks burned instantly as he nodded and walked over to his desk. He had just been considering putting off writing the letter and saying he'd 'forgotten to do it' until she forgot about it herself. She knew him too well… a blessing and a curse. He picked up the pen and began to write:

October the 14th of 1832

My dearest Mother,

But as soon as he'd finished this greeting, he stopped. What in the world do you say to someone you haven't spoken to in years?

Lynette say this and leaned over to lightly kiss his cheek, whispering, "I know. But she's your mother, so just pretend it's only been a few months instead of years and I'm sure it will come much easier."

He sighed, placing his hand atop hers, and turned back to the parchment.

First off, I do hope you'll forgive me for my lack of communication lately; each year that passes seems to get busier and busier than the last. Living in Paris has been a wonderful experience; it has become a home away from home in the time I've sent here. Which brings me to one of my main reasons for writing you. I'm about to begin sharing this new home of mine.

You see, early last year I met a woman. She was intelligent, kind, and full of life, and I soon fell deeply in love with her. I proposed back in August, and now we are working on the wedding preparations… but we wish to receive your blessing before we officially set the date.

I know all of this must be rather overwhelming to process given the circumstances, but I ask that you do not doubt my thorough happiness, and that you make haste in your response. We are very eager to hear from you.

Your devoted son,

Marcelin Enjolras II

No sooner had he finished signing it did Lynette sweep it right out of his hands, reading it over meticulously. A small smile ghosted her lips at what he assumed was the part about her, but that soon turned to puzzled inquiry as she culminated her reading and looked up at him. "Marcelin Enjolras?"

He nearly laughed, for he'd forgotten that he'd never told her about his real name. "I was named after my father. When I moved to Paris, I changed my name to reflect only my latter in everything but business affairs," he explained. She cocked her head, a strange look inhabiting her eyes. "So… all this time I've been calling you by your last name?" she wondered, seeming absolutely mystified with the thought. He rubbed her arms assuringly. "No, you've been calling me by my first name. Perhaps not in law, but in all ways that actually matter. 'Marcelin' is nothing but a bad memory to me now."

She smiled at him, looking him in the eyes. "I do rather like it, though. It's a lovely name," she told him tenderly. He shot an unenthusiastic grin back. "Perhaps, but it's also my father's lovely name. So I'd prefer you to still call me Enjolras, if you don't mind."

"I can understand that. I've never liked those 'the Second' or 'the Fourth' titles. I feel like it indirectly labels them as not being their own person," she said perceptively. He grinned and wrapped his arms fully around her. "Exactly. I love you," he chuckled. She beamed at him. "I love you too. I must confess, though… I may still call you Marcelin from time to time."

His face fell slightly. "Why?"

"To remind you that not only are you not him, but that he doesn't own that name anymore… you do. He gave it up when he passed it down to you. So if anyone should be obliterating that part of their name… it's him," she finished fervently. Enjolras was stunned into silence, too amazed to do anything but stare down at her in veneration. And then—abruptly and with the urgings of none but those sentiments—he pulled her into a passionate kiss, silently expressing to her his gratitude. And she appeared to have gotten the message, as she was giggling by the time he pulled away. "Don't act so surprised. It's true, after all," she appended.

"Just… thank you. You are awe-striking," he breathed in response.

Her cheeks became lightly colored at his avid words, but she simply squeezed his hand with a gracious smile before turning towards the door. "Now, what do you say we go find a messenger?" she suggested. He sighed, all of the day's occurrences before his mind had gone blank at her words coming rushing back at once. "Yes, I suppose we should."

She saw the expression of melancholy on his face and smiled encouragingly at him, saying, "Don't look so defeated. She's the woman who raised you, not an evil sorceress."

"But my father is a different story," he grimaced.

A/N: Ok, guys; I just looked at my trafficking stats… and wow. I can't even… Wow. I don't know whether it was the release of the movie (*cough cough*AKA THE GREATEST THING EVER CREATED ON THIS EARTH) or what, but I have never seen such a high number of hits. Thank you, thank you, thank you… I am so blessed to have such wonderful readers.

Not to mention all the story/author favorites I've been getting… to all my new readers, thank you SO much and welcome aboard! :)

Anywhooooo, after I saw this month's report (and gotten out of my ten minute state of frozen shock, mind you) I decided it was more than time to release the next DS/E… so here you go! Merci beaucoup and I hope you enjoy! ~DonJuana