The man is...suspicious, to say the least. He is often at the cafe, in the corner, alone but not at all unapproachable. Enjolras has never caught him staring, but he still feels as if he is being assessed every moment. It is madness, he knows, to think in that fashion about a stranger, but just looking at him stirs up a passion he keeps only for being in all this world; Patria.
Grantaire has noticed him too, and seems to dislike him. He even provides a reason why, though Enjolras tells him it is ridiculous. “It's like he isn't all there,” Grantaire insists, eyes red and a tad unfocused.
Enjolras hates to admit he knows what Grantaire means, but he does know. The man seems almost to be everywhere and nowhere at once. It is disconcerting. After some time, after Marius has joined the Friends, Enjolras approaches the blond man. “You,” he says sharply one early, very early, morning after the cafe has been vacated, “you are watching us, yes?”
The man gives him a look, equal parts amused, confused, delighted and sad, “yes and no.” The man says, “I watch you speak, but I strive not to hear what you are saying.” This annoys Enjolras, how dare anyone shut their ears to the truths of France, and he says so.
“Monsieur,” he says, voice dry, “you could do to listen, France needs you now more than ever.” The man just looks at him, blue eyes practically shining in the dull light and Enjolras is forced to stand there, perfectly still, as the stranger stands.
Soon, they are nose to nose, bright, bright, bright eyes boring into his. “I know what it is you say,” the man breaths, face entirely too close, his voice deep and calm and sensual. Decadent. “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” his eyes twinkle, “though in more words.” Enjolras just stares at him, face pale.
“Mock me not, stranger, I would die a thousand times over for France.” The stranger laughs at that, a dark as hissing sound which wriggles under Enjolras' skin.
“I know, mon cher,” he purrs, one hand coming up to Enjolras' cheek, “like I said, dulce et decorum est.” The man pulls away suddenly, and feeling like a fish out of water, Enjolras tries desperately to recover his good sense.
“You are too familiar Monsieur.” He says coldly, not backing away. The stranger lifts an eyebrow, and even that little action is so suave, so opulent, so outrageous that it makes Enjolras want to punch him while crying 'sacre aristo!', or kiss him while murmuring 'beni homme'. It's infuriating, because nothing is dammed nor is anything blessed, unless it is by France.
“I am not, M. Enjolras, you have already said you would die for me.” Enjolras just stares at him, because he has not given this stranger his name and he definitely has not pledged his life to him.
“I have done no such-” he's cut off by a kiss. It is hot, searing, even. The stranger is strong, supernaturally so even, and his gloved hands tangle in Enjolras' hair, pulling it free of it's tie. The kiss is all teeth and tongue, and Enjolras has to fight the will to surrender to the man's rough treatment.
“You have,” the man purrs,, pulling away “and that is why I do not listen,” he leans in again, ever closer until Enjolras can feel his hot breath brushing past his ear, in, out, in, out, “for I am not pledged to you.” With that he is gone, and Enjolras is left standing there, trying not to gasp for breath.
The barricades have fallen, everyone is dead, Gavroche is dead. Enjolras, of course, knew this was a possibility, he was ready for this, he would do anything for France. The National Guard is at the door, they'll break through any moment, but Enjolras is ready. When they come through he fights, shoots until he has no bullets, and then throws anything he can, until he has nothing to throw.
“The wall,” one guard says gruffly, a small amount of respect in his voice, “against it, please.” Enjolras complies, back stiff, chin up. He prepares for the shot, looking at the National Guard, each one, until his eyes lock with two very familiar ones. His breath almost, almost, goes out in one big rush, except Grantaire is suddenly there, yelling “don't shoot, don't shoot, wait for me!”
He approaches Enjolras, walking in front of the not-stranger. “I will die here too,” he says, for once not completely drunk, “if,” he looks at Enjolras, “if you will permit,” and Enjolras knows. Enjolras sees the look in those red rimmed dark eyes, the will to die for one thing and one thing only, so Enjolras nods.
“Yes,” he says, and turns back towards the one being he has loved since forever. Will you permit me to die for you, France?
The ringing shots are his answer. But of course.