Combeferre twines his fingers with Enjolras's, their joined hands resting on Enjolras's shoulder. He remembers the picture of Enjolras on that other Corinthe's wall. Enjolras was smiling, and had faint lines extending from his nostrils to the corners of his lips, and faint furrows in his brow.

Combeferre might have met that Enjolras, too, an Enjolras who had been a public servant for decades, whose love for France had been allowed to burn steadily for years. He looks down, unable to stop his eyes going blurry.

"Yes." Still, he had the privilege of knowing this other Enjolras existed. Still, he knew it was all real.