(no subject)

[pro_patria_mortuus]

Yesterday was a long and exceedingly strange day.

But it ended with reunion, and one more friend here, long-lost, and with all the joy and celebration that accompanies that. Even the next morning, the sunlight seems brighter for the memory.

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[wings_of_a_swan]

Combeferre rises, too. He's finished his coffee, so nothing spills when he's careless with the cup.

He pulls a waistcoat at random from the closet. A somber gray, like every other one he has. He shrugs it on. "Feuilly might be awake." Unlike some of their other friends, Combeferre does not need to add.

[pro_patria_mortuus]

"Yes. In any case, he wouldn't mind being woken for such news."

Enjolras had chosen black trousers when he rose, in the unthinking habit of months -- perhaps longer, in the indefinable way of time's passage at Milliways. It's hard to say, here where a week can pass in a night and the calendar seems to advance by steps and skips. But he pauses, now, and studies the contents of the drawer, and reaches instead for a pair of pale gray trousers.

He's never worn these. Nor the blue waistcoat and coat that follow after.

But Prouvaire is here now, the last of their number. Not the last of the Amis de l'ABC, nor the last man Enjolras called friend, but now the inner circle of their dearest friends is complete, all eight lieutenants and Grantaire; all dead on the rue de la Chanvrerie, and all here. It seems a worthy enough day to choose.

[wings_of_a_swan]

Combeferre hadn't worn mourning at Milliways. When he arrived, most of his dearest friends were already here--all except Feuilly and Prouvaire, in fact. He knew they were dead, but to him they were simply--elsewhere, and he had reason to hope they would appear.

But he couldn't fail to notice Enjolras's regular mourning attire. It was a daily tribute to their friends, and a moving expression of Enjolras's grief for them. To see Enjolras reach for light, bright colors--

Combeferre smiles, pulling on his coat, and says nothing. They'd never discussed Enjolras's mourning--they'd never needed to--and there's no need to discuss the end of it now. Enjolras's frame of mind is plain to see. Combeferre, still smiling, suspects his own is equally so.