They both recognize that weight; it only takes a few exchanged glances at certain silences, certain sentences begun and reworded, certain implied questions left unanswered, for Enjolras to know that he and Bahorel agree.

Whatever has these people scared, it's no one in this room. But it's also nothing too far away, or at least its deputies aren't. This is a fear that comes from looking over shoulders, from lives that are threatened or constrained or both by something near enough to lay down those constraints.

But the other thing they both know is that there's nothing to be gained, and a great deal of trust to be lost, by pushing too fast and too openly for information.

So: dinner, and casual conversation, and open ears.

(Bahorel is better at casual conversation with all and sundry, of course. But Enjolras falls in with a cluster of cat-eared young men and holds his own. It isn't so hard, after all, to slowly and carefully steer the conversation towards the matters that spark their impatience and defiance the most. Which seems to be trade, compelled by some unnamed and resented authority; going out to gather rocks seems to be at the heart of it, for reasons that no one's saying outright just yet, and nobody's saying anything at all about soldiers that vanish into thin air.)