Archive of Our Own

After that, the mysterious fan-worker seemed to have turned into the ghost that haunted Enjolras' existence. Indeed, he kept seeing glimpses of them, but he never managed to get close enough to actually talk to them. A high ponytail at the picket line against the closure of the Renault factory that seemed to disappear when he tried to get close. A familiar voice over the megaphone from a union van at International Workers' Day, a familiar face perched on the roof of it, too far up to approach. A helpful hand up when he fell while running from the cops at the Labor Law protest, gone by the time he had regained his bearings. 

At the end, he managed to get some information by mere chance. Jehan had dragged him to a round table about racism, muttering something about "damned Communists who know everything about economic theory but have immense blind spots otherwise", and there he was, his fan-maker, participating as one of the speakers. He, yes. Because now, after all this time, Enjolras finally had a set of pronouns and a name for the face: Lamine Feuilly. 

He went through the entire thing later, sprawled over Combeferre and Courfeyrac on the sofa of their shared flat.

"You just don't get it!" he exclaimed, spreading his hands with so much force that he almost smacked Courfeyrac in the face. "Look, I'm not saying the other speakers weren't good, but he had such good points! And he explained them so well! When that woman asked why immigrants don't just "ask for visas instead of coming illegally"—which, honestly, why the fuck was she there? I think the entire room cringed—he didn't even flinch! He just explained the impossibility of asking for a visa so calmly, I don't think I've heard it explained better in my life. He could have convinced Marine Le Pen had she been there," he sighed whistfully, ignoring the way Combeferre was looking at him with an indulgent smile on his face. "And his dissection of imperialism and the consequences of neoliberalism on the global South! He was so well-spoken, and so on-point." He sighed again, stars in his eyes. It had been a long time since he had been so excited about a person that wasn't a heterodox economist or a dead revolutionary.

"You really make him sound fascinating," said Combeferre, rubbing his feet distractedly, a small smile on his face. "I wouldn't be against hearing him speak, after such a glowing review. So, when are we seeing him at a meeting?"

At that, Enjolras groaned, all enthusiasm draining from his body as he covered his face in his hands. "I didn't get to talk to him," he moaned despondently. "I swear, that guy is like an apparition made to torment me. Before the round table ended, he said something about having to get to work, and disappeared. I tried to follow him outside and give him an Amis pamphlet, but by the time I got out of the building, he was nowhere to be found.…"

Courfeyrac patted him on the head soothingly "We'll find him, don't worry. Sooner or later, we will find him."

Enjolras simply nodded, his pout turning a little less pronounced at his friend's reassurances. They better do.

The first step on their quest to find the elusive fan-worker, of course, was getting in contact with his union.

"For God’s sake, Enjolras, do you have any idea of how many people there are in a medium-sized union in a city like Paris?" dispaired Musichetta on the phone. "A lot. There are a lot of people. And I’m in the hospitality industry branch. Unless he’s like a regional representative or something, there is no reason why I should know a guy from a factory workers branch. I’ve probably never been in the same building as him…"

Enjolras resisted the urge to pout. She was right, he guessed. It had been months since he arrived to Paris for university, but he still forgot that things here were different than they were in his native La Rochelle. More activism and more political action was a good thing, of course, but it also meant that it was impossible for everyone to know everyone. Damnit. He had counted on Musichetta to give him a hand with this.

"Oh, don’t give me that face," said the girl, a smile in her voice. He was going to argue that he wasn’t making any faces, thank you very much, and that in any case she couldn’t see them over the phone, but she cut in before he could start. "I’ll ask around, see if someone knows of him. Can you give me a physical description, something to go by?"

Enjolras hesitated. He had never been a physonomist, and it was usually even worse once he got invested in what the person was saying. He raked his brain for something to say. "I’m pretty sure he was African? He had an accent, at least," he said eventually, an apologetic tilt to his voice. "Last time I saw him he was wearing a T-shirt going ‘no human being is illegal’, although I don’t know if that helps..."

Musichetta laughed. "No, it doesn’t, but I’ll do my best with what you gave me. Don’t hold your breath, though. I doubt I would have been able to find him even if you gave me a police portait."

Enjolras chuckled at that. "Well, for his safety and all of ours, I hope he doesn’t have any of those," he joked, and Musichetta’s laugh twinkled across the line.

"Well, on that note, my break is over, so I should go back to work," she said, sounding regretful. "See you at the next meeting?" Enjolras bade her goodbye and hung up. Well, there went that option.

Next, he decided to try the anti-racism group that had organised the round table. As it was on his way home from university, he decided to go in and ask directly instead of sending an e-mail. In his experience, activist groups had a bad habit of having outdated e-mail adresses that nobody read.

When he got there, he was greeted by a young woman in a hiyab who welcomed him with a warm smile.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" she asked, tilting her head. "Are you coming for the cultural exchange? They started five minutes ago, but I’m sure they wouldn’t mind…"

Enjolras shook his head. "Thank you, but no, I was just passing by. I wanted some information, and I thought you might be able to help me." At the woman’s encouraging nod, he continued. "You organized a round table a couple of weeks ago, and I was wondering if you could give me a way to contact one of the speakers? Maybe a place where I can find him? I really want to talk to him..."

Some rests of the earlier smile were still on the girl’s face, but by now it seemed a little bit forced. She crossed her arms, her posture somewhat defensive. "Do you have a name?"

He hesitated. This was not the reaction he was expecting. "Lamine Feuilly? He’s an African guy, tall. I think he works in a fan factory?" he hazarded, suddenly feeling awkward. Had he said something bad?

By this point, all traces of warmth had disappeared from the woman’s face. Drawing herself to her full height, she stepped forward, crowding into Enjolras’ space. Although he was more than a head taller than her, he found himself stumbling back, intimidated.

"Look, I don’t know what you’re playing at, but if you want information on any of our people, you’ll have to come back with a warrant. We don’t give out people’s personal information like that. And now, get out."

Enjolras blinked, completely bewildered by the agressive reaction for a second, when suddenly all the pieces fell into place. ‘No human being is illegal’. The way he seemed to know every single step on how to apply for a visa and all the pitfalls someone could fall into. The woman’s sudden protectiveness. Shit.

Suddenly feeling slightly nauseous, he lifted his hands in a placating gesture. "I’m not Immigration, I swear! I just thought he had great points and I wanted to invite him to give a talk for us!"

The woman just looked at him with narrowed eyes and snorted. "Of course you aren’t. Now, personal information is still personal information, so unless you have other business here, we’re done. Get out."

With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Enjolras turned around and left. Well, that had gone even worse than their last attempt…

Enjolras smiled, resisting the urge to fistpump. It wasn’t as common as he would have liked, to see a protest actually working, and it was always a pleasure. After a beat, though, something on Combeferre’s face made him pause.

"There is a ‘but’, isn’t it," he said, not even trying to make it a question. He could already see the answer on his friend’s eyes.

"Yeah, there is a ‘but'," agreed Combeferre. "Basically, there is no mention on a ‘Feuilly’ in all of the proceedings. He either wasn’t a leader, or he and his coworkers did a wonderful job making sure he stayed out of the press, even the one inside the union. Which," he added, "would make sense if you’re right and he doesn’t have all the documents the government wants from him..."

Enjolras nodded, doing his best to hide his disappointment. Well, there went his last lead. If the fan-workers’ strike didn’t give him a way to contact the guy, there was nothing more he could do, aside from actually going to the factory and waiting for him to come out.

"Enjolras," said Combeferre right at that moment, a warning tilt in his voice, and he looked up to see him frowning lightly at him. "Do not even think of it. Showing up at someone’s place of work is creepy as hell, you’d be getting into stalker territory." Sometimes Enjolras was a little disquieted by how well his best friend knew him. "And if he has something to hide, the girl from the anti-racism group has probably given him the heads-up that someone is looking for him. Do you really want to give him the scare of a lifetime?"

At that, Enjolras couldn’t help but flinch. As usual, Combeferre was right. This was getting out of hand. Getting a good, interesting talk at an Amis meeting was not worth making someone feel unsafe. He sighed, putting his head on his hands, and looked up with a disappointed turn to his mouth.

"You are right. I’ll stop looking for him."

It had been a hell of a week. The Labor Law had passed the first phase of the process of approval, but only barely, and there were rumours of the goverment planning to use 49-3 [*]  to get their way if the National Assemby tried to shut it down. The Amis had been on the forefront of the counter-measures, and Enjolras had been to every single event he could. He hadn’t stepped foot in his classes in a while, instead spending his time pamphleting on the street, runnning to the Prefecture to ask for the autorisation for the demonstrations and serving as a link between the student union and the again-striking railworkers. He felt like he was running almost exclusively on anger and spite, even though in reality Combeferre had managed to coax him to sleep under the argument that there weren’t any things he could do in the middle of the night. The mere idea that those people were willing to go over the heads of the elected representatives like that just to fuck over the working class made his blood boil.

When Friday evening arrived, it found him on the couch of the appartment, his computer on his knees, answering e-mails from fellow activists with what was probably more force than strictly necessary. He was scowling at a message from a boy in the student union, in which he argued that as unrelated parties they shouldn’t get involved in this fight, debating whether to answer with an explanation of the meaning of class solidarity, or with a single ‘fuck you’, when a small hand with glittery nails appeared into his field of vision and closed the computer with a definitive ‘clack’.

"We were thinking of going out tonight, take a little bit of air, disconnect for a while," said Courfeyrac from his place perched over the back of the couch, a worried wrinkle between his eyebrows. "You should come too. Let loose for a few hours. You have been working non-stop all week, you deserve a break."

Enjolras hesitated. It was true that a break might do him good, and dancing with his friends sounded fun, but… He looked back at the closed computer. He still had four e-mails he wanted to send, and he had been planning on using the free evening to get ahead on the paperwork they needed to get done for the next demonstration.

Sensing his uneasiness, Courfeyrac put a hand on his shoulder, swinging his legs around and sliding over the back of the couch to sit at his side. "Just a few hours. Forget all about the Labor Law for a few hours, and then we’ll take it all back up together. It will go much quicker if we split it, anyway. We’re in this together, remember?" He directed his best puppy eyes at him, athough the heavy black eyeliner kind of ruined the effect. "Come on, Enj, you need breaks too."

"And who knows, maybe you’ll find your mysterious fan-worker there," drawled Combeferre’s voice from the corridor door that went to his room. Enjolras turned around to gape at him, and he shrugged, a small smile on his face. "Hey, I’m not saying it will happen, but the place we were planning on going to is holding a fundraiser for that anti-racist group that organized the panel you saw him last. Who knows, maybe he’s around..."

Enjolras opened his mouth and closed it again. Going to an event just on the hopes of finding one person felt weird, maybe even a little creepy. But at the same time, he really needed a break, and Courfeyrac would keep badgering all night if he said he wouldn’t go, and even maybe insist on staying behind to help him with his work. With a sigh, he got up, trying his best to ignore Combeferre’s self-satisfied smirk and Courfeyrac’s delighted laugh.

"Give me five minutes to find my stuff and put on my boots."

When they got to the bar where the fundraiser was taking place, it was already packed. Enjolras had only had the time to chat a bit with the girl manning the stand (she thought Communism was a good frame of analysis, but that the proletarian revolution was a bit obsolete in the era of precarious service workers; and also the badges were 2€ each) when Bahorel bounded to their side, a broad smile on their face that signalled that they already had had a couple of beers.

"Enjolras! Courf! Combeferre! Hi, my dudes! I wasn’t sure you were coming, glad you could make it!" They smacked Enjolras on the shoulder, with enough force to twinge a little. With that, they turned around, signalling with his head for them to follow. "We were over here chatting with a friend from the gym, come join us. I have a feeling you’ll get along great."

And wihtout waiting for an answer, they bounded back where they came, leaving the others to follow at a more sedated pace. Enjolras was strangely reluctant to the whole thing. Bahorel was a very new recruit for the Amis, brought in by Jehan, and he hadn’t yet managed to get completely at ease around them. They were… a lot. Not that Enjolras didn’t like them: they were a few years older than himself, had been involved in politics for longer than him, and in most situations their advice was invaluable. They were just big, and loud, and for all Enjolras was great at speeches and talking to crowds, he always had a hard time with getting to know new people.

On top of that, he was honest enough to admit (at least to himself) that one of the main reasons he had agreed to this was to see if he could get a glimpse of the fan-worker. And Bahorel’s invitation kind of put a wrench on his plans to lurk around and try to find him. As he crossed the room towards the small tables on the other side, he craned his neck and looked around, searching for a high ponytail and a ‘no humans are illegal’ shirt. But no luck there.

Bahorel was waving happily at him from a table, a person sitting beside him, their back turned to Enjolras as they talked animately with a smiling Jehan. As Enjolras took the opposite seat, Bahorel tapped the new person on the shoulder to get their attention.

"Hey, Feuilly, this is the guy I was telling you about. Come say hi!"

And before Enjolras’ startled gaze and thundering heart, the guy turned around to reveal the face that had been haunting him for weeks now. Feuilly smiled at him, probably asking something, but Enjolras didn’t get it over the thundering in his ears. He knew he was staring, probably looking like a creep or an idiot, but all the words had dried from his mind. But in that moment, Courfeyrac sat beside him, and started to speak. Oh god, thank Courfeyrac and his ability to charm anyone’s pants off at any occasion.

"So, you’re the famous Feuilly? Nice to meet you! Where have you been hiding all this time, man? We’ve been searching for you inside every union van in town!"