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[ One eye closed to aim, both eyes open to fire. R closed one and positioned the crosshairs into the crowd. A pair of calloused hands positioned themselves on the weapon. With a small movement, they shifted the barrel - the hairs moved to the opening in the crowd that had formed around a small group of young men. Atop a makeshift stand stood the mess of blond curls, once perfectly pulled back into the small bun but now with escaped strands scattered to the winds from his movements. The shooter closed one eye, lining the shot with bated breath and practiced patience, taking care to unglue his jaw and relax his stance. It was harder than normal to fall into the pattern, and his jaw wouldn't unhinge.

Grantaire took a moment to sigh and pull his body back from the task at hand, his hands leaving the gun to rub at his face. This was an unusual situation, to say the least. Hesitation. Regret? He wasn't sure what to call the sinking, churning sensation that gnawed at the lining of his stomach. It didn't feel... right. And he grimaced to himself at the thought. Right and wrong are all relative, you fucking novice. A shake of the head, pushing back the dark curl that fell into his forehead, and R took his spot back where he was, determined not to miss the opportunity and risk having to come back and do this again tomorrow. The scathing impatience of his client was the least of his concerns, but it was annoyingly time-consuming to set up in this condemned building without drawing suspicion.

Smacking his lips, he took a swig from the flask at his hip with a gruff clearing of his throat to swallow it. The open eye went back to the barrel and he again found the target - The blond. The perfect jawline, the piercing eyes, the vicious tongue, the scathing expression. He growled with irritation and waited for the wind to settle, keeping his peripheral vision on the flags floating in the crowd. One more breath, his finger on the trigger and he opened the other eye to press the lever and tried not to pay attention to the chapped, furious lips as they shouted.

Instantly, he remembers attending the rally of last week to survey. It as loud, crowded, and... very united. The police hadn't arrived yet. Supporters flocked to listen and raised their red, blue, and white flags and shout in affirmation. A few raised signs proclaiming that M. Enjolras should be running for political office were accompanied by rallying chants of "They do not speak for us! He speaks for us!" and Grantaire smiled, obviously bemused. The photographs showed him to be handsome, for sure, and of course that would attract a following like this. He tuned into the speech and his expression turned to one of intent and an odd emotion he couldn't name.

""--To suggest that that populist rhetoric and those who follow its message do not have an every-encroaching grasp on French society is not only a false statement, it is a deadly one. There are those in our society who would not only attempt to define what it truly means to be French but use it as a tool to disenfranchise those who do not fit its exclusionary image, and in some cases advocate for the removal of the most vulnerable among us. We cannot turn a blind eye to that othering though the question itself conjures ugly images of colonialism, racism, nationalism...to allow the La Pens and those of their ilk to use that distaste for discussing those realities against us will be to our peril..."

The hair raised at the back of his neck when he placed some of the phrases into the mouth as it shouted, just as it did when he heard it in person. ]

Fuck.

[ Grantaire's heart sank and he felt terrified as he raised his eye for the third time that morning to look down at the distant rally.

He knew that he was in big trouble, and going to be killed for this. This wasn't a grocery store type transaction; he could not refund a service that was paid for and say "never mind." He knew, despite these risks, even if he would be replaced and this handsome fucker would be killed anyway, that he could not shoot this activist. Nausea swept over him as he numbly pulled down his rifle and signed his death warrant. ]

[ Enjolras take a long exhale before launching into his pointed condemnation of the latest National Rally-esque legislative measure making its way through the European Parliament. He can feel Courfeyrac at his left, failing to resist the urge to smirk at his "overuse of ethos"; Combeferre is further back behind the stage set-up, always preferring to stay behind the curtain (and attempt to keep Enjolras at least close to on time for his engagements.)

Despite the signs begging him to be otherwise, Enjolras is no politician. But he knows enough about the craft, between his early-day internships and his extended family's careers, to wield their own tools against them. And with Courfeyrac and Combeferre at his side, he fully intends to use those tools to tear into any bigotry, greed, and hypocrisy that crosses his path.

Finishing his usual calls for actions (i.e. vote proactively, haunt those elected officials like poltergeists while they're in office with constant correspondence, camp outside when they dare forget who hired them, etc.) Enjolras signs off with a wave before stepping back down to Combeferre's tired expression.

"You were 20 minutes over this time. We've got maybe 7 minutes now before the cops come to disperse based on my last update...Shall we?" Enjolras shrugs as he lets his hair down, pulling the stray hairs that'd be pulled out of place by wind and his own fervor back into a bun. ]

Sorry, but you know how the La Pens make me feel. We should still have plenty of time...

[ Courfeyrac claps him on the back to lead him through the preplanned route of back-alleys, back to Combeferre and Courfeyrac's shared flat, to prep ahead of the Parliamentary session testimony on fair housing practices. It's a maze Enjolras only half-follows, but then he doesn't need to; his guide and his center push him along, keep him steady and on track in more ways than he can count. ]

[ R remembers tailing the speaker, feeling out his patterns and deciding when best to attack. Enjolras was well-shielded when not doing what he did best. The apartment of the allies currently flanking him had one small window; Enjolras’ flat was even worse, and he had a roommate with a girlfriend who rarely left. Cluttered. Clunky. The soapbox of his rallies was his best option- and yet.

Walking away was tempting- Grantaire could easily disappear and use what savings he had to reinvent himself. He was currently using the name Rémi- he introduced himself as R for the surname he kept hidden and held onto- but he had so many it was becoming foggy to remember if that was the first name his mother gave to him before leaving her toddler in a bus station. ]

Hey! You three- I need to talk to the blond.

[ It was obvious that walking away- a tempting offer- was not what R was prepared to do. Unfortunately. He jogged up, his mental map of this horrible city serving him well and guiding him stealthily and quickly through the alleys like a predator to intercept them. His nostrils flared and he moved his damp curls out of his eyes, shifting the long, heavy bag at his back and kept pressing to catch up regardless. ]

Edited 2020-09-23 14:44 (UTC)

[ It doesn't take much time for Combeferre and Courfeyrac to close ranks, partially obscuring Enjolras' view of the man as they place themselves between them. It's a practiced move; while the scruffy man is not uncharacteristic of the type of "fans" Enjolras has acquired over the years (something about liberal progressives and their penchant for equally liberal standards of self-grooming...?) both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are also all-too-aware of the enemies Enjolras has made over the last few years.

Unfortunately for the pair, their would-be martyr has no patience for their bodyguarding and nudges them aside with his hands. They exchange ready glances and remain close behind as Enjolras walks past them, eyebrow quirked at the dark-haired stranger. ]

And how can I help you?

[ R watches with a small smile of respect as Enjolras dismisses his protection and comes toward the murdering stranger. His hand goes to the strap on his shoulder, readjusting his bag before looking up- ah, he was taller than R remembered. Or perhaps he just suddenly felt small and insignificant beneath the righteous expression. ]

You're in a lot of danger. I wanted to advise that you be careful. [ He clears his throat as he takes a breath to continue. The voice is hoarser than usual, from disuse and the unexpected level of concern it carries. ]

I would recommend leaving Paris - or at the very least to stay hidden for a while.

[ Enjolras' jaw clicks into place at the "suggestion", eyes narrowing. He keeps his hand splayed behind him, reminding his companions to hold back; he's in no need of protection at their expense. ]

Is that meant to be a threat? If it is, you're wasting your breath, I've heard it all before. I'm not getting pushed out of this city because people who could've changed things a long time ago are getting uncomfortable with being called out on it.

[ A single snicker in reply- and then R laughs, unexpectedly. The ferocity and even more so, the arrogance has him paralyzed for a long second in mirth. He grins and shakes his head, raising his eyebrows and trying to pull his disbelief back in to have a semblance of gravity. ]

A threat? Monsieur. I don't think-

[ There's a very quick eye movement while he reconsiders the admission he was about to make. Air quotes accompany to emphasize the next bit. ]

The only threat is that someone is trying to have you killed, and that's not me "threatening" you. No one is "threatening" anything; this isn't blackmail, or coercion, or a joke.

Right.

[ Unsurprisingly, Enjolras is unswayed by the man's warning or his air-quotes (though, that didn't exactly help sell it.) He crosses his arms with a slightly disdainful tilt of the chin as he sizes the brunette up and clearly isn't all that impressed with what he sees. ]

Well, you can pass on to whoever is "trying to have me killed" that I'd certainly like to see them try; in the meantime, their threats won't cause me to change course.

[ R looks at him in complete disbelief. The amusement is gone, and replaced by a furious, half-open mouth fighting to find the right words. ]

You arrogant bastard.

[ That'll do. He huffs and helplessly raises his hands, narrowing his eyes at the other man and causing the two behind him to step toward him. ]

Do you want to be killed? Do you think that will help sell your point? It's not like it's the army or big brother are going to shoot you down, guns blazing, leaving you for an example. You're not going to die a martyr. You'll be shot by a random mercenary, or poisoned by a passerby; don't be fucking daft. The most you'll get is conspiracy theories about who arranged it.

[ Oh okay, so this man is just outright deranged. Enjolras takes a step back out of reflex (he's not scared, he doesn't do scared thank you very much) and feels Courfeyrac braces his back. He doesn't dare tear his eyes from the irate shorter man but he can only imagine his and Combeferre's faces; they're perfectly used to the belligerent, and even the dangerously irate, who think Enjolras somehow represents the problem rather than just being the voice of those social ills. Not always being the best of friends with law enforcement, they've learned to deal with in their way, but the back alley is narrower than what would be ideal, and not many of their group were tracking the exact route.

Combeferre, the voice of reason, tries to nudges Enjolras back wordlessly behind them again, trying to get a barrier between their orator and this stranger warning of violence. Unfortunately for Combeferre, he is friends with what is quite possibly the most stubborn, hot-headed idiot in Paris. ]

Look, I don't know who you think you are but if you think I'm going to be scared off by your ridiculous intimidation efforts, you're absolutely insane. Do you know how many death threats I get on a weekly basis? I'm not going to stop fighting just because some asshole wants to hurt me. I don't give a shit about martyrdom or whatever you're going on about, I'm just after what's right.

[ With that, he finally acquiesces to Combeferre's urgent tugs, brazenly turning his back to the stranger. ]

Please.

[ R doesn't make to follow him, but raises his voice and winces immediately. Who knows what's listening or watching to ensure delivery- He snorts from his nostrils takes urgent strides to tail them, grabbing Enjolras' arm. ]

I'm not scaring you, but I should be. I don't care that you're important; I don't care what's right, or how many people "want" to kill you. [ A deep shaking breath and Grantaire lowers his voice again and squeezes his arm tighter and grits his teeth. ]

I was sent to kill you, you pompous, self-important piece of shit. And I'm here by choice, not because I couldn't have done it.

[ The look Enjolras gives him is a comical mix between outrage and confusion. ]

...You're insane. You're literally insane. Who even says that?

[ Combeferre and Courfeyrac, on the other hand, have far less difficulty processing what the stranger has owned to. Combeferre's insistent tug is far less gentle now, practically yanking Enjolras behind him with a short surprised, yelp from the man in question; Courfeyrac busies himself with snapping a photo of the man both as a precaution for any potential police report and for circulation amongst their group.

"I think we're done here." Combeferre says curtly, not wanting to rile the man up any further (or Enjolras for that matter, who stills looks ready to punch the nose of the tiger who's threatened to eat him.) ]

» ᴘᴜᴛ ʏᴏᴜr ʜᴀɴᴅs iɴ ᴛʜᴇ ᴀir, ᴀɴᴅ ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ sᴏᴜɴᴅ

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shhhh side-stepping the actual speech language because i'm lazy shhhh

it’s an art we perfect for the sake of the men

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