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The secret entrance to the subterranean labyrinth of the carrières de Paris – the vast network of ancient mining tunnels that sprawled beneath the city's streets – was located in the cellar of a small, nondescript café. During the day, one could make an appointment to visit a carefully maintained stretch; to rub shoulders with other French and foreign tourists and take morbid pleasure in the sight of the bones of millions of citizens: each an individual in life, now intermingled in an architectural mass of human remains, the divides that once separated them long forgotten as they were combined by later hands in a vast, collective ossuary; the femur of an aristocrat beneath the skull of a rag picker.
Enjolras, desiring an experience of a more personal nature, had sought and found – through the slight misuse of a political contact, one he suspected of aspiring to be more than such – an alternative means of entry. It was not illegal to wander the paths below, though some of the activities that took place in their secret, forgotten spaces were, but it was perilous, so Enjolras had timed his opportunity with care. He had dressed in his plainest, least identifiable clothing, and set out at an hour that would see most turning in for the night. He removed his hat and donned his mask – a simple, impassive face of white papier-mâché – one street short of his destination, as requested in the invitation.
The café was empty, save for a woman sweeping beneath the tables, who looked up as he entered.
"I'm afraid we are closed for the night, Monsieur," she said.
"I have an appointment with my ancestors." Enjolras's voice, muffled as it was behind his mask, sounded foreign to his own ears. He reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the signed invitation that had summoned him. The woman inspected it carefully, and nodded.
"Downstairs, Monsieur." She gestured him through to the kitchen, to a hatch that would lead him below.
Enjolras thanked her, and descended. The cellar was well lit, a second hatch lay open in one corner, a ladder rising out of it, and a man in a harlequin's mask, the top half of his face obscured, sat beside it.
"Welcome," he said, the corner of his mouth curving into a half-smile. "Do you require illumination?"
"I require direction, if it is available," Enjolras replied.
"That may be found below, but you will need light to reach it." The man gestured to a wooden crate beside him, Enjolras saw candles inside and realised his mistake.
"I misunderstood." He reached into his coat and extracted a tiny oil burner, bought for the purpose of reading in bed. He extracted a sealed vial of oil from a different pocket, and combined them. The man offered to light it for him, and he accepted.
"If it is a guide you require, seek Dionysus," the harlequin advised.
"Thank you." Enjolras, assuming the cryptic advice would become clear in time, began a careful descent, the lamp held delicately in one hand and the ladder grasped in the other. Reaching the bottom, he was glad for the reminder of illumination, for he found himself in a low, lightless corridor, its walls composed of many large, rough hewn bricks of a porous, sand-coloured stone. There was only one route along which he could proceed, from which washed the high, carrying notes of distant music. He followed it as its decline led him deeper still. The air held the cool chill of a mild winter, and the loose stone that scattered beneath his footsteps echoed behind him. As he drew closer, the mournful sound of strings gained the accompaniment of many voices: snippets of laughter and crossed conversations.
The voices led him to a moderately sized underground chamber, the limestone walls rising to a roughly-hewn, domed ceiling above, supported by pillars where the stone had been strategically left untouched. Beneath it was an eclectic assembly of masked strangers, some conversing in groups, some coupled, some dancing, solemnly and erratically, to the music of the string quartet in the corner. At the centre of the room stood a table that matched those of the café, heaving beneath the weight of dozens of mismatched lanterns, of varying size and expense. The effect was like that of a small sun, burning in their midst and casting long shadows against the walls and upwards, to meet the darkness above.
Enjolras surveyed the crowd: all were masked, some in small, half-masks like the harlequin's, simple in design but varied in colour, others in elaborate Venetian carnival styles; masks shaped like animal faces, or masks that resembled those worn by the players in the amphitheatres of ancient Greece. Many were accented with gold or silver, glinting in the light as they spoke, gestured or laughed. A little more than half appeared masculine, but Enjolras was surprised at the number that did not, though many were costumed in garb that did not fit the current fashions of their figures. Taking in the whole of the scene before him, he spotted in a different corner a pyramid of wooden barrels, stacked against the wall, and a table of pitchers, tankards and glasses beside it. It was as good a place as any to begin his search for the god of wine.
He scanned the chosen faces of the crowd as he passed through it, until one caught his eye: the mask of a laughing man, Greek in style, with a short beard and grapes in his hair, its features exaggerated to inhuman, grotesque proportions. He approached. Its wearer was speaking with a small figure, feminine in silhouette, but wearing masculine clothing, whose mask depicted not one face, but two.
"Dionysus, I presume?" Enjolras asked.
"You presume correctly," Dionysus paused in his conversation to reply, his tone amused.
"I am looking for someone who knows the lay of the catacombs well, I was advised to seek you," Enjolras said. Dionysus's companion patted him on the arm, and excused themself.
"I know them, as well as anyone present, to what end would you have me lead you?" The man exaggerated the motion of taking him in, from head to toe, sizing him up.
"I wish to view the ossuaries, a specific part of them, if it may be found."
"That is an unusual request –" the man laughed in response, "– for what purpose, may I ask?"
Enjolras considered his answer with care. He thought better of speaking openly of his politics in such an unfamiliar environment, to a complete stranger, but he would need to be specific if he wished to achieve his aim. "I wish to view the resting place of some that died during the July of 1794, it is of… personal interest." A detestable admission, the self-indulgence of it sitting uncomfortably alongside his beliefs, but Combeferre had made a theme of gently encouraging him to allow himself a little slack, and he had finally acquiesced. He did not think this was what Combeferre had in mind, however.
"July of 1794?" Dionysus laughed again. "Do you wish to look upon the bones of Robespierre and Saint-Just? Are you an admirer of their deeds, or of their end? If you are a relative of one of the guillotine's nobler casualties, I'm afraid you are a little late to the bal des victimes – though, I see no red ribbon at your throat."
Enjolras was surprised the stranger had made the connection, but saw no gain in denying it, instead he asked: "Which would you rather I be?"
"I hold no allegiance to either philosophy." Dionysus gestured his dismissal.
"But you are able to locate what I seek?"
"I am."
"Then will you take me?"
"For a price."
"What price would you ask?" Enjolras knew a little of what some sought in the streets below the city. "I did not come here with the intent to engage in acts of a… carnal nature."
"I did not assume you had. I am not averse to that form of payment, but I would not request it. For now, I would have the pleasure of your company, then when we have a better measure of each other we may negotiate it. I will not demand anything of you that you would not give willingly."
Enjolras considered the bargain. His impression of the man was that he seemed agreeable enough: his speech was veiled in amusement and gaiety, but his words were reassuring. He was slightly shorter than Enjolras, though well built, but Enjolras had a knife in his boot if his motives turned out to be dishonourable.
"I accept your terms."
"Follow me." The man put down his glass, and led him towards the table in the centre, from which he retrieved a lamp, of the kind used by miners, one that held more oil and would burn longer and brighter than those designed for less demanding pursuits. "Extinguish yours for now, if you wish to save its use for later." Enjolras did so, and followed him towards a different tunnel to the one from which he had entered.
"What should I call you?" Dionysus asked as they drew away from the crowd.
Enjolras, not having attended with the intention of forming a social connection, had not considered the need for a pseudonym. He tried to think of one that would not give away too much of what he stood for, but clutched at nothingness. "I did not think of one, I'm afraid this aspect of society is new to me."
"That much is obvious I'm afraid. The uninitiated among us are always clear, though in your case it is egregiously so. The plain clothes, the unadorned mask." Dionysus gestured to Enjolras's clothing, then to his own in contrast. Enjolras noticed that his was simple in cut, but fine in cloth, his waistcoat of pale green silk brocade and his cravat the deep purple of red grapes on the vine. "Rare is the man that, when handed the opportunity to be anyone, would choose to be no one." Enjolras found it difficult to discern the intent behind his words with no knowledge of his features, but his tone suggested an attempt at kindness. "You are right to keep your true name to yourself, it adds to the atmosphere, and keeps the gendarmes at arm's length. Shall I name you? Are you Orpheus, seeking his lost love in the underworld? Theseus, seeking a monster in the Labyrinth?"
"There are gendarmes present?"
"Occasionally one manages to secrete themselves into our company, in hope that they might find evidence of some transgression and put an end to our fun – or sniff out some political agitators within our midst – but they are usually poor at blending in, in a different manner to yourself: they don costumes that do not fit them, you adopt a blank canvas as yours."
"Orpheus will suffice," Enjolras replied, in dismissal.
They traversed in silence for a while. The air grew colder as they moved further from the radiant heat of converged bodies and burning lanterns. The tunnels proved to be a maze of long, identical corridors that stretched without visible end in multiple directions, the only points of navigation the rare occasions where someone, perhaps their architects, perhaps their explorers, had written in charcoal or carved with hammer and chisel the names of the streets above. Enjolras was glad of his guide's presence: he would be hopelessly lost had he attempted the journey alone. Enjolras considered dispensing with the charade of anonymity altogether and tossing the mask aside, to at least regain the use of his peripheral vision, to ease the feeling of oppressive containment, but thought better of it. His request could be incriminating, to the right ears, and he knew not to whom he had made it.
"You know, most first time revellers delight in hearing tales of the macabre; of satanic rituals and human sacrifices, or of lost souls expiring alone in the darkness, to wander the depths evermore, luring the living to join them in their fate –" Dionysus began, "– if you hear a voice whispering your name, or calling for help, do not follow it; roman gothique cautionary tales of that nature. Should I tell you of Philibert Aspairt, the unfortunate hospital gatekeeper who heard rumours of a secret store of liquor, and set forth with his candle to find it? The legend states that he was found eleven years later, a bottle in hand, yet death became his only prize. Or are you the type to prefer tales of a sordid nature, in the manner of de Sade's works, of orgies and sodomy –"
Enjolras, despite his gratitude, found himself wondering if a little patience might have brought him a more agreeable guide, one less talkative and less uncouth.
"– Save your patter for the tourists," he interjected, his tone clipped, a muffled scoff of mirth the only response.
The tunnels grew narrower the deeper they travelled, and the ceilings lower, until there was no longer room for them to stand side by side, and Enjolras was forced to follow the blaze of light ahead of him, his posture crouched. When they reached the next tee-shaped junction, the stranger paused and said: "I hope you do not mind getting your boots wet."
"I do not."
The reason for the question soon became apparent, for the ground of the next corridor was submerged in ice cold water, milky with sediment from the soft stone. The mud beneath shifted as he waded through it, forcing him to fight for his footing and brace his hands against the pitted walls as he followed Dionysus's hunched form; the bob of the lantern as his guide picked his way through the treacherous water.
"Be careful when we reach the other side, there is an open well to the left that you do not wish to fall down," he advised.
"Do you offer your services as a guide to anyone, or only those whose paths court danger?" Enjolras asked, and stumbled as his right foot met a patch of stone that crumbled beneath it, causing water to slosh in over the top of his boot.
"Anyone who manages to arouse my curiosity, your request did such."
"What do people usually ask of you?"
"That depends. Some do seek the thrill of the unknown, and the risks associated with it. Others seek induction into our little night-time civilisation. Some seek pleasure of a more decadent variety, to which I can introduce them, or provide, on occasion."
"And what do you seek?"
His guide paused for a moment, before answering: "I have not heard that question since I first donned this face."
The tunnels remained intermittently flooded for a while, but the complaint of the muscles in Enjolras's legs suggested that they were starting to travel at an incline. Enjolras could not see the path ahead, but his theory soon proved itself correct, as the flood grew shallower and, finally, Enjolras's next step met solid, dry land again.
"It is not far now," his guide reassured, and, sure enough, Enjolras began to see the odd fragment of human remains: scattered signs of the anonymous mass of humanity's past that awaited them littering their path. The signs grew more frequent, and Enjolras winced the first time his foot pressed down on something hollow that creaked and snapped beneath his feet, a different resonance to that of ground stone. "Take care if you touch them, some can be sharp," Dionysus warned.
At the next junction, Dionysus waited for him, turning to face him and lowering the lantern. When Enjolras reached him, he directed the beam down the corridor to Enjolras's right, and Enjolras's gaze became one of horror as he saw what it touched. The corridor was piled high with human bones, old bones, brown and broken, so high that there was not enough room to stand over them; to pass, one would have to crawl.
"It leads where we seek to go?" he asked, moderating his tone to one of rational practicality.
"It does." His guide matched it. Enjolras swallowed thickly and took several steps towards it.
"How far until there is room enough to stand?"
"Thirty feet, perhaps."
"How did they come to lie here?" Their number was beyond calculation. Most were large: femurs, hip bones, bones of the lower leg, the occasional fragment of a cranium.
"When they first began to empty the cemeteries they brought the remains by cart to the old mine shafts, and poured them down. The stronger bones survived the process," Dionysus replied, his tone dark. Enjolras felt a thrill of revulsion.
"Very well." He gathered his resolve. "We have come thus far, I would not turn back when our aim is still within reach," he decreed, and waited for his guide to light the way.
A pause. Then, his guide began to laugh, loud and uproarious; a laugh that befitted the broad, mocking grin that his mask gave him.
"Now I have the measure of the man! There are many who would baulk at the prospect, would suddenly find the adventure has lost its appeal! I commend your fortitude. Your stony countenance fits, after all." His guide placed the lantern on the ground, and turned, revealing a large, rectangular stone behind him, an eroded Latin inscription upon it. "Help me move this, it hides another path."
Enjolras frowned behind his mask at the deception, but obliged. Together, they pushed the stone aside, revealing a hole in the wall at waist height. The air that flowed forth was a little fresher, as though it led upwards, to the ossuaries that still saw more frequent passage. The opening was small and the walls several feet thick, creating a crevice barely large enough for a grown man to worm his way though. His guide gestured to the lantern:
"Would you position it for me, while I pass?" Enjolras assented, picking it up and adjusting the focus to a narrow beam, directing it towards the opening, letting darkness encroach on their current position. Dionysus clambered, head first, into the opening, and navigated it with a careful, surprisingly dignified crawl.
When he reached the other side, Enjolras saw the laughing face appear again at the opening, accompanied by an extended hand.
"Pass me the lantern, if you would." Enjolras did so, and began his own, far less dignified traversal, his longer limbs a hindrance in such a tight space. When his arms and head had reached the other side, Dionysus offered his hand in aid. Enjolras grasped his forearm and Dionysus closed his fingers around Enjolras's own: a point of leverage that eased the rest of his passage. He let go of it when his boots met the ground, and straightened up. The ceiling of the new corridor was high enough for him to stand at full height, and Enjolras rolled his shoulders and allowed his spine to stretch in relief.
Dionysus widened the beam of the lantern again, and Enjolras saw that they were at last in the ossuaries proper, for the walls ahead were no longer made of stone, but of human remains: loose bones stacked high from floor to ceiling, divided only by the stone supports, some arranged with care in artistic patterns or geometric shapes, others piled in a more haphazard manner, additional piles of remains littering the floor before them where their re-internment had not been fully completed.
"It is only a little further," Dionysus said, and led him onwards. As Enjolras looked closer at the arrangements as he passed, he noticed some of the remains were marked by plaques, some of large, ornately carved stone, others as simple as painted wood. The plaques provided varying depths of information: names of the lost cemeteries in which their charges had originally been buried; the dates between which the cemeteries had existed, and the dates of their exhumation and relocation to the catacombs, some in the Gregorian fashion and others in the form of the calendrier républicain. His guide halted at one of the less artistically arranged piles.
"We have arrived," he declared, gesturing upwards to a small line of text, written in charcoal at the top of a pale stone pillar:
Cimetière des Errancis, 1793-1795. Victimes de la Terreur guillotinées.
"I believe your men lie here." His guide directed the light towards the anonymous, featureless mass. Enjolras surveyed it.
Here was Saint-Just, here were Robespiere; Demoulins; Danton, and at least a thousand others. Somewhere amidst the osseous assemblage lay the earthly fragments of the Conventions greatest minds, and some of its weakest. It would be an impossible task to determine one from the other. Enjolras supposed he should have anticipated it. Briefly lost in contemplation, he ran his hand along the centre of the wall as he passed from one end to the other, removing it to find it covered in a fine layer of dust.
"I cannot tell if I have led you to disappointment or not," Dionysus, momentarily forgotten, chuckled.
"I have not decided for myself," Enjolras admitted.
"I have a friend who greatly admires their cause, no doubt he would feel it dishonours their legacy, to know that their remains lie in such an undignified state."
"Perhaps he would find it fitting, equality in death equivalent to equality before the law..."
"Perhaps," Dionysus replied, his tone thoughtful. Enjolras filled the knowledge away in his mind, to be dissected and philosophised upon later, when he was truly alone.
"Either way, you have upheld your end of our bargain," he turned his attention back to his companion, "have you decided what you desire as payment?"
Dionysus paused in thought, before answering: "You make an intriguing partner in conversation, when you are not lost inside that fair head of yours. If it suits, we could return to the party, obtain wine and speak a while longer?"
Enjolras considered, and concluded: "I have nowhere else to be."
They journeyed back the way they had come, replacing the stone that sealed their hidden aperture on their way out, their pace quicker this time; his guide satisfied that he remembered the location of the loose footholds and hidden patches of soft earth that had hampered their progress before.
The crowd had thinned a little in their absence, but the wine still flowed, and the quartet lingered, resting before their next performance. Enjolras had lost all track of time in the dark, winding tunnels, far from the sky and its stars, or sun.
Dionysus filled a pitcher of wine from the barrels, and Enjolras acquired two tankards, all other vessels claimed before them. His guide led him along a third path, this one lit with candles arranged in alcoves in its walls or at their feet, evenly spaced so as to wash the route in low, warm light. The path branched at many points, and Enjolras could hear voices from some of them, and from a handful the private sounds of pleasure. When they reached the point at which the voices were silenced, his guide took a left turn, down a narrow, unlit fork, bringing them at last to a small, rounded alcove.
Stone benches lined the walls, assembled from loose bricks between the vaults that supported the domed ceiling. At its centre was a round plinth, with a metal hook hung above it, to which his guide attached the lantern. He placed the pitcher down atop the plinth, and Enjolras followed his example, depositing the tankards he carried alongside it. His guide gestured for him to select a seat. When Enjolras had done so, he adjusted the light so that the chamber was bathed in a soft yellow glow, and began to pour their drinks. The effect of their surroundings was intimate, not exactly comfortable, but with the pleasant weight of time to its imperfection. One could easily imagine that they were two out of hundreds that had passed through the warren beneath the earth, in the centuries since the first human hands to touch it had hollowed out its stone to build the city above. Enjolras noted evidence of them in the names and initials scratched into the walls; declarations of presence, or of bonds, loves and friendships long forgotten.
Dionysus turned to him, handing him a full tankard and a small length of thin, hollowed out cane.
"So we may drink without removing our masks," he explained.
"Just so." Enjolras appreciated the foresight. His guide sat beside him. Between the brick pillars that supported the ceiling, there was room enough for them to sit a small distance apart, but not far enough that Enjolras could not feel the warmth radiating from his companions skin, in contrast to the cold stone at his other side. Dionysus set his own drink between them, and stooped to remove his boots, stretching forward to place them on the plinth beneath the lantern to dry them out. Enjolras did the same, the stone unpleasantly cold beneath his stockinged feet, but less so than having them damp for the rest of the night.
"So, indulge me, if you would," Dionysus began, having settled into a casual sprawl, "I would not pry into the motives behind the errand that brought you here, but I am curious to know if you would consider it accomplished?"
Enjolras considered: "I suppose it was." In truth, he was not yet sure what had driven him hence, or what to make of the result. Morbid curiosity, perhaps? Tangible proof of the legacy, the unfinished work, to which he sought to devote himself, and the consequences of doing so? To know that when he died, it would be in good company? Enjolras did not know if his parents would still lay claim to his own body, once it had served its purpose, where his bones would one day lie –
"That is not the tone of one who is pleased by the outcome," a soft statement that disrupted his thoughts.
"It was never a happy errand." He sighed out a small laugh.
"So, you came seeking misery?" Dionysus had turned to him, had extended a hand to place it on his shoulder. Enjolras hadn't noticed. "That is the opposite of most. Are you at least glad you found it?"
"In time, perhaps." He straightened up, and Dionysus withdrew. "How did you know where to find what I sought?"
"There are others that know the tunnels better than I," Dionysus's tone brightened, back on firmer ground, "some that spend half their lives down here; I was their humble pupil, once."
"But how did you guess my purpose from the date alone? You are well informed for one who professes no political allegiance."
"There is a plaque above ground where the original cemetery stood, I have noted it in passing, and several groups that meet here whisper their names in reverence. It is a simple matter of connection, if one knows where to start."
"Would you consider yourself a member?"
"Now you are sounding like a gendarme!" he laughed. "It is dangerous to speak of politics to strangers in these times, as you are intelligent enough to know. Let us turn to more sublunary affairs."
Enjolras hummed his agreement, though he found the man did not feel like a stranger anymore. Perhaps it was the intensity of the experience, the trust he was forced to place in him?
"You asked me what I sought here?" His guide's posture became even more casual, as he took in another mouthful of wine. "Do you still wish to know the answer?"
"I do." Enjolras raised his own tankard, threading the piece of cane through the opening of his mask, taking in a hearty mouthful.
"Authenticity." Dionysus took another sip, let the word hang in the air before continuing. "In the streets, all life is a performance, a capitulation to the notion of what we feel we should be, rather than what we are. True liberty is as simple as ceasing to pretend. Away from the light of scrutiny, without their public lives hanging like a yoke about their neck, people become their truest selves."
"– A state of nature." Enjolras paused in the middle of his own sip to smirk. "You misquote Rousseau. It is private property that began our undoing in his eyes."
"Says the man who hides himself even in the dark."
"I am always myself – or, rather, the public supersedes the private."
"Spoken like a true Republican," Dionysus laughed, taking the pitcher in hand and re-filling his tankard.
"I thought we were not to speak of politics," Enjolras replied, coyly, his brow arched beneath his mask. Their fingers brushed as the pitcher was passed.
"You are right."
Their conversation descended into idle talk, to tales of Dionysus's own induction and clumsy first steps below the earth, and of sights he had witnessed since: "– Once, we found a throne constructed out of the remains, an intact skeleton sat upon it, bearing a plaque that read 'here is a king who could not lift his own fork; he died of hunger' –" Enjolras felt warmed by the wine and pleasant company. As they spoke, Enjolras found they had shifted closer, their shoulders now pressed together, and he could not help but feel drawn to the stranger, relieved as he was of more pressing concerns, with faint music drifting gently in at intervals to fill their quieter moments. In time, both removed their coats and loosened their cravats, warmed by their proximity to each other.
"What of your price?" Enjolras asked, when they had emptied their tankards a third time; his guide stilled in surprise.
"Forgive me," he set his drink aside, "I have not made myself clear, it is this: companionship."
"That seems poor remittance for the trouble I put you to." Enjolras frowned, and put down his own tankard.
"It was no trouble at all –" another wave of dismissal, clearly a motion that came easily to him "– though, if you believe you have an offer more suitable, I would be curious to hear it?"
"I did not come here seeking the same pleasures as you..." Enjolras began, unsure of the exact nature of what he wished to articulate. Desire of a sexual nature was an elusive and fickle creature to Enjolras; one that held no place in his politics and served no purpose towards his goal, therefore the simple choice was to ignore it, on the infrequent occasions it surfaced. But surface it had, in the dull embrace of the earth, with wine in his belly and a firm, willing body pressed to his side, spinning tales of adventure, seduction and the sublime. "I have limited experience of it…."
Dionysus watched him with intent as he spoke, eyes bright in the shadow of his mask – Enjolras noted that they were blue – until his speech trailed off, then, in a low tone, he asked: "Do you wish me to lead you down a different path?"
"Perhaps… though I am almost as much a novice there as I am down here," Enjolras answered, honestly.
"Our bodies know the steps to that ancient dance, if we would but permit ourselves to follow them."
Enjolras weighed the indulgence against its consequences, and deemed them insignificant: in this parallel microcosm of society, it felt admissible to allow that aspect of human nature to exist alongside them. He gave his answer: "You have not led me astray thus far."
"Then come," came gentle reply. Dionysus shifted his position and took Enjolras by the arm, guiding him to sit atop his thighs, his chest pressed to Enjolras's back. He wound one arm around Enjolras's waist, his fingertips light against Enjolras's stomach, and with the other loosened his own collar further. Enjolras followed his example and undid the buttons of his waistcoat, then, after a brief moment of hesitation, the fall of his trousers. His guide hooked his chin over Enjolras's shoulder, the clay of his mask hard against Enjolras's ear, in contrast to the warm, light breath that made his skin thrill where it caressed. His voice both distant and achingly close, he asked: "Where do you wish to go?"
Enjolras, in lieu of words, caught the hand that was not at his waist in his own, and brought it low, eliciting a pleased hum in response. With the same sureness he had possessed in forging their earlier route, his strong, capable fingers sought and found flesh, already stirring. Enjolras heard himself gasp softly as he was taken in hand, and the hand began to work skilfully; slow at first, teasing of the exploration that might follow.
The slight yield of the body beneath him – its radiant heat – was welcome contrast to the sensations of the hours recently passed, in which the world had been made only of hard stone, chill air and cold water. Enjolras allowed himself to melt into it; allowed his own head to tilt back, until it rested on his companions shoulder, his breath growing heavy and his limbs growing weak and lazy, as his focus narrowed to the pool of heat in his lower abdomen, and the hand that poured fire into it like a tributary. After a time, his guide began to make use of his hips also: subtle at first, the buttons of his waistcoat the only hard points in their embrace, until they were joined by another, and Enjolras's own flesh sought to yield to it, his own hips shifting in return; tilting, seeking a different angle, his back arching to allow it.
"Have you ever taken another inside you?" A low murmur at his ear that courted something primal and needy within Enjolras.
"No," he breathed.
"Do you wish to?" A question accompanied by a pointed roll of the hips that gave form to another gasp, one that morphed into a –
"– Yes."
"Let me up a moment." His guide withdrew his hand, to Enjolras's distress, and urged him to rise with a press to the outside of his thigh. Enjolras managed to rally his legs to cooperate, and stood, removing his waistcoat as he did so. His guide stood as well, and reached for the lantern in the middle of the chamber, placing it instead on the floor beside them and dimming it until Enjolras could see only shapes; vague outlines that suggested at presence: "To preserve our privacy, should our masks slip."
A rustle of cloth, a hand on his hip, and Enjolras found himself encouraged back on to the stone bench, on his hands and knees, something soft – the wool of a coat – beneath them, then the remaining closures at the waist of his trousers were parted, the fabric drawn away; his Sybaritic skin briefly exposed to the chill, before warmth enveloped his cock once more, stroking idly; enough to maintain the pleasant tug of desire that suffused him – made him feel momentarily complacent and compliant – but not push him further toward desperation yet. With his other hand, his guide conducted a slow mapping of the skin at Enjolras's stomach; over his hip bones; down the outside of his thighs and up again; the curve of his posterior and, finally, a new sensation, as his guide withdrew his fingertips and returned them elsewhere moments later. Enjolras felt his guide's index finger, coated in warm, viscous fluid, stroking questioningly, seeking permission to enter. Enjolras spread his thighs further, and yielded to it.
In time, he yielded again – reduced by the combined sensations to a writhing, panting, single-minded creature – to the weight of his guide's own need; silky, slick with oil, warm and urgent to take what was offered, as Enjolras pressed his own hips back to meet it. Enjolras's grasp of the present was reduced to maddening friction, as his guide searched for his own release; Enjolras's own hot breath condensing on the inside of his mask, beads of moisture collecting on the damp paper; the solid surface beneath him, harsh on the knees despite the considerate attempt at saving them, and their combined utterances of tortuous pleasure.
His guide's release came as a surprise to Enjolras: a sudden quiescence, where earlier their motions had grown frantic without either becoming aware of it; the intimate pulse as his guide's pleasure ran its course; a muffled invocation behind his mask that sounded like 'Apollo…'
When he withdrew, Enjolras sat back on his heels and his guide wrapped one arm over his shoulder, pulling him into his chest; the soft press of lips against the crown of his head, his ear, and down the side of his neck, while his guide caught his breath again.
"Yours is an unusual choice of deity to beseech in such a moment," Enjolras broke the silence that surrounded them.
"Your pardon." His guide sounded sheepish, apologetic even. "A moment of weakness on my behalf. You are fine company, and better suited to libertine pursuits than you care to admit, but my heart has attached itself to another... one that would rather it hadn't, I think."
"I am sorry." The platitude was sincere. Despite his initial distaste, Enjolras had formed a grudging respect for the man in the macabre warren of the ossuaries and, later, somewhere between their second tankard of wine and the present, something resembling the fondness he felt towards his brothers in the Société.
Enjolras broke the loose embrace to turn and face him – an impetuous compulsion. His eyes had adjusted enough to the darkness that he could tell that his guide had tipped his mask back a little, so his eyes now looked out through the face's wide, mocking mouth, but his features were still shrouded in shadow.
"Such are fate's cruel whims," he replied, then brought his hands up to press against Enjolras's shoulders instead. "Here, let me reciprocate, lie back." Enjolras did so, reclining as far as the small space allowed, and his guide lowered himself to his own knees, his hands at Enjolras's hips, taking Enjolras into his mouth and seeking with rapturous attention to draw his own release from him.
As Enjolras looked down at the top of his dark head, he was reminded of another face: one with similar dark hair and a wide, mocking smile of his own. Enjolras pushed the notion aside. As the stranger's skilled tongue brought with it another onslaught of sensation, Enjolras's hips found their own rhythm to meet it, his fingers threading themselves through soft, dark curls for leverage, and his guide allowed him to discover his own pleasure for the taking, accepting it greedily when he found it.
When Enjolras's breathing had calmed and his pulse had recovered its usual, steady pace – his guide resting his cheek against the inside of his thigh, lazily caressing its outside with the fingertips of one hand, giving Enjolras a moment of private respite – Dionysus fixed his mask and replaced the lantern, filling the room with dim, yellow light again. They found within themselves enough energy to fix their clothing and pour the last of the wine into their tankards, and settled into a mutual sprawl, their bodies apart but feet entangled.
"Now I have lost you to your thoughts again." His guide was the one to break the silence this time.
"I was thinking perhaps now I am twice in your debt," Enjolras replied, feeling himself smirk.
His guide laughed: "Not at all, I should say that earned you considerable credit on your account, should you have need of further favours."
"There is one."
"Name it."
"No doubt you have guessed my political affiliations by now, I have hidden them poorly." That earned him another soft, affectionate laugh. "If you were to introduce me to those in your midst that share them –" His guide shook his head, cutting him off.
"Those are not my introductions to make. I wish I could, but just as your societies above have their own codes of honour, ours has another. It is a great infraction to betray knowledge of one's surface life to an outsider." His tone was apologetic, but firm. Enjolras could not find it within himself to feel disappointed. "Besides, should you return, you are sure to find what you seek for yourself, eventually."
"I am not sure that I will… I am ill-suited to it."
"Not as ill-suited as you believe."
They fell back into casual conversation, eventually morphing into contented silence, as Enjolras's internal rhythm told him it must be past dawn outside. At last, Dionysus broke their repose:
"We should ascend, before the whole city wakes and the streets become too full for us to slip away unremarked upon."
Enjolras yawned in agreement, his body slow to respond. They donned their boots and their coats, and returned the paraphernalia of their drinks to the central chamber, now clear of bodies but not yet disassembled. Enjolras lit his lamp again and made to exit by the way he had come, but Dionysus caught his arm to belay him: "We should exit by a different path now."
He led him another route, until they stood again at a junction: "At the end of that corridor is another ladder, it will bring you to the lip of a well, in a semi-private garden. I doubt it will be occupied at this hour," his guide said. "Remove your mask before you ascend, I will wait here a while then follow, once you have had time to depart."
Enjolras wanted to ask him to ascend with him, but he had learned enough to know the answer he would receive, instead he nodded, and thanked him, with a firm handshake and a half-embrace.
As Enjolras turned the corner, finding himself alone with his small oil burner to guide him towards daylight, he was struck by an urge to turn back, to glance behind, or lie in wait to find out his companions true identity. Then the name his guide had given him came back to him, and he was reminded of another; one who had journeyed underground, had succumbed to the temptation to look upon the face of his lover, and in doing so, doomed them both. It was best not to dwell on it; he had a task to accomplish.
His ascent found him blinking in the harsh sunlight, in a small, enclosed courtyard. As he brushed the dust off his clothes, his mask gone and his hat back in its place, he met the gaze of an old man who gave him a curious look, then tipped his own hat, as though men clambering out of wells was nothing out of the ordinary to him. Enjolras returned his greeting, then departed, disappearing into the anonymity of the massed citizenry of Paris, a different, impersonal kind, to the one he had left behind.