Oh my god.
Enjolras has the entire collection in his parents’ house, though. He didn’t bring them to college because he didn’t have room, but he rereads a couple every time he goes back home.
They’re his guilty pleasure,
He can name every single character and he finds the punny names absolutely hilarious.
He definitely thinks he’s more of an Asterix, and Grantaire teases him by comparing him to Tragicomix.
He hates milk, always have, and to make him drink when he was a kid his mother used to call it ‘potion magique’. Very few people know – that’s dangerous blackmail material, right there.
When everything is about to go down (is it a protest that goes violent? a speech that will be heard around the world? the choice made to trade the grand and world-shaking for the hard, thankless, daily work that will bring about sustainable change?), Enjolras is sometimes overwhelmed by it all and has to stop and close his eyes for a moment, his lips moving soundlessly.
“What was that?” Feuilly asks him.
“Ah–nothing.” He won’t admit that he was whispering to himself, nous n’avons peur qu’une chose–que le ciel nous tombe sur la tête.
Because it’s silly, isn’t it? To take courage from comic books, to buoy himself up with the spirit of a feisty little French man who fictionally defended the last little corner of his country two thousand years ago. It’s silly that thinking about those fantasy stories should make him feel better in the face of real-life challenges … isn’t it?