#bahorel would kick people

[autumnalmess]

Rip Les Amis de l'ABC you would've loved playing twister.

Not elaborating.

Just kidding ⤵️

[dolphin1812]

They’re here at last!!!

I love all of Les Amis, but their introductory paragraphs have also been pretty thoroughly analyzed - @everyonewasabird and @fremedon have pretty comprehensive posts on them from previous Brickclubs. Rather than go through them individually, then, I’ll try to point out some general trends that would be relevant to Marius (given that we meet them as soon as he’s kicked out of his house, we can assume there’s a connection):

The first major issue is the legacy of the French Revolution (1789) and the Terror (1793). All of the characters we meet here (with the exception of Grantaire) are attached to the legacy of the former, but they’re divided over the latter. Enjolras, for instance, is compared to Saint-Just – a more radical figure from that time period – and with his “warlike nature” and link to the “revolutionary apocalypse,” he’s definitely more in the tradition of ‘93 than ‘89, even if he’s attached to both. Combeferre, on the other hand, fears that kind of violence, only finding it acceptable if the only alternative is for things to stay the same. Like Marius’ newfound Bonapartism, all of their ideas come out of the clash and evolution of thought after the Revolution and the French Empire under Napoleon, placing each Ami in a similar position to him as they work out their ideas. All of them, though, came to a different conclusion than Marius, prioritizing the Republic over the Empire. At the same time, they’re all distinct from each other, too, revealing the diversity in French republican thought. With his limited exposure to political ideas outside of royalism (and now, idolization of Napoleon), the myriad veins of republicanism that the Amis offer broaden up the political sphere of the novel significantly.

On top of that, they’re a group; they can learn from each other in a way that Marius hasn’t had a chance to. Even Grantaire, who claims to not believe in anything, has friends, and while he distances himself from specific ideologies, his jokes illustrate that he’s familiar with them (for example: “He sneered at all devotion in all parties, the father as well as the brother, Robespierre junior as well as Loizerolles”). Marius doesn’t have friends or people to really work through ideas with. Oddly enough, the most similar structure to this that we’ve seen so far is the royalist salon. The key difference (aside from the obvious) is the chance to learn from different perspectives, whether that’s based on variations in republicanism, in priorities (conflict vs education, the local vs the international), or both. They’re not even all defined by their politics. Courfeyrac (who easily has the most insulting character introduction in the book) is defined by his character and personality first, with his political ideas mainly being a given from his participation in this group. These variations in emphasis, then, not only show us the diversity of their views, but the varying intensities with which they hold them (as in, you could talk to Courfeyrac about something that isn’t political, but you couldn’t do that with Enjolras) and how they’re kept together in spite of their disagreements (a common goal – a Republic – and many fun and socially savvy members). All of these factors serve to give a sense of liveliness as well, contrasting sharply with the “phantoms” of the royalist salon.

Les Amis aren’t very diverse class-wise, but they’re still better than the salon. Bahorel and Feuilly, at least, aren’t bourgeois or aristocrats.

Feuilly also brings us to the international level, far beyond Marius’ early attempts at imagining himself as part of a country. Focusing on the partition of Poland in particular, Feuilly advocates for national self-determination in all lands under imperial rule. The idea that a people should govern themselves was key to republican thought more broadly in that time (nationalism really took shape in the 18th-19th centuries), but to Feuilly, this isn’t just an issue of nationalism, but of tyranny:

“There has not been a despot, nor a traitor for nearly a century back, who has not signed, approved, counter-signed, and copied, ne variatur, the partition of Poland.”

The word “despot” ties this back to France in a way, with his rejection of despotism as it affects Poland possibly implying a similar anger at the same phenomenon in France. The Bourbons at the Congress of Vienna in 1815 were, after all, the same Bourbons who ruled during the Restoration. A quick note on Lesgle: I didn’t get the joke around “Bossuet” the first time I read this book. Then, I had to take a class on the French monarchy, and I was assigned a text by Bossuet of Meaux, court preacher to Louis XIV and fierce proponent of absolutism. His name seemed familiar, but it took me a while to think to check Les Mis? And now I think calling Lesgle Bossuet because he’s Lesgle (like l’aigle=eagle) of Meaux is one of the funniest jokes in this book.

[schattenwerfenkeineschatten]

unexpected guest (Bahorel, sorry to them in advance lol)

@scrivellc sent " unexpected guest " for my muse to find their muse asleep in mine's bed, injured and exhausted, after having broken into my muse's home.

A soft metallic jingle as key met lock unceremoniously and without much tenderness. After a few clumsy pokes in the dark, the door showed itself forbearing and gave way.

Home was a place not unfamiliar to Bahorel. He knew the address, the layout, where everything was... Hell, he was friendly with the landlady and most of the neighbours. But to say he lived there might have been an overstatement.

He had people over sometimes. It was not unheard of. He enjoyed cooking. When the mood took him, he even slept there. But he never managed to hold still for long. More than anything, it seemed, he was perpetually passing through.

Yawning, he shrugged off his coat and kicked off his boots before shuffling towards the kitchen to treat himself to a late-night snack.

With his hunger assuaged, there was only one thing on his mind. Another yawn, and he began to strip, entrusting his clothes to the floor one by one, before finally dropping into bed.

His eyes had barely fallen shut when they grew wide with the troubling realisation that his bed was not empty.

Now, ordinarily, Bahorel was happy to share. Except... he was quite certain he had come home alone.

After careful consideration, Bahorel did what any reasonable person would have done in his situation and started up with a high-pitched, half-choked, "What the fuck..?!"

[alicedrawslesmis]

people will be like 'bahorel taking 15 years to graduate is exaggerated for comedic effect" well. Let me tell you about my former uni: it was made in the french mold and famous for that exact reason and 15 years is not even the worst I've seen. It's about what you expect from someone who doesn't want to be a lawyer

like the course was supposedly 5 years long but they had to add a rule that you needed to graduate in 8 years at most cause a lot of people were just staying enrolled indefinitely. They would never finish it

there was one guy who had famously been going since the 80s and they had to kick him out once they were trying to shake off the reputation and doing a bunch of updates to the course

obviously this wasn't law school, it was an architecture course, but infamously it was the course people took when they wanted to graduate but didn't know in what. And part of the reason I enjoyed les mis so much is that I was going to that uni and when the Marius part popped up I was like 'ah. Now that's familiar' including the part where people signed their friend's names in the little sheet to pretend like they went to class when they didn't, but occasionally you had a stricter teacher who would be mad at it. But it was kind of widespread so they couldn't crack down on it too hard

[probably-enjolras]

Les Amis as languages

oh damn oh damn oh damn

(i’m aware you asked me this like 3 years ago but i never check my drafts i’m so sorry)

Enjolras - French: ok, you know this babe is gonna be French. like, it’s Enjolras, come on. but also, looking at it from a non-french perspective, while i’ve been learning french, there are some simple phrases that if you translated them to english, it would sound really sexual when it isn’t, which i think fits enjolras. also he’s such a passionate person so giving him the language of love just fits, though i do have some aro!enj headcanons so maybe the love thing isn’t exactly right but i also have homoromantic headcanons that fit this better tho

Combeferre - German: ok lemme explain. german is a very logical language with a thought out grammar structure and long words that make sense when you break them down (pet = haustier = house + animal), and while people think of it as a harsh language, it’s really cute and calming once you like it (also yes, i love combeferre and i’m totally projecting my love of my family’s language on him)

Courfeyrac - Italian: tbh i don’t actually know any italian but i love hearing it because it always makes me feel happy and energetic which is the vibe i get from courfeyrac, and also, there’s so many types of italian and i think courf is the type of person to say things and all his friends are like ‘i know we’re all speaking the same language, but what did you even say’

Jehan - English: one thing i will always associate english with is the influence of other languages. there’s so many borrowed words and sayings that it’s just influenced by others. i think Jehan takes little things from their friends because they love their friends so much ;_; also english is weird? like i live in the us and i learn things about my native language that just weird me out, which reflects jehan’s quirky outfits

Joly - Latin: i think joly would be latin because of its scientific uses and being the base for a lot of languages. as joly is a medical student, i think this would be really useful for him. as for the being the base of stuff, i think with his relationship with bossuet and musichetta, and also grantaire, he’s a very grounding force that influences a lot of people without people realizing it until they take a proper look.

Bossuet - Spanish: i see bossuet as a very open and vibrant person, and that’s what spanish is to me. it’s a very easy language to learn which i think would be good for bossuet because with his luck, or should i say lack of luck, he needs to make as little accidental innuendos as he can and i think with spanish he’d be the best off with that. also spanish is a very common language in the world, with almost all of central and south america speaking it, and spain itself, so i think with bossuets kindness and openness, it only fits for a very international language

Feuilly - Polish: so i don’t think i need to go too in depth about this one, feuilly has a canonical love for poland so of all the amis to be the polish language, it’s gotta be him. also my last name is polish (like VERY polish) because i’m half polish, so i know just how intimidating the language is to english and french speakers, it’s very different from the two because it’s a slavic language which is a whole different set of rules than germanic or romance languages so i think feuilly would want a challenge (feuilly will just let his friends gawk at his language skills)

Bahorel - Russian: i like bahorel as russian because i see him as this tough muscular boxer with a heart of gold. russian is often portrayed as the language of “the bad guys” in western media because of the cold war, but it’s actually a very nice language that has a shared history with the countries around it. it can be harsh when it wants to, but it can also be so lyrical. also, the writing system is different and i think bahorel would get a kick out of those posts that show people trying to write in english while using the cyrillic alphabet and then people who know cyrillic showing the actual pronunciation and it’s just utter gibberish

Grantaire - Mandarin Chinese: so i think that grantaire would be mandarin because it’s a very complex language based on tones and inflection and based on grantaire’s like 3 page long speeches in the book, i can only associate him with something that can be easily misinterpreted if you get the tone wrong. i think that fits grantaire a lot because his character is something so complex with his own beliefs vs his love for enjolras. also because this is a type of chinese, i have to talk about the absolutely FASCINATING history of china that westerners just… don’t learn about? and when we do it’s only in later school years and it’s not in depth. i think grantaire is kinda overlooked like that. i would like to say that this has nothing to do with how grantaire is described as ugly, i find mandarin absolutely stunning, i love all languages, so i’m not saying that mandarin is ugly just because grantaire is

(ren i’m so sorry this took so long to answer i promise it’s been hanging over me for like 3 years 😭😭😭)

[midasinc]

HC request: favorite video game of each of the amis (or as many of them as you feel like)

oh fun! i'd love to do this

enjolras and courfeyrac: they grew up as neighbours and both played football, so to this day these guys are really into fifa games. it's what they grew up with and they get excited for the new ones each year. both of them know way too much about the game and strats and all that shit. people expect enjolras not to know or care much about video games but this dude will get gamer rage with his lil football games. courfeyrac laughs about it but he's exactly the same. they both have yelled at a tv before over digital football

combeferre: i think he'd definitely love stardew valley. it's the perfect combination of peacefulness and discovery that combeferre would get a kick out of. whenever the going gets tough he can just know for sure that he can go fishing and farming and whatever and have a good time. it's a nice little outlet for him to pretend he's a little guy in a world where he doesn't have to turn in a 100 page dissertation he hasn't started yet

feuilly: he was a problem child growing up and throughout his many different foster families, the one thing he could count on was his nintendo 64 he saved up lawn-mowing money for. he played a lot of super mario, legend of zelda, and starfox instead of doing his homework and doing what he was told and to this day he likes to boot up his old console to replay levels of super mario 64 just to turn off his brain. he's really into speedrunning and replaying a level over and over again just to see how fast he can get it. he could probably play super mario in his sleep

joly: joly's never really been into video games, but he can fuck up a match 3, lemme tell you. this guy kills it on match 3 mobile games and he gets addicted to them really easily. at the moment he's rehashing his candy crush days by seeing how far he can get before bossuet waves a hand in front of his face like "hello????? pls pay attention to me". he can close his eyes and do match 3 in the darkness behind his eyelids. it's mildly a problem.

jehan: oh he fs grew up playing runescape classic and still plays it to this day. he actually plays it with combeferre most of the time, but it isn't combeferre's favourite game (because of... you'll see). they will call each other and play runescape together and jehan is a TOTAL dick omfg. he follows combeferre around and randomly kills him in the wild so ferre loses all of his shit and you just hear an agonizing yell on the other end of the call and a "FUCK you." and jehan just cackles. jehan is an absolute asshole do not be fooled by his sweet disposition. he will stab you in the back with his overpowered enchanted the sword and then steal half your inventory. jehan is no joke, he is a force to be reckoned with.

bahorel: he was never super into video games but he's recently gotten into pokemon. he bought sword and shield when it came out and really enjoyed it and he's thinking about buying arceus when he gets his next paycheck (bc yk.... rent). bahorel just likes the funky little animals, yk? he has a super juiced up salazzle that feuilly affectionately refers to as "bahorel's Sexy pokemon" whenever he watches him play

bousset and grantaire: neither of them are super big on video games, but they like to play party games, like mario party or mario kart or anything multiplayer. both of them are pretty fuckin ass but they get a kick out of being shitty at games

marius: he grew up in a pretty anti-video game household but courfeyrac and everyone else sort of peer pressures him into playing. this starts a rivalry between feuilly and marius because feuilly sits him down to play smash with, assuming that he's gonna wipe the floor with this kid, but marius's button-smashing technique is so bad that it's somehow genius and feuilly loses so miserably that he throws the controller down on the ground and has to step out of the room for a few minutes. marius likes super smash now because he's somehow a prodigy at it without really knowing how to play

(bonus gavroche: he loves typical kid games. gavroche dominates in fortnite and i havent done a french fortnite friday in a while, but we all know how that goes. he's also a big minecraft and fnaf kid. he loves all of that stuff. he owns a creeper hoodie and has memorized fnaf lore so he can just tell his sisters and anyone older about it for like an hour. he's a sweet kid)

[pumpkinspice-prouvaire]

bahorel/feuilly headcanons?

ask and ye shall receive. Also I am biting u for sending me that ask about a joly bossuet grantaire drabble, I hope you’re prepared to wait 56 months

They are the most chill couple ever. Their date nights basically consist of ordering in burgers from their favourite spot and watching reruns of their favourite shows in their boxers. They’re not really flowers and chocolates type people. When they do like to go on dates, they like to go to gigs together, and a lot of the time they’ll get kicked out because Bahorel insists on trying to start a mosh pit. Hozier isn’t exactly mosh pit music but Bahorel will find a way. 

Believe it or not, although they are very very chill people most of the time, when they argue- It's explosive. They can fight like nobody's business. It tends to take a lot to make them blow up at each other, but when they do you better run. It normally takes them a few days to calm down and have a sensible conversation, and then when they do they always end up laughing at how stupid they are

Feuilly doesn't have any family, but Bahorel is the oldest of seven siblings, all sisters. They're all very close, and Feuilly was lowkey quite overwhelmed when he met them all for the first time. But they’re very welcoming and take a real interest in Feuilly and his life and interests and he leaves the family home feeling dazed but sort of amazed that they would all care so much. They all send him presents on his birthday, and Feuilly totally tears up because he wasn’t expecting that at all. Guess Feuilly has six sisters now good for him. 

Making food works well for them- Feuilly is a good cook and can make really nice recipes on a budget, so he takes care of it all and has taught Bahorel some basic recipes (before they started dating, Bahorel made exclusively sad man in his twenties food. Pasta, chicken, chicken with rice, etc.) But, Bahorel is a phenomenal baker. Sometimes Feuilly will text them during work and complain about how he’s having the worst day ever and Bahorel will make it their mission to whip up cookies or cupcakes or banana bread before Feuilly gets home. Fucking cuties. 

Bahorel isn’t much of a reader, but he likes to settle with his head in Feuilly’s lap and listen to Feuilly read out loud. Soft

[jules-of-the-sea]

I would love to see a Blorbo ranking for your blorbos from Les Mis, if you are willing to share :)

so i made a character tierlist, i dont actually hate thenardier but its funny to hate him. for side characters: m mabeuf would be guy!!!, fauchlevent would be eh (although the graveyard scene was funny), and marius's relations would all be in eh/mildly annoying because i have no strong feelings about them.

you did say blorbo ranking though and i have no idea what exactly that entails so im just going to do everything i can think of. so heres a list of everyone on the tierlist and a few thoughts on each of them

enjolras 12/10 love of my life, top kin, red <3, hes literally just a guy god i wish i was him its all i ever want hes so !!!!!

grantaire 10/10 love him, probably more like me than enj lmao, jaded, alcoholic, cynic, ao3 always makes him an artist but i dont remember them saying that in the book??? maybe i missed it though, it did say that he knows all the best spots in paris though so thats pretty cool

feuilly 10/10 self taught king, he makes fans, he wants to deliver the world and i support him. we all need a feuilly in our lives

combeferre 10/10 (these ratings are a little redundant at this point) fan interpretation always makes him a bookworm nerdy guy (which i have also done) which i understand bc in the book hugo talks abt how he wants to learn everything and he loves progress and education, but honestly i feel like hes a lot warmer and more social than people characterize him. like they talk about how compassionate he is and how he focuses on the actual people in the revolution more than the movement as a whole

gavroche literally just a little guy, hes got his two children in his wooden elephant what more could a street urchin want

courfeyrac party guy, literally tholomyes but if he wasnt a dick, love him for it. actually thinking abt it, tholomyes was a poet right?? and hugo compares him w courf so,,, poet courf???

bossuet unlucky, actually named lesgle, bald, in a poly relationship w joly and musichetta

eponine bro she was not that close with marius in the book, and i dont think she even knew the amis. its fun to pretend she did though. also the musical makes marius actually care that she dies which is sweet i guess. also i love every queer eponine interpretation.

jehan jean provaire, medieval enthusiast, just a little guy i guess. trans/nb jehan is one of my favorite things actually

joly happy guy, apparently nicknamed jolly because of that, doctor(?), likes self diagnosing, must suck being a germaphobe in 1832

bahorel tbh i forgot like everything the book said abt him. im pretty sure he was the guy who saved marius from being kicked out of law school though?? and also visibly expresses disgust when he passes by law school??? king.

javert single-minded policeman, love the themes and internal struggle, javerts soliloquy and stars are some of my favorite songs in the musical

jean valjean all around a good guy, white bread personality but like,, nice. so i guess hes more like the pre-made pound cake you can get at the store. certified girlboss tho

cosette pretty? i like the cottagecore interpretations but also shes literally just a lonely child from 1832 so i guess its just by default. she seems like the type of girl who would be a pleasure to have in class

fantine sad lady, cosettes mom, i wish she had just gotten cosette back from the thenardiers when she had her job but oh well.

marius annoying little bitch boy mf i swear to god he deserves very little of what he gets. also isnt he like 10 years older than both cosette and eponine??? 1832 moment i guess. anyways hes not that bad but its funny to hate on him.

madame thenardier me when child abuse, kinda a girlboss in the musical but in the book shes just kinda there

monsieur thenardier little rat bitch man, fuck that guy, but also hes literally a cartoon villain and its funny

also the tierlist is made in mspaint, i would have found pictures for everyone but a lot of them arent in the 2012 movie long enough for anyone (me) to know whos who so. crunchy mspaint version

[barricadebops]

And He Falls With a Smile

Summary: In 1823 Feuilly arrives in Paris. In 1824 a man in a daring red waistcoat invites him to a student organization where despite his orphan status, Feuilly gains a family in the throes of rebellion and revolution. Read on AO3 here.

1823

In many ways, Paris is quite unlike the south. The city bustles with more people than Feuilly had ever seen in Aigues-Mortes. He will likely have to take a while to become accustomed to the constant crowds in the streets, the way everyone seems a stranger to each other.

However, to his due consideration, Paris is also in many ways quite akin to the south.  

The language of French rolls easy off his tongue like the rhythms of Provençal and Polish, and casts no doubt on his employability when it comes to dealing with coworkers at the fan-making atelier. The streets are still lined with the poor who cry out for help, for just one sou while the haughty bourgeois stroll past leisurely, and there are still women thrown on the ground—prostitutes from destitution, children begging for alms instead of attending school, and there is so much misery that surrounds him when he steps foot in the city, and the orphan boy thinks that there has not been much significant change here, that he will work here until he dies never having known a true family.

Feuilly’s only family has been the concepts of France, Poland, Greece, Hungary, Romania, Italy—simply put, the rest of the world, the people of the rest of the world.

So, Feuilly resolves that he shall adopt the people of Paris too.

________________________________________________________________

1824

He meets a man by the name of Bahorel, down by the schools of law.

Three francs does not buy a man much. It hardly puts bread on the table. It certainly does not provide for better clothes than what Feuilly dons everyday. And only in his scarcely selfish dreams, do three francs provide him with a place at the universities of Paris, where every bit of knowledge is put within his reach with thought only of reading and reading and reading until his brain tires and he nods off to sleep, blissful in the knowledge that he will not have to rush awake the next morning to catch work.

But three francs does not lend him that reality. Three francs only lets him gaze wistfully outside the buildings and think of a life where he could read better, where he could write better, where he wouldn’t have to waste away toiling at the fan-making atelier—where others would not have to toil away—others who are younger, who are needy, who should be going to school. People from France, from Poland, from Greece and Hungary and Romania and Italy. People from around the world who deserve better than to have their inherent right to an opportunity, an education, a leap at life—taken away from them.

L'École de droit de Paris is teeming with young men, all affluently dressed, all hailing from wealthy families—men who care not for why lawyers are so prudent, why law needs to be so heavily examined. It is filled with men who walk without casting a glance at Lady Themis, their patron, who stands disappointed—though she may be blindfolded—knowing that her supposed guardians do nothing to bring about justice, to bring about her divine right. It is filled with bourgeois young men with haughty airs, fake smiles, and cold graces.

L'École de droit de Paris teems with such young men when classes are let out. For now, Feuilly can enjoy its tranquility, its academic aura without the glances thrown his way. Peasant worker.

So no one can really seek to blame him for the irritation that rises within him when he feels a man crash into his side, throwing him off balance and sending him sprawling onto the hard cobblestones of the campus.

"Are you quite alright?"

Feuilly has the strong urge to snap at the hooligan present above him now that he was not alright at all, not since he disturbed some of the only moments he is allowed to breathe free with his rough tumbling.

But he stops short. Something about the man's smile—though he must admit, it seems rather rude to smile in a situation like this—halts the words on his tongue.

The man, or well rather a boy since he looks like he cannot be much older than him—is smiling brashly, unabashed in his humour. Though he wears the red coat of a man bound to be wealthy, there is a certain quality in the way he holds out his hand to Feuilly, without disgust, without turning his nose up at him, without thinking that he is a great saint for doing so, that makes Feuilly think that he cannot possibly be of the bourgeois, and without thinking, Feuilly takes the proffered hand and rises his feet. As he regains his footing, the man nearly sends him back down by delivering a mighty clap on his back.

"My sincerest apologies, my good fellow. Here you were, wasting away your time like a respectable gentleman should be doing, when I so rudely crashed into you. But I do believe this is a fortunate coincidence! To meet another sensible individual—it is not everyday you have the great opportunity to meet another idler—they seem rather scarce in this dull profession. I do know of just one other, but unfortunately Bossuet is forced to remain in Blondeau's class—what amusement! Imagine Blondeau really considering that being kicked out of his class is a punishment! I fret for poor Bossuet who shall come out having truly come into possession of knowledge on property law. Just imagine!"

Much as Feuilly may have tried if he really did want to, he could not imagine, considering he was not actually a student of law, not to mention that he had absolutely no clue who this Bossuet was.

"But—" the man continues on, and Feuilly vaguely realizes that at this point he should make haste to mention that he is not actually a student of l' ècole and that he really should be heading back to the atelier, but the man barrels on, "say, I have not seen you in any class before. You certainly must be younger than I, for there can be no other way to explain it."

Feuilly flushes. How could this man seriously still go on believing that he was a student here when he saw the way he dressed and held himself?

Clearing his throat, he shook his head and clarified, "You're mistaken, Monsieur. I am not a student of the school."

The man's eyebrows furrow for a moment before his smile returns with massive force. "And I thought you could not possibly get better!" Feuilly's gaze darts up curiously. "How fortunate indeed!"

At this, Feuilly's mind staggers a little, and he bristles at the way the man's words rub on him. Did he think it was fortunate that a poor man like him could not afford an education, a right all deserve? Did he think it was fortunate that children lacked the opportunity to acquire knowledge because of the situations they were born into?

This man had to be of the haughty bourgeois, there was no doubt about it. His bold, rather daring waistcoat definitely spoke a testament to the statement.

There was work to be done at the atelier, there were fans to be made, money to be earned, another day to be lived. Feuilly needed to head back and throw this man out of the recesses of his mind, for he did not have any space freed up there either.

And yet—

And yet, Feuilly finds that this man is so incredibly wrong to have said what it is he said, and, well, someone must correct him one way or another—

"Forgive me, Monsieur," he says stiffly, "but I see absolutely no reason as to why this is a good thing. Do you really laugh at the thought of an orphan being unable to find the money to pursue an education?"

For the first time in their spontaneous conversation, the man's face is thrown off guard.

"Pardonnez-moi ?" His brows wrinkle before he bursts out with a hearty laugh. "Oh no! My dear fellow you have it all wrong!" The man grins and for a split moment Feuilly is sure he is the slightest bit mad. "I—of all people! I could never make fun of the peasants—my own parents are peasants, mon ami, it is why they have common sense."

There is something in this man's bold words that has even Feuilly amused enough to crack a smile. Perhaps he had simply misjudged him; though he would likely never understand Feuilly on the full on accounts of actually still having parents that evidently did love their son, the man hailed from a peasant background, so of all things, he was definitely not stuffy like the rest of his new-class, though the daring red coat did write him into Feuilly's books as just the slightest bit reckless—such was the effect of the colour red clothed on such a brash man.

He lets out a resigned sigh; at this point he absolutely has to get back to the factory if he wants to clock in on time. But the man is still grinning at him, and Feuilly cannot help but feel the urge to stay.

"Your words undoubtedly ring true, and it speaks a testament to the kind of life you have been made to lead." All at once, his face turned serious. "We need more men like you at our meetings—come join us, I beg of you."

Meetings? What sort of meetings could this man have been talking about?

Unless…

Feuilly was not illiterate. He had caught whisperings of secret Jacobin societies, groups that hid themselves away from the gaze of the King as they would secretly plot rebellion. A man of the people, the true common man, Feuilly too had been eager to join these groups—but where was the time? He hardly had any time to go back to the pathetic little apartment he had managed to scrounge up money for, how could he find himself time to attend Republican meetings?

At the atelier, the clock was surely ticking away, bringing Feuilly closer every minute to being late heading back to work. "I'm sorry," he turns away and makes to head off. "I find myself unable to join, unfortunately, at the moment."

There is an elbow at the crook of his arm easing him around. "I urge you to reconsider, Monsieur. There is always room for new recruits, and I assure you that your input will always be valued." He opened his mouth to argue when the man put up a hand to stop him. "Your time needn't be an issue—we are all but students, we will uphold your responsibilities if need be. But your word—your word will be no doubt incredibly valuable. Please think of it."

Feuilly hesitates; in the sky, the sun burned bright in indication of a rapidly approaching afternoon. "And what do you call yourselves?"

The man's eyes twinkled. "Les Amis de l 'ABC," he replies rather cheekily.

Les Amis de l'ABC? Somewhere, the name strikes at Feuilly's core. The Friends of the ABC. Surely an educational group—that was something he could support—and something he could personally understand, too.

"And what is it exactly that your group does, Monsieur?"

"Well, in name, we are dedicated to the education of children." (L'ABC). The man's smile turns a little sharp as he lowers his voice. "In reality, we… Well, I suppose you would have to come see yourself, would you not? Though I suppose if you ponder our name long enough, you should figure out anyways.”

ABC…

ABC…

Abaisse.

Les Amis de l’ABC — Les Amis de l'abaisse.

The Friends of the ABC—the Friends of the abased.

A rather clever name, if he had to be quite honest. So it was as Feuilly suspected.

“And who exactly makes up your group?” he asks, attempting to keep up his inquisitive tone even as he moves to clasp the man’s hand.

The man laughs. “Well, if—when we succeed, I imagine we shall become a group that will belong to some measure of history, though that’s not why do what we do.”

“Succeed?”

“Yes! I have no doubts that we shall do exactly that. The question is, Monsieur, will you be there with us when we do so?”

There is no reason to say yes; in fact, there is every reason to say no. The minutes are still ticking by and the factory foreman is not a forgiving man, especially not towards orphans who need the job more than he needs the orphan, and there was never any time to join such organizations, and so many of them are run by bourgeois boys who did not know what they spoke of, never truly knew what it was their goals should be, why would they accept Feuilly among their ranks—

And yet, there is just something about this man, something about the aura he exudes, something brash and reckless but accepting, even if his words do not always come off that way, that makes him hesitate from immediately flatly refusing and turning to get on with his day, something about the unspoken promise held in his words, something about the name—the Friends of the Abased.

He heaves a breath and looks up at the sky; it’s approach towards afternoon and the way campus seems to hold its breath, ready to release when the professors adjourn their classes signals his inevitable tardiness at work.

He glances at the sparkle glinting in the man’s eyes—there is an entire future, a lifetime held within the promise of the society that the man informs him of that Feuilly is yet unaware of.

“Well where is it that you meet?”

With a mighty thump on his back, the man slings an arm around his shoulders, using his arm to point his finger towards the horizon in the direction of the north-east. “Follow the streets until they take you towards the Café Musain at Place Saint-Michel, near six tonight. Ask a patron to lead you towards the backroom—a male, however, for we do not allow women to enter—with the exception of dear Louison, that is—surely you can understand the delicate nature of women, my own mistress would tremble at the talk of rebellion and she is one to laugh at about anything I should think to say—and surely you shall see me there. And if I should be late—for it is not unheard of that I should be out late talking to others of the same cause—tell them you were asked to join by Bahorel.”

Feuilly swallows. Seemed rather a large commitment he was signing onto before even truly attending one of these meetings.

“I shall ensure my best efforts to attend one of your meetings then, Monsieur Bahorel,” he says at last.

“And we shall ensure our best efforts to work towards that future in which orphans are allowed to pursue the education they seek.” The man—Bahorel—tips his hat. “Now you must pardon me, Monsieur—”

“Feuilly,” he interrupts. Bahorel inclines his head in sign of having listened.

“—Feuilly,” he says, ��but the afternoon approaches and classes will soon be adjourned for the rest of the day, and I must deploy myself to the mighty task of finding Bossuet and listening to his new complaint no doubt against Blondeau, and then head off with him to find young Enjolras and de Courfeyrac too, for though the former may be able to sway a crowd with his words, especially with his second-in-command by his side, those two cannot hope to find their way through the university streets and—”

“Thank you, Monsieur Bahorel, I shall hope to see you then, tonight," he interrupts, only the slightest bit ashamed for having done so; he really does need to be on his way.

If Bahorel takes offense to his interruption, he makes no sign of it; rather, he clasps his hand, and says, “Thank you, Monsieur Feuilly. Your presence will be greatly appreciated. No doubt everyone will be pleased. I look forward to seeing you sit amongst us.

Feuilly tips the ragged hat he has on his head in response.

This is how it begins.

________________________________________________________________

1825

It is ten at night, a most indecent time for respectable men to still be outside, and yet Feuilly can see no sign of Enjolras tiring while he listens with bright eyes to what Feuilly has to say on the subject of the partitioning of Poland.

It was indeed a topic of great rage and indignation for Feuilly, that date of 1772. How was it that a monarchy, a tyranny, had the right to strip a people of their identity? Of their nationality? He exclaimed as much to Enjolras, who watched on with awe.

"But how can they have the right? To tell a people that they no longer have the ability to climb atop their tables and exclaim 'I am Polish! Here I stand free in my country of Poland! ?" Running a hand through his fiery hair, he fumed just as he thought about it. "The audacity!"

At the table, Enjolras scoots closer, looks up at him with wide eyes. “Indeed. Tell me more of it.”

He glances at him, and, briefly, he allows himself to ponder the person sitting in front of him. Feuilly hesitates to call him a boy, though, at nineteen years, that is exactly what he is.

It is simply that, despite his excessively youthful face, there was something in Enjolras' eyes that gave him the feeling that the boy had already lived for hundreds of years, made him feel as if he were seated in front a man who had already, in some previous existence, traversed the many revolutions of the past.

And yet—

And yet, despite that, not having gone unnoticed by any of those few members who attended the meetings, it is Feuilly who Enjolras evidently idolizes—reveres, even.

And it is a fact that Feuilly cannot fully comprehend; of all the people Enjolras is surrounded by, all the people he has to idolize—Combeferre or Joly or even Bahorel—he sees first and foremost Feuilly, a poor orphan who struggles to read when Enjolras himself could make his way through the thickest of volumes with ease.

Feuilly does not think less of himself for his background, but how often can a man go on surrounded by people who excelled in a variety of skills than he could only ever hope to gain without feeling the occasional pang of self doubt?

He allows himself a smile. “But I thought you had already read about this, Enjolras? Combeferre tells me the matter is one that incenses you quite the bit—rightfully, might I add.”

He thinks of how strange it is—at the atelier, no one gave second thought to anything Feuilly had to say, so he never really thought to say anything anymore to his coworkers or his foreman who he knew would either ignore him or dismiss him straight away.

But Enjolras listens. He listens to the words of a poor orphan boy, and despite his upbringing by his parents that likely taught him not to pay heed to the words of a man like Feuilly, he instead leans forward, always leans forward at every meeting whenever Feuilly raises his voice to contribute, and he listens breathlessly and nods and says But of course, and Yes you’re right, and But if you could please tell us more, we need more of what you have to say.

Enjolras nods vigorously. “Yes, of course, the stripping of the autonomy of any nation is an injustice—it is simply that hearing you speak of it is all the more informing.”

Feuilly quirks an eyebrow at him. “And why would that be?”

“Because you are all the more knowledgeable of this, of course.”

He huffs a laugh. “It was not as if I was there when they put down the first partition. I am hardly an eye-witness, nor would I say more knowledgeable than you.”

In front of him, Enjolras reaches a hand to grasp at Feuilly’s. “But you are! For as well as I understand it, I could never truly know what kind of an effect such a monstrous event could have on the common man. But you, Feuilly, you know so well, for you have endured far worse than I have, you are a much better man than I am, surely you must know you have my eternal respect—”

As he blushes, Feuilly briefly thinks of scolding Enjolras for proclaiming Feuilly better than himself only on the grounds that he was born in a different circumstance.

He squeezes Enjolras’ hand back. “Do not declare yourself a lesser man than me, Enjolras. Over this past year you have demonstrated the fact that those of the upper class can still have compassion and the skill to identify injustice, and you have made me feel all the more welcome amongst your ranks.”

Enjolras smiles. “Les Amis de l’ABC would not be what we are without your inclusion, my friend. It is for people like you that we fight, it would hardly be a cause if we did not have your voice present with us. The gratitude should be coming from me to you for trusting us, for joining us. You make us who we are Feuilly.”

And Feuilly is just the slightest bit blown away by Enjolras’ words, for while he knew Enjolras held a special sort of respect for him, he had never imagined that his reverence shaped up like this.

“Will you tell me more about Poland?”

He glances down at Enjolras, who stares up with hopeful eyes, and he smiles.

“But of course.”

________________________________________________________________

1826

It is not unheard of that Jehan Prouvaire should be sitting quietly in his corner after meetings, staring dreamily at his paper as if he could see entire meadows and forests scrawled on it rather than the lushious words he pens to create his poetry.

“The stars are not out and yet you gaze at your paper as if you can already see the constellations they form,” he says as he lowers himself into the chair next to Prouvaire, having been beckoned over.

Prouvaire blushes and smiles softly. “Every constellation has a story tied to it, and poetry seeks to do much the same. Poetry is how our ancestors spoke of their tales around the fire.”

“Is that what you will be writing about today? The stars?”

Prouvaire hums and shakes his head. “No. I think I should like to write in Polish today.”

Jerking slightly, Feuilly looks at him, confused. “Write in Polish?”

He nods. “Yes. I think of it often, you know, and I feel it’s an injustice, the way the Polish identity has been stolen from the people, almost as if their right to thought has been taken. I figured, would it not be prudent, then, of me to write a poem in Polish, and reaffirm their status?”

Nodding vigorously, Feuilly agrees, “Yes, of course. Your words hold the utmost merit, and I’m glad to see you acknowledge this through your words. I can think of no better way for you to express your thoughts about this than through your sacred form of writing.”

He props his chin on his hand and leans forward. “Yes, but I seem to encounter a problem in that I do not know how to speak Polish. My friend, I only have one favour to ask of you: will you help me construct this poem?”

Feuilly blinks. Of all the honours he could have been bestowed with… For Prouvaire, reading and writing poetry was one of the very fundamental things that kept people humble. To connect to nature, to hear of stories past—it is what both allows humans to soar amongst the beauty present in the world, yet keep them humbled and grounded to work on what needed to be improved. For Prouvaire, poetry is his form of worship, his devotion to the miracles of the world before him, present in front of him, and the one yet to come.

“You would choose to ask… me, to help you?” he asks, bewildered at the thought of him sharing something so close to his heart, to his spirit.

There is a sort of sparkle in Prouvaire’s eyes, a look he reserves for when he gazes at wildflowers and oats growing in meadows, or for when he hears the nightingale sing—a look so impossibly soft that he can use it only when he finds himself looking upon a being he believes deserves to be showered upon with love and written about with the utmost tenderness—and it is present in his eyes when he gently places his hand atop Feuilly’s and says with the utmost solemnity, “My friend, I could think of no one else who I would trust more for such a matter.”

Feuilly is rendered speechless. Both with the love he feels for his friend, and by the astonishment at the trust his friend shows in him.

Feuilly hopes the world will see Prouvaire's soft verses and name him with the likes of Keats, whom he idolizes.

Jehan hopes that one day the world will read his poem—the one he writes now, that tells the story of a common fan-maker who spoke Polish and still strived to see the possibilities of the entire world despite the world never having strived to see the possibility in him—and understands the adoration that he and the rest of his friends had for a man who was made up of a thousand different nations and came from a thousand different stories and had with him a thousand different plans for the future.

________________________________________________________________

1827

The sky is dark and Feuilly’s perception of time has been skewed by the long, insufferable hours spent at the atelier crafting fans while harbouring a most dreadful headache.

He does not see that the clock has struck much past seven, much past eight, now half an hour after nine, and that his foreman kept him detained much longer than he realizes, taking advantage of the evident illness that has Feuilly dazed and unaware. With much effort, he pushes the door to the café open and stumbles towards the backroom where he expects his friends will be.

Upon reaching the backroom, he leans a hand against the frame and struggles to comprehend the image of an empty room, one where the meeting has clearly adjourned.

Well, mostly empty.

“Feuilly?” At his side, Combeferre reaches a hand to place on his shoulder, a steadying presence among the rushing winds that seem to have found their way into the café. “Are you quite alright?”

He coughs—once—twice—three times into his fist. “Well I do find myself in a bit of confusion,” he admits as Combeferre gently takes him by the crook of his elbow and seats him at a table. “Has the meeting for today been cancelled? I would not have imagined that everyone would be busy all at the same time.”

Combeferre tilts his head and looks at him peculiarly. “The meeting?” He frowns. “My friend, are you well? The meeting ended about an hour and a half ago.”

Furrowing his eyebrows, he coughs twice more as he shakes his head and says, “No, that cannot be. Surely it cannot be so late. I had only just seen the clock, look, there, it says…” he trails off as his eyes fall upon the small hand halfway towards its path to the painted ten, then glances back at Combeferre sheepishly. Clearing his throat, a rather painful task to do considering just how raw it feels, he manages to scrape out the words, “It appears I have missed the meeting. I apologize, I did not realize just how late it had become.”

Combeferre smiles sympathetically. “Evidently. Your presence was greatly missed at the meeting, Enjolras looked rather down about it, but nonetheless we understood, though we thought it was simply because you were working.

Burying his head in his hands, he croaks, “I was supposed to be working regular time. I don't know how I didn't realize the foreman had me working late without informing me of it.” At this, Combeferre’s eyes darken a shade.

“You cannot let this go unprotested, Feuilly,” he says, the slightest bit angry, though Feuilly knows it is not anger directed towards him. “Your foreman has no right to do so; we will go back tomorrow and demand he pay you what you deserve for working the extra hours you did.”

Raising his head, Feuilly looks up, a little surprised at Combeferre. “It will not work, Combeferre, for all that I would like it to. The foreman has plenty of people available to replace me should I start to fuss. Though it is wrong, you must know that he has the power to keep me longer without paying.”

Combeferre runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “However much power he holds, he cannot go against the principle of the matter and expect no retaliation. It is settled; we will go and speak to your foreman.” When Feuilly opens his mouth to speak, Combeferre holds his hand up and halts the words on his tongue. Silently, he reaches forward and gingerly places the back of his hand on Feuilly’s forehead, tutting at the heat that comes away. “Tell me how you feel,” he commands.

Feuilly frowns. “It is really not that much of a concern, my friend—”

“Feuilly,” Combeferre pinches the bridge of his nose before looking up at him again, “in about a years time I shall begin my internship at l’Hôpital Necker; as of right now, I have enough medical knowledge—well, really, anyone has enough medical knowledge—to diagnose you with the fact that you have caught a cold—no doubt from the rainy season we have all found ourselves trapped in—and while it is nothing serious, it can become something of a concern if you do not rest and allow me to take care of you.”

Feuilly looks away. “While I do not doubt your knowledge, Combeferre, you needn’t bother yourself with—”

“What is more so a bother, Feuilly,” Combeferre interrupts him once more, and does not even look the slightest bit embarrassed for doing so, “is when one of my friends fall ill, and instead of taking the time they need to get better, they only continue to work until it is worse and their recovery becomes all the more difficult.” He watches as Combeferre rises from his seat, holding out his hand when he says, “So, for my own convenience, if you believe—unjustly, may I add—that your own convenience is not worth it, please come back with me to my apartment so that we can have you back on your feet in mere matter of days rather than weeks.”

As Feuilly allows himself to be hauled up, his arm slung around Combeferre’s shoulders, for he does not believe he has the strength in him to stand a single second more on his own—he marvels at what it is he must have done that warrants fate to provide him with friends who care for him like a mother or father would their own child, though Feuilly is not well acquainted with the feeling.

________________________________________________________________

1828

Even before he feels Courfeyrac’s hand clap down on his shoulder, Feuilly can feel Courfeyrac approaching—because that is simply the kind of person he is; his aura is boisterous and bubbly, a loud that made you grin rather than cringe away.

“My friend!” Courfeyrac exclaims. “My friend, my friend, my very good friend!”

Feuilly smiles as he knows what is inevitably going to come up. “As much as you may ask, Courfeyrac, I simply do not have the time to stand out in the middle of the street only so you can ‘save’ me in front of that Genevieve girl you have recently taken a fancy to.”

Courfeyrac looks taken aback for a moment before he begins to laugh. “No, no, I was not speaking of that. Besides, I have most recently been made to come to sense that I do not need anyone to play the part of a man in distress who needs to be saved—as long as I somehow end her near Bossuet, I shall allow him to carry on with the way he already lives, and soon enough I shall have saved him from his own stupidity in front of her!”

At another table, Bossuet indignantly pipes up, “Hey!” In response, Joly waves his cane dismissively.

“Calm yourself, Aigle de Meaux, his facts are not incorrect.”

As Bossuet and Joly begin to bicker in that lighthearted way friends so often do, Courfeyrac turns his gaze towards him, and Feuilly finds himself blinking, trying to figure out what exactly it is Courfeyrac will be asking him as a favour, for he knows the beginning of their conversation is exactly what Courfeyrac will do every time he seeks to extract a favour from someone.

And whatever it is, Feuilly already knows he will be saying yes, for not only does he love his friend enough to do anything for him, he is sure that had it been Feuilly asking for the favour, Courfeyrac would have already been up from his seat heading off to help.

“Out with it, Courfeyrac,” he encourages with a smile. “What is it that you evidently need me to do?”

Courfeyrac grins. “You know me so well, my dear friend. Well, the matter is,” he lets out a long-suffering sigh, “my parents have been writing incessantly to me in hopes that I will, at their side, attend the ball of one of their long-time friends.” Courfeyrac grimaces. “I shall depart for Avignon in a week’s time.”

Feuilly blinks, confused. He could hardly grasp at what this entire affair had to do with him.

“But Courfeyrac, you have always struck me as a man who delighted in dressing in a nice coat and going dancing.”

Waving a dismissive hand, Courfeyrac huffs impatiently. “I like to go dancing with my friends. I would rather not have to suffer by my parents’ side at some ball surrounded by a crowd of people who cheer at the sight of the 1814 Charter.”

At his mention of the Charter, Feuilly allows himself a little laugh, his mind straying to a recent memory of Courfeyrac throwing a copy of the very same thing in the fire during a heated debate with Combeferre.

Calming himself, he manages enough breath to ask, “That is all good and fine, but what do I have to do with all this?”

With a beam, Courfeyrac shuffles closer to throw an arm around his shoulders. “So,” he begins, “all I ask from you is a small favour.” At Feuilly’s silence, he continues, “I want you to attend with me.”

At this, Feuilly nearly spits out the coffee he had taken in his mouth.

Once he finishes choking, he adopts a look of astonishment and asks, “Me?”

Courfeyrac’s grin is one of sincerity; try as he might, there is no sort of a joke written on his face.  “Yes.”

Clearing his throat, he asks, “But… Why would you ask me of all people?”

At this, Courfeyrac frowns. “But why ever not you? I cannot think of a single reason why I would not ask you.”

He feels a humiliating blush stain his cheeks as the many, many reasons why he should be amongst the last people Courfeyrac should ask crosses his mind. For God’s sake, even Grantaire is a more preferable option—he, at least, hailed from a wealthy family, and so has the knowledge of the sort of behaviour and etiquette to be employed in such situations.

With a sad sort of smile, he places his hand on his friend’s shoulder and says, “Find someone else to go with you, Courfeyrac. I’m sorry, I truly am, but I must deny you this one thing.”

Courfeyrac’s frown deepens. “But why?”

Must he really push this issue?

Well, Feuilly is not ashamed of who he was, but it really is a little rude making him say the words.

“Courfeyrac,” he sputters, “I haven’t the faintest clue how to behave at such a social gathering. Neither do I… neither do I have the money for the sort of lavish clothing no doubt one is expected to wear there.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth flattens, and it is a rare moment that Feuilly sees him so frank. “Your background has not rendered you a scoundrel, Feuilly—I have only ever seen you act as a man should—honest and down-to-earth. You’re exactly the kind of person a man should be like, and frankly I do not care much for the opinions of my parents’ friends, and I believe you needn’t do so either. As for clothing, if you will not allow me to purchase you new clothing, I shall simply ask Combeferre to borrow his, on your behalf.”

His little speech shocks him. “But,” his voice is a little weak, “why would you ask me?”

At last, Courfeyrac’s face brightens once more into the sort of face he was famous for amongst his friends. “My friend! You are such interesting conversation! I cannot think of another person I would rather have by my side as I am forced to endure another gathering of insufferable royalists.”

Feuilly struggles with his words. Courfeyrac would have him attend the ball by his side? Once more he finds himself searching Courfeyrac’s face for any hint of a cruel joke, but finds none.

At his silence, Courfeyrac rises from his seat, grinning widely, for silence tends to give the impression that the opposing side has fallen into agreement. “Excellent! So, Tuesday next week we shall depart. And I shall begin my valiant search through Combeferre’s wardrobe!”

Feuilly remains astonished in his seat.

________________________________________________________________

1829

If he has to be completely honest, Feuilly does not talk very often with Grantaire, and so, Feuilly finds he cannot really come to a conclusion about him. He sees that the man is doubtful of their efforts, loud and rambunctious, and is drunk, always seems to be drunk.

But there is also a sort of melancholy present on his face when he thinks no one can see, when he does not constantly keep up that smirk as he goes on his next drunken ramble, a bitter and sardonic expression when he hears the rest speak of revolution and he finds himself too tired to even inject himself into the conversation. He sees a yearning, impossibly broken look grace Grantaire's face when their leader starts to speak or makes to smile or cries when upset or rages when he is furious—he seems to look as if he is reaching for something he can never quite have no matter how he stretches his fingers whenever Enjolras does anything, really.

Feuilly does not know much of Grantaire. So, he thinks to speak to him.

"Grantaire," he sits down next to him and inclines his head in greeting when Grantaire looks up from where he had been staring hard at his bottle of absinthe.

"Ah! The fan-maker makes time for me at last!" Grantaire cries as he spreads his arms wide. "Yes, young Feuilly, what is it that you find yourself in need of a drunk for?"

He ignores the young comment, only meditating briefly on the fact that he is the same age as Grantaire, and instead, hoping to forge a connection to the man, asks, "Did you really study under the guidance of Gros?"

Grantaire bellows out a loud peal of laughter. "My good fellow," he slurs, and Feuilly worries for how much he has had to drink tonight, "you must not believe everything that comes out of this drunkard's mouth."

He furrows his eyebrows. So he was lying?

"So you lied?" he asks in clarification. "You never did go to art school?"

A smile twists up Grantaire's face. "I only just told you not to trust everything I say. And yet! And yet, what is the first thing you do after I give you advice?"

He was beginning to get a little lost here. "I’m not quite sure I follow. Did you attend art school or not?"

Grantaire leans back in his chair. "Yes and no!"

"Yes and no?"

He grins at Feuilly. "A tale worthy of the likes of pleasant idlers, I am afraid, and while you are pleasant enough, you are anything but an idler—you cannot possibly hope to enjoy it."

He leans forward. "And yet, I find myself curious enough to hear of it nonetheless."

"Well," he starts, and for a moment, Feuilly fears that Grantaire will start on another one of his rather infamous rants, and while it is not that he is exactly opposed to them, but more so, he needs to get home so he can get however many hours of sleep Joly ordered him to get. "I certainly did attend classes at first. But the pretentiousness of it all! No man can tell you better that artists are amongst the most pretentious people to grace this hellish landscape we call earth. And the nude models were hardly anything to look at! I could get myself a better whore for less than a sou! Or better yet, not pay at all when it is me that such women always want!"

For a split second, Grantaire's gaze drifts, and when Feuilly tracks the movement of his eyes, he ends up looking over to where Enjolras stands at the table near the front, regarding Grantaire with a strong look of disappointment as he holds Grantaire's stare before returning to whatever it was he was discussing with Combeferre.

Grantaire tips his bottle towards the ceiling.

"No, I made the decision that no more would I waste away somewhere I knew I would rot. So instead I spent my time pilfering apples."

He huffs a laugh. “Pilfering apples? The ones used to model fruit?”

Within Grantaire’s eyes, Feuilly sees a mischievous sort of glint. “The very same.”

“And now? Do you still attend?”

He shrugs. “From time to time, though, I must ask why you think to ask me. My good fellow,” he reaches forward and lays a heavy hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “I should think to ask you, rather, on your own painting.”

Feuilly flushes a little. “I haven’t the slightest of time for painting, Capital R.”

“And yet what little you have painted deserves to be hung up next to the works of Géricault!” Grantaire cries once more, and despite himself, Feuilly grins a little.

“It is hardly anything compared to Géricault.”

Grantaire waves a dismissive hand. “Bah! All these names—Géricault, Prud’hon, Delacroix—all of them are insufferable men who catch one whiff of fame and lose themselves to their pretentiousness. Your one work, young fan-maker, would be worth more than any of those scoundrels’ paintings put together.”

And Feuilly cannot help but gape, for this man in front of him, the very set definition of a skeptic, who once told their group, on his own whims, that believing was for the foolish and that he had no wish to believe in anything that would earn him an early death—he now sits here telling Feuilly that he finds meaning in his work, more meaning than in the works of the greatest painters to exist.

It leaves him shocked beyond compared.

Attempting to gather his thoughts once more into a state of decent coherency, he proceeds to ask, "Do you paint anymore?"

For a moment, just one quick moment that Feuilly admits he would not have caught had he not been looking closely, Grantaire's eyes flicker over to where Enjolras appears to be moderating some sort of a debate between Combeferre and Courfeyrac, laughing at something Courfeyrac must have said, and he notices the way Grantaire's face twists bitterly.

"Yes."

Feuilly does not ever ask what—or who—his subject is.

________________________________________________________________

1830

The weather of Paris in the spring signals the approach of a storm the Friends, unknown yet to their knowledge, will find themselves fighting in when the people decide in the season of July that tyranny must not be allowed to continue, and will resurrect barricades all throughout the city in the name of a free France achieved through a revolution that sees the overthrowing of King Charles X.

But for now, it is spring and the rain beats down upon the poor the hardest, upon those who have less shelter, fewer clothes, scarce food, and only in abundance do they have misery.

Feuilly counts himself lucky that he has a roof over his head, even if it is one that freezes in the night’s cold, and in the summer, swelters in the day’s heat.

Joly, however, does not seem to think so.

“I simply cannot allow you to go back to your flat when the rain beats down on our heads like this!” he cries, ignoring Feuilly’s several protests to the idea of spending the night at Joly’s residence, after Joly had taken one step into Feuilly’s own apartment and declared it uninhabitable in their current temperatures. “There is more than enough room at my residence, and I will not have one of my own falling ill when I had more than enough resources to prevent the ailment.”

“I wish not to intrude,” Feuilly repeats for what must surely be the hundredth time. “You already find yourself housing Bossuet, too, and—”

“Feuilly,” Joly scrubs a hand across his face, “helping a friend is hardly any bother to me. In the six years we have known each other is this how you expect me to behave?”

And Feuilly stops short, because Feuilly, who has never had a family—who has never had a mother or father or brother or sister—could hardly ever have imagined in his life that would have a friend—that he would have several friends—who would care for him—who would love him—like this, enough to offer up the chance at a residence that must look like a palace compared to his own shabby room, even if for one night.

“I simply… I simply would not want to cause any burden,” he mumbles.

Joly’s face splits into a bright grin, the one everyone who knows him is familiar with, the one that gives reason to why they all call him Jolllly. “But my friend!” he exclaims. “The more people to house, the more amusing the occasion, no?” Armed in one hand with his cane and the other holding Feuilly by the elbow, he begins to lead him towards his apartment. “Come! We shall make merry by the fire and drink to our heart’s content today—and we will not have to worry about rationing our drinking, for Grantaire is not here, either!”

“Make merry by the fire? But I regret to inform you that the Yuletide season is well past us,” an amused voice says by their side. As they both turn to the left, a familiar, laughing bald head makes itself apparent to their eyes.

Feuilly snorts. “I have not known you to be one to turn down an opportunity to nest by Joly’s fire, Bossuet. I find that I would rather while away the time in the false pretense that Christmas is still upon us rather than spend the hours shivering in the rain—would you not?”

“Bossuet can handle a little rain, what with the two sous in his pockets, he may even be able to manage a meager coffee,” Joly teases, carefully bringing the tip of his cane to rub at his nose.

“Really?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do tell, how does one manage a coffee at just two sous?”

“With enough grovelling at my door once he realizes that his endeavour is an impossible one and he owes me for the medical supplies I would inevitably have to purchase to bring him back to health after shivering so long in the cold.”

Bossuet bellows a laugh as he makes way for himself in between Feuilly and Joly, draping an arm around each's shoulders. “The grovelling will not be necessary, Jolllly, I shall tag along anyways. I would never decline, having found myself in the company of our dear friend Feuilly.”

Feuilly shoots him a confused look. “And why might my company be so desirable?”

Bossuet and Joly both laugh as if he had just told them the most amusing joke, but Feuilly cannot quite catch what it is that is so funny about what he said.

“Friends do not ask each other why their company is desirable, Feuilly,” Bossuet simply says.

And Feuilly feels something warm in his heart turn to a roaring fire, despite the chill of the rain.

Later, when he finds himself tucked into one of Joly’s armchairs, a blanket around him, he feels Joly lay a gentle hand upon his shoulder, looking at him most earnestly.

“I beg you think not of this as charity, my friend, but rather as something a friend would do for another. Nay a friend—more a brother.”

And with that, Joly leaves to prevent Bossuet from setting himself on fire in the kitchen while Feuilly struggles to blink back a wetness that threatens to slide down his cheeks, though his feelings are far from any sort of sorrow he has felt before.

________________________________________________________________

1832

He is hungry and he is thirsty and he is tired and he knows he is going to die.

He also knows that not only will he die in triumph, but he can imagine no other group of wonderful, extraordinary, familiar people he would rather die with.

Enjolras has already delivered news of their abandonment. Now, they sit and listen as he speaks of the principles of their fight, of the principles of their deaths, and Feuilly can think of no better speech he has ever heard in his short life.

He realizes, with a jolt, that Enjolras has turned to him. “Listen to me, Feuilly, valiant worker, man of the people, man of the peoples. I revere you. Yes, you see the future clearly, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father. You’re going to die here—in other words, to triumph.” He holds his gaze for a second longer before he continues.

And Feuilly nods. Because he believes in Enjolras. He trusts in his words.

He knows he will die. But what better cause could there be?

He wishes they had succeeded, he had hoped, had so ardently believed that the people would rise with them.

But if the people do not wish to answer the call of revolution, he knows it will not succeed. He has accepted this.

And he realizes it is okay. He has come to terms with it.

He dwells on Enjolras’ words.

You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly. You adopted humanity as your mother and right as your father.

And, he quietly thinks to himself, I have adopted my friends as my brothers. And there is no one I would rather die beside. There are no other people who I would rather see smile one more time, or hold one more time, or laugh with and cry with and sit with one more time.

When he had first arrived in Paris, back eight years ago, Feuilly had resolved that he would adopt the people of Paris just as he had adopted those of the rest of the world.

He never imagined he himself would be adopted in turn.

________________________________________________________________

Rather than the bullet, Feuilly feels a sort of warmth spread through him instead. He lifts a hand to place at his side, where his blood begins to seep through his shirt and waistcoat.

He thinks of Bossuet’s laugh when he comes up with only two sous in his pocket and still offers Feuilly a drink.

He remembers why Joly was named the way he was, remembers his jollity in just about every situation Feuilly had found himself and Joly trapped in.

He nearly laughs at the thought of Grantaire’s rambles, and he sympathizes with his pursuit to find a family after his own had thrown him out. He sincerely hopes he will find the family that Feuilly did, too.

He recalls the feeling of Courfeyrac’s warmth, recalls how he kept the group together, how he shared that warmth with everyone no matter who they were, even if they were orphans like Feuilly.

He remembers Combeferre’s care, the way he always seemed to keep one eye open to look after everyone in the group, the way he never stopped making sure Feuilly got enough sleep, or had enough food, or rested enough, and he thinks that the world has just lost one of its greatest doctors.

He smiles at the memory of Jehan’s empathy, how his eyes seemed to see right through anything, and the way he always knew when to sit with Feuilly and ask him if there was something he wanted to share, something weighing down on his chest that was suffocating him, something that seemed to be relieved only when Jehan would smile that soft smile of his and tell him that he always had him by his side.

He can still feel Enjolras’ passion light up the barricade, recalls how his passion showed when he preached of a free France, when he spoke of the plight of the poor, and remembers the way that passion would soften into reverence when he would sit with Feuilly and listen to what he had to say, despite the fact that all his life he was likely taught to disregard men like him.

He remembers Bahorel’s bravery, how could he ever forget? He remembers that reckless smile, the bold behaviour that led to him taking his hand after being toppled to the ground, remembers that single question Bahorel asked him that would change his life forever, and he wishes—he cries at the thought of never having had the chance to say thank you, to tell him he is the reason why Feuilly is content to die in the situation he has found himself in.

Feuilly thinks of being born into the world with no family, no one to call his own.

Then he thinks about leaving it having found the men he loves, he loves—oh Lord above he loves like he could never love a mother or a father, he loves these men so much that it tears his heart in two thinking of each and everyone dying—he catches a glimpse of Enjolras being backed up the stairs while the National Guardsmen continues to prowl their way towards him and he sees Combeferre glance towards the heavens as his chest is speared by three bayonets and he sees Courfeyrac fall to his side having been shot once, twice, three times, and he sees Joly and Bossuet look towards each other as they are both shot side by side and he remembers the strength in Jehan’s voice when he cried out one last time in the name of the world they had sought to build and he remembers Bahorel’s spirit being the first to leave and he remembers, remembers, remembers, and it hurts so much, it makes him ache with a pain that makes him want to scream and cry for he cannot imagine the thought of having finally found his family and then having them torn from him, one by one, he hurts so much and surely God cannot be so cruel that he snatches their dreams, snatches the only people he knows he will ever love away—

And then he finds peace. Because as he bleeds out, he hears a voice, clear as the dawn drawing above the new day, cry out Long live the republic! and it is Grantaire, and he can almost hear Enjolras smile when he hears what he knows is the final report resounding, and in Combeferre’s eyes there is a sort of divine trust as his eyes remain affixed to where he believes he will find salvation, and there is a sort of tranquility in Courfeyrac’s eyes, and he sees the way Joly and Bossuet are still looking to each other even in death, and he thinks of how Jehan went out exactly as he wished, with strong words on his tongue, and he thinks of Bahorel’s fighting spirit and how he died doing what he thought was right.

His hand grows damper and hotter as his blood seeps out quicker and quicker.

The world may not remember their names in history—but Feuilly knows they will have a permanent place in his.

Like Combeferre, he casts his eyes towards heaven, and he thinks he can see Bahorel hold out his hand like he did eight years ago.

He can’t wait to have his life change again.

And Feuilly falls with a smile.

[aromantic-enjolras]

“Tous, Laigle excepté, étaient du Midi”

So, according to the Brick, everyone of the Amis comes from the South of France, except for Bossuet. So here we have a few stupid headcanons regarding that. For the pleasure of non-French people, I’ll put explanations in brackets when I thought they might be needed.

Enjolras’ parents own a prestigious and expensive wine brand near Bordeaux. The first time Enjolras took Grantaire home to meet them, he was a little worried, because he had only seen Grantaire drink the kind of cheap liquors that get you smashed quickly and efficiently; he was pleasantly surprised to discover Grantaire actually knows quite a lot about wine-tasting.

Bahorel comes from a small village near the Pyrenees, and his accent is thick as hell. Now that he’s been in Paris for a while it has gotten a bit better, but if he’s angry or drunk he reverts to his roots, and it goes impossible once again. Marius is the only one who can understand him then, and that’s only because he’s good at languages.

Combeferre is learning Occitan and he’s super enthusiastic about it. [Occitan, or Langue d’Oc, is the local language of the South of France, and it is the language of most medieval French troubadour literature. Thanks to the centralism of the French education system, it is now an endangered language, when it was alive and kicking only 80 years prior.]

Courfeyrac will fight you over his right to say “chocolatine”. [There is a vienoisserie that is called “pain au chocolat” except for a few towns, and it is a much bigger issue than you would expect!!]

Jehan will give you three kisses when meeting you, and you can shove it if you don’t like it. [Although in much of France they give you two kisses when they meet you, in some parts of the South they give you three. Which means they start on the other side, which... how many almost-kisses they give!]

Hope you liked this and that it’s not too French! @wilwywaylan, @just-french-me-up, @a-little-fall-of-pain you are the only French people I know of around here, maybe you find this funny....? Do you have any other stupid headcanons? Any ideas of where Bossuet is from? I don’t know why, but I kind of want him to be Ch’ti...

[ferret-not-microwave]

Les Amis Modern AU: What They Wish Others Believed About Them (Part 2).

[I kind of wrote this in response to some general trends in characterising the Amis. There are some stereotypes which I'm not quite comfortable with. ]

Jehan:

• They get weirded out when people always expect them to present femme, wear flower crowns, flowing ponchos and skirts. They do love these, especially flowers. But they barely get time to slip on a T shirt over a pair of shorts and tie up their hair in a messy knot before going out for last minute groceries. Some days, they actually like wearing plaid shirts, hoodies, berets and jackets. And they did have a "I'M BORED WITH MY LONG HAIR LEMME CHOP IT OFF" phase. Or multiple such phases. They look amazing, both ways.

• They wish people stop perceiving them as tiny and fragile. They are actually pretty regular sized. They are actually taller than R and Joly, as tall as Marius and Courf, and can give a mean right hook to anyone who threatens to assault them and people around them. They get slightly miffed when people don't expect them to pack in a punch to defend themself.

• They really wish that people didn't assume that they have the solution to all their emotional problems. They are a mess too, yannow? With lots of tea, a few potted plants and a decorative skull. And they really wish that they could have a meltdown in front of some people in turn.

• They aren't always all calm and zen. Woe betide anyone who interrupts Jehan in a writing session. Or a proof-reading session. Or catches them hitting their head on the corner of the table while trying to clean the dust under it. And woe especially betide anyone who interrupts these activities of Jehan to pine for the umpteenth time.

• They don't always entertain valentine poetry requests just because they specialise in Romanticism. "Romanticism with a CAPITAL R", they yell, "ALSO includes poems like the Masque of Anarchy, and novels like Frankenstein! I'm NOT reading hours of Schlegel for this!" Some of their slam poems are fierce af , and rip the establishment a new one. Also, they don't write poems on every available surface (because they usually hide the more private and sweet poems).

• They wish that people wouldn't hover around them like helicopter parents when their date is edgy ( *Montparnasse*). They can take care of themselves, and will definitely come to people for help if shit hits the fan (that never really happened though). They want to let people know that toxic people can also materialise without leather jackets and piercings.

• They also want to let people know that their relationship dynamics with 'Parnasse is regular af, and not any chewed-out Sinner and Saint trope.

Feuilly:

• Is impatient. Anyone would be impatient if they are working their arse off in three part-time jobs, an Etsy business, classes and assignments. AND Les Amis work. He's tries not be rude, but is often blunt and brusque and has no time for the wounded sentiments of those he calls out for their privilege. Feuilly is hardly the quiet, angelic figure people initially think he is, and can be quite fiery in meetings. He feels frustrated when people don't quite get it.

• He goes out of his way to help his friends. That doesn't mean that he is a handyman for free. He does not have time to fix every article of machinery or furniture his friends happen to damage, definitely not for free. And his friends know that, and never stress him out. He does give them a lot of discounts, though, and is always there for any emergency.

• He finds a lot of rich-people-food tasteless. Lavender tea blends? Perfumed water. Champagne? Meh. Caviar? Nevermind. Canapes? Why?

• He's always afraid that his friendships will fall apart. He cannot hope to attend all meetings, let alone movie nights. He's terrified of dinners and parties, because he's worried about expenses. He cannot trust simple acts of service from his friends because he hates charity. He's also a little self-conscious about his old thrift-shop clothes. He's always terrified of losing his jobs. It takes a lot of time for the Amis to convince him to trust them, and they try their level best to make sure that they don't hurt him in any way, and help him as much as he permits (sometimes even more).

• He is learning how not to judge people for their apparent privilege without knowing their life-stories, and, whenever not tired, takes an active role in trying to know people's histories.

• Education is rough for him, because most professors insist on standards of work presentation which are usually learned by really privileged people. Even if he is low-key a genius who learns really fast and gives tons of content in his paper, he gets mediocre grades because of vague things like "colloquialism usage", "cluttered style" and "unacademic presentation".

• Sometimes has meltdowns and panic attacks, particularly at the end of the month. Feuilly knows what homelessness is like, and does not want to repeat it again, even though he's financially in a better place than before. He wakes up with nightmares about being passed out at the back of a subway train.

• Feuilly is an old soul. He knows when an Ami is sad, or in trouble. But he'll wait till he knows they are ready to tell him what's wrong. It can sometimes seem bordering on tough love. He hopes that no one thinks him to be insensitive because of that.

Bahorel:

• Likes bar brawls only when it involves kicking someone's ass for being creepy, homophobic, sexist, racist and similarly-ist assholes. He absolutely does not like gratuitous violence for its own sake. And FFS, he doesn't really like Tarantino.

• Wishes people don't look at him weirdly when he is doing regular stuff like groceries, parking his motorbike, playing with Gavroche or Azelma, or going plant-shopping with Jehan. He knows that people stare as though he was a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off in a reassuring display of toxic, hypermasculine machismo. He hates that. -_-

• Similarly, he hates it when people assume that he's all brawn and no brain, particularly after knowing him to be a law school dropout. He has a grim satisfaction in seeing a newcomer to the Musain look at him agape, expecting him to be some kind of tropey backbencher only there for brawling, but finding him actively engaged in articulate brainstorming while the others nod enthusiastically.

• He likes bar crawls. That doesn't mean he encourages R to drink. He's done a LOT of work helping R to work on his drinking problem and was one of the happiest when R got his first bronze sobriety chip.

• In fact, Bahorel is notoriously good at dancing in a bar, and often goes for the dancing only. In bars, he takes care of everyone - including the DD who lingers in the corner with a beer and their phone, uncomfortably anxious, and desperately needing company (looking at you, Ferre).

• Dropping out of law school has made him really uncertain about life. For the first few months after dropping out, he regretted every bit of it, cried himself to sleep after feuding with his anxious family over the phone, and had quite a few suicidal thoughts. It's not that he's completely certain that life is okay now, but he's much happier studying journalism.

• As a kid, he hated his height and build because he was considered too big for a certain really cute boat ride in an amusement park. He also had eating disorders in high school.

[transrevolutions]

what your favourite les mis character says about you:

(for the record this is a joke please don't take it seriously)

valjean: you're either really new to the fandom or you've been here for a really long time. you probably have daddy issues and are projecting your need for a good father figure onto this man.

javert: you are deeply insecure about your place in the world. you have big Bastard Gay™ energy. you love morally grey characters and you probably watch buzzfeed unsolved.

fantine: you're a sucker for angst and you love strong female characters. you don't get as much appreciation as you should. you've probably been in at least one bad relationship (platonic or romantic) before. bruh I feel you.

marius: you are/enjoy the company of a himbo. politics probably scares you. you watch cheesy hallmark rom coms. you're almost certainly a dog person. you probably also have daddy issues, but to be fair, don't we all?

cosette: you're either highkey cottagecore or goth there's no imbetween. you probably sleep with stuffed animals. you're also most likely really really good at drawing, singing, or both. you like the outdoors.

eponine: you were a Weird Little Girl/Boy/Enby™ in elementary school. you're a night owl. you probably run a fanblog for at least one celebrity. you probably hate at least one member of your family with a burning passion. you like emo bands.

enjolras: you're either completely fucking fed up with the current state of the world and feel like arson-ing the entire government or you project onto grantaire without knowing it. there's no inbetween. (also you are 100% some part of LGBTQ+ there is no denying it)

grantaire: you probably hate your parents and have mental illness, but don't we all? you like art and you like being pretentious about it. the world probably depresses you. I know for a fact you aren't getting a good night of sleep dude please get some rest

combeferre: you're a nerd and/or you're suffering from gifted kid burnout. you wish you could live on a star trek style spaceship.

courfeyrac: you like glitter. you've almost certainly dyed your hair at least once. summer is your favourite season. you love pink lemonade and you drink starbucks frappuchino, don't try to hide it. you're probably really fucking popular but in a nice way.

jehan: you like classical literature. you probably do closet cosplay. you're a shameless romantic and you also probably have all the flower meanings memorized. you have an entire stock of green tea because you can.

feuilly: your favourite season is autumn. you probably wish you could run away and live with an entire pack of dogs. you like the underappreciated characters and you probably write meta essays.

joly: you like quirky characters. you're probably touch-starved and you are either a Flamboyant Gay or a Repressed Gay. you unironically did those school fitness challenges when you were younger.

bossuet: you are a positive attitude motherfucker. pogchamp for you. you probably like really bad puns. would give up your seat for a stranger. 10/10 the world need more people like you.

bahorel: you hate school with a burning passion. you'd fight god with your bare hands behind a 7-11 and I commend you for that. you've probably gotten suspended or kicked out of at least one class. you probably do/did team sports at some point.

musichetta: you're a sucker for healthy poly relationships. probably a feminist icon. you buy your coffee from ethical locally-owned brands and you put way too much cream in it. you probably have a shit ton of followers on social media.

gavroche: you say acab and you'd throw a rock at anyone who decides to be a dick. you also probably have daddy issues (sense a theme here?). you're a big-city person and you've thrown crumbs to the local pigeons ever since you were a child.

montparnasse: you're a goth try-hard just admit it bro. you listen to the emo trinity bands and you wear all black. impeccable sense of style. you probably low-key want to murder at least one person from your childhood.

[mostgeckcellent]

my submission for the @drinkwithme-exchange for @fuckyeahlesmiserables

I originally wrote something completely different, and I didn't like it at all, but you mentioned you liked my Old Guard series, so I wrote a new installment of that for you instead!

Platonic Ships: Eponine & Musichetta, Eponine & Grantaire

Eponine swirled her glass. Cosette was still with Enjolras - she’d dragged their newly-returned-from-the-dead friend off pretty quick, but Eponine was still processing. Did she believe him? She wasn’t sure. He’d convinced Bahorel, though, and Baz had never been the type to believe just anything without questioning it, especially something as batshit crazy as all of this.

Immortals. What next?

She drained what remained of her whiskey and coke, and stood. She needed to go for a walk.

Eponine was three blocks away from Jehan’s little house when Musichetta caught up to her.

“Hey.” Musichetta put a hand on Eponine’s shoulder. “You okay?”

Eponine stopped walking, lit a cigarette. “Yeah. Sure.”

“You know it’s okay if you’re not,” Musichetta said, never one to just back down.

“Yeah,” Eponine repeated with a sigh. “You want one?”

“Sure.” Musichetta took the offered cigarette; Eponine lit it for her.

They stood in silence for a while. Eponine liked that about Musichetta, that they could just be. That she didn’t have to talk, or fill the space.

“It’s fucked up, right?” Eponine said eventually.

“Yeah.” Musichetta didn’t have to ask what. Enjolras’ return was a miracle unlooked for, of course, but it was bittersweet, too. They’d mourned him. Not moved on, never moved on - it felt impossible, when there were no answers - but he’d left them.

Eponine understood. She did, probably better than any of the rest of them. She of all people knew about needing to run away and not look back, knew about new lives and new beginnings and the colliding of worlds.

It still hurt, to have been left behind.

“It’s good to have answers,” Musichetta said eventually, when their cigarettes were burned nearly to stubs. “Fucking weird answers, mind you-”

Eponine laughed, sharp. “Fucking weird answers,” she agreed.

“-But it’s good to have them,” Musichetta finished.

“Yeah,” Eponine agreed. “I’m glad he’s alive. And hey, if he really is immortal, I can shank him for doing that to us,” she grinned, all teeth and no joy.

Musichetta nudged her in the side. “You’re not gonna stab Enjolras,” she shook her head.

“I might,” Eponine protested.

“You’re not going to stab Enjolras,” Musichetta repeated sternly. “I know you’re mad. We all are, a little. It’s a lot. But-”

“But what? But he had to?” She knew that. “It wasn’t safe?” She knew that too. She dropped her cigarette, put it out with her heel. Could hear Enjolras’ voice in the back of her head, chiding her for littering, for letting the chemicals inevitably leach into the water somewhere. She ignored it.

“Yes,” Musichetta said, as if it were that simple. “And he came back in the end.”

“Because he got caught,” Eponine snarled. “Not because-”

“He cares about us. He cares about you,” Musichetta said softly.

“Does he?”

“You know he does.”

Eponine sighed, looked away. “I’ll forgive him eventually,” she muttered. “I’m just - I’m not ready yet.”

“Okay,” Musichetta agreed with a soft smile. “Can I hug you?”

Eponine rolled her eyes a little, but she opened her arms, and really, she’d never admit it out loud, but Musichetta’s hugs had a way of making her feel like everything really might be alright, someday.

--

Enjolras would stay for three days. That’s what he said when he got off the phone with his friends. Three days. His friends would make the drive today, his new family.

Eponine didn’t resent him for it. Or - she did, a little. He’d ran off with his new friends to a new place and left them all to pick up the pieces, and now his new friends were coming here. But it was fine, and Eponine didn’t resent him.

Maybe if she repeated it enough she’d convince herself.

She knew she wasn’t being fair to him. She knew she was wasting time - if they only had three days, she ought to be making the most of it, not sulking in the bathroom.

“You’re going to regret avoiding him the whole time when he has to leave again,” came Musichetta’s voice from the other side of the door, because Musichetta was a fucking mind reader.

“Maybe so,” Eponine called back, but she unlocked the door and opened it.

“Apparently they’ll be here in around an hour,” Musichetta reported. “They started the drive this morning.”

“Great,” Eponine muttered.

“Ep.” Musichetta frowned. Apparently, sympathy hours had run out. “Come on. They’re important to him.”

“We used to be important to him,” Eponine scowled.

“Okay, that’s enough.” Musichetta stepped into the bathroom with Eponine, shutting the door behind her. “I love you, you know I do, but he still loves us. And you’re going to feel like shit when he’s gone, and you’ve just been resentful at him the whole time. Did he do a shitty thing? Yes. Do you have a right to be upset by it all? Absolutely. But you’re going to kick yourself for wasting the time you’ve been given.”

Eponine glared at Musichetta for a long moment, but Musichetta was used to her moods, and didn’t back down an inch.

Eponine deflated, sighed, and ran her fingers through her hair. “So, we’ve moved on from pity to ass-kicking, huh?”

“You know the drill, baby,” Musichetta grins at her. “One day for wallowing, and then we get the fuck back up again.”

“Ugh. I fucking hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Musichetta clapped Eponine on the back. “C’mon. Let’s go do this thing.”

--

Enjolras’ friends were.. Well. They were an odd bunch, which meant, in the end, that they fit right in. Marius was looking up at Courfeyrac with the widest puppy eyes, enraptured by the tales he wove. Marius wasn’t the only one - even Eponine had to admit the man had charisma. He’d won over most of the group within moments of arriving, cheerful and kind as he was. Combeferre was a quiet, steady presence beside him, the pair of them orbiting each other in a way that was as enthralling as it was sickeningly sweet. Joly had managed to tear Combeferre away for a separate conversation at some point; Eponine wasn’t listening, had stopped listening when they had started discussing the more gruesome points in medical history. And then there was Feuilly - she was gorgeous, and better yet, she swore like a sailor and beat Bahorel at arm wrestling three times in a row. Enjolras’ new friends had been folded neatly into the Amis, like it was easy, like they fit.

Well, most of them. One man kept to the corner, nursing a drink and watching Enjolras, always watching Enjolras.

“Grantaire, right?” Eponine leaned against the wall beside him.

He looked over at her, startled. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“A bit old for him, aren’t you?” she asked, because she wasn’t stupid, she knew what it meant that Grantaire stared like that, that Enjolras only blushed when stumbling over his introduction of Grantaire, and not the others.

Grantaire snorted. “You have no idea,” he admitted. “But he knows what he wants, and I’ve learned not to get in the way of his decisions.”

“Hm.” Eponine sized Grantaire up. Honestly, she’d assumed Enjolras was some sort of monk, before he’d disappeared. He’d never dated, never so much as looked.

He definitely looked at Grantaire, though. In fact, he was looking now, looking away from his conversation with Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Marius and Cosette to stare at Grantaire, and it wasn’t a look Eponine had ever seen him direct at anyone before.

“You’re not what I’d have expected for him,” she said.

“Tell me about it.” Grantaire didn’t seem to care to argue the point.

Eponine narrowed her eyes at him.

He glanced at her, and shrugged. “I love him,” he said after a moment. “When I was ready to give up on the world, there he was, all..” He waved a hand in Enjolras’ direction. “Well, you know him. You know what he’s like - justice and whatever, Apollo fucking incarnate, the way he speaks..” Grantaire trailed off. “I don’t know how anyone can hear him talk and not love him.”

“I dunno, he’s not really my type,” Eponine said drily, a smile beginning to curl at the edge of her lips despite herself.

Grantaire laughed. “Must be weird, all of this.”

“Now there’s an understatement,” Eponine muttered, eyes locked on Enjolras, who had returned to his conversation.

“He’s not going to age,” Grantaire said, not quite casual.

“I guess not,” Eponine agreed.

“It’s going to kill him, watching you all age and die.” Grantaire crossed his arms over his chest.

Eponine.. hadn’t thought about that. “Is that why he stayed away?”

“Absolutely not.” Grantaire huffed out a laugh, though he didn’t seem happy about it. “No, he wanted so badly to get in touch, no matter how much we - I - warned him he’d just get hurt. He thinks it’s worth it.” Grantaire looked around the room, and Eponine could see when he softened. “Maybe he was right,” he allowed. “I just hope it doesn’t break him.”

“So you’re the reason he stayed away,” Eponine narrowed her eyes at him.

Grantaire glanced at her. “I just want him to be safe and happy. Getting attached to mortals? Never ends well.”

“It wasn’t your call to make,” Eponine frowned at him.

“No,” Grantaire agreed. “It wasn’t. I didn’t try to stop him from coming here, I just..” He sighed.

Eponine sighed too. “You’re right,” she said eventually. “It’ll kill him to watch us die. And he won’t look away, I know he won’t, he’ll be here.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire agreed.

Sad wasn’t the right word for Grantaire, Eponine thought. Weary, to his bones, with sadness etched into him… for a moment, she felt like she glimpsed him properly, ancient and grand as he was. And then he was just a guy again - a young man in a green hoodie, someone she’d pass on the street and never give a second thought to.

“You’ll be there for him, when it happens,” Eponine said like it was a certainty. She had to hope - believe - that it was.

“Yes,” Grantaire agreed. “I’ll be there. So will they.” He gestured to where Enjolras was gesticulating wildly, accidentally smacking Courfeyrac’s nose when a gesture went too wide. Courfeyrac just laughed, and tweaked Enjolras’ nose in return. Enjolras squawked indignantly, and then the whole group of them were laughing, Cosette and Marius included, and Bossuet, who had joined them at some point.

“You’ll keep in touch,” Eponine said. It wasn’t a question. She held out her phone.

Grantaire looked at her for a long moment. She didn’t squirm, didn’t flinch, just raised an eyebrow.

Grantaire nodded, took the phone, and plugged his own number in. Enjolras’, too, for good measure.

“I was determined to hate you all,” Eponine admitted as she took the phone back.

“I get that,” Grantaire agreed.

“I don’t,” Eponine pocketed the phone. “He seems happy. And he’s out there, making a difference or whatever. If he can’t do it with us, I’m.. glad, I guess, that he can do it with you.”

“He’d stay if he could,” Grantaire said.

“I don’t know if that’s true,” Eponine shook her head. “He cares about you a lot. And them, too, your whole bunch.”

“He’s got enough in his heart of all of us.” Grantaire looked at her.

Eponine smiled a little. “Yeah. Yeah, he does.”

[restlesswasteland]

Miserables Month Day 19: "Join"

Written for the Miserables Month @themiserablesmonth There was something Enjolras loved about going to college in the middle of nowhere.

Tucked high in the mountains, far from any towns and worlds away from a city, the solitude was immense. Some found it suffocating, isolating and eerie. All alone up in the north, only pine trees and falling snow to keep you company.

Enjolras found it peaceful. Thrilling, at times. He could close his eyes at night and not hear a sound, so different from the city he grew up in. He felt as if there was nothing else out there, the world empty except for himself and the wide expanse of earth.

There were other things he loved about it, as well. He’d never seen the stars until his first night at school. The light pollution was too heavy where he'd grown up. On a good night back home he could see the North Star, if he was lucky.

It was something else, here. The milky way in full view, nothing in between him and the universe. His first semester, he spent hours learning the constellations. He couldn’t help himself. He’d never seen anything like it.

So when he heard the first knock on the door down the hall, well past 1am in late November of his junior year, his heart skipped a beat.

The knocking continued, followed by yelling and laughter. Enjolras listened to them get closer to his door, making their way down the hall, careful not to miss a single room. The calls to join them, rousing the sleeping students, gave him an adrenaline kick. He stood and went to his door, reaching it just as he heard the knocking. Someone called his name, and he waited for them to move on before opening it.

He looked out into the hallway and was met with the glorious sight of bleary-eyed college kids pulling on sweaters and hats and mittens, varying states of pajamas and winter wear. Most of them exhausted and exhilarated at the same time.

Someone had seen the Northern Lights.

It was a rare occurrence. They were pretty far north, but not far enough that they should be able to see them very well. Maybe twice a semester, give or take.

When they were spotted, it became that student’s moral duty to alert as many people as possible. They would spread the word by any means necessary, which usually meant going door to door the old-fashioned way, waking up anything with a beating heart within a ten-mile radius.

Enjolras watched the kids drag themselves from their warm beds and into the halls, mumbling sleepily to each other. They’d all be awake soon enough, once they were out in the frigid winter air.

Enjolras looked back at his abandoned desk. He heaved a sigh, eyeing his laptop like the traitor it was.

He had a paper due at 9am that was nowhere near ready to be turned in.

With a heavy heart, he traipsed back to his desk, leaving the door open so he could live vicariously through the students passing by. He sat down, trying to remember where he’d been, but his mind was oddly blank. His foot tapped of its own accord, his body restless.

He checked his phone and was unsurprised to find nearly forty messages blinking up at him. On nights like these, kids would be texting every group chat they were in, every acquaintance in their contacts.

He opened the messages from the group chat first, the excitement palpable in their caps locked texts. Then he started going through individuals, until his phone buzzed with a new one from Courf, stopping him.

GET OUT HERE MOTHERFUCKER I KNOW YOU’RE WORKING ON THAT PAPER BUT IF YOU SERIOUSLY THINK YOU’LL GET AWAY WITH MISSING THIS YOU’RE DUMBER THAN A 7-TEQUILA-SHOTS-DEEP-JEHAN AND IF I DON’T SEE YOUR ASS STANDING IN THE SNOW IN 5 I’M SENDING IN BAHOREL TO GET YOU.

Enjolras stifled a laugh at the wildly aggressive message, but found himself worrying his lip as he reread it again. He had to finish this paper, but he knew Courf wasn’t messing around. And he was pretty sure Bahorel could physically carry Enjolras outside if he wanted to.

He looked back at his laptop, then back at the message. He opened his most recent conversation with Ferre.

SOS. Can you call off the hounds? I need this grade. He knew he was playing dirty, messaging Ferre. But if he could appeal to his sense of academia, he might just get away with it.

“Are you serious right now?” An incredulous voice asked, and Enjolras almost fell backwards off his chair in surprise.

He looked up to find Grantaire leaning against his doorframe, snickering at the startled blonde. Of fucking course, the one person who happened to live in his building just had to take the shortcut across his floor tonight. Of fucking course it was Grantaire. He let out a low swear, laying his head on his desk.

“You’re working? Right now?” Grantaire pressed, crossing his arms.

“Go away,” he groaned, not bothering to lift his head from the stack of papers currently serving as a pillow.

“This is bad, even for you,” Grantaire made no move to leave. Enjolras resisted the urge to start hitting his head against the desk repeatedly until he passed out.

“I have work to do,” he finally sat up, glaring at Grantaire.

“It can wait,” Grantaire was immovable.

“Not if I want to pass Econ, it can’t.”

“Come on,” Grantaire walked uninvited into his room, straight over to Enjolras’s desk. “Be a human for a night,” Grantaire reached out and closed Enjolras’s laptop, forcing a scowl from the boy.

“Fuck off,” Enjolras muttered.

“Join us mere mortals,” he continued, unfazed. “And, you know, be a fucking college kid for ten minutes,” he said, an edge creeping into his voice.

“What does it matter to you?” Enjolras narrowed his eyes.

“Because no one should miss this,” Grantaire shot back.

Enjolras was taken aback at the genuine answer. Grantaire must have noticed, using Enjolras’s momentary pause to his advantage.

“Up, Apollo,” he said, grabbing Enjolras’s wrist and dragging him to his feet. Enjolras wasn’t sure what surprised him more- Grantaire grabbing him so boldly, or Enjolras going willingly.

He let go as soon as Enjolras was on his feet, turning to look around the room. When he spotted Enjolras’s boots in the corner, he picked them up and chucked them at Enjolras. The first one hit him in the side before tumbling to the floor, but he was ready when the second came flying, just managing to catch it before it knocked over his bedside lamp.

Grantaire wasn’t even watching, instead opening Enjolras’s closet. He ignored Enjolras’s protests, pulling out the first sweater he saw, then a scarf and hat hanging on the door.

“What are you doing?” He turned around to hand Enjolras the clothes, but stopped short. “Put your fucking boots on,” he demanded.

Enjolras grumbled but complied. He was grudgingly accepting that he was too distracted at this point to get much done, anyway. Plus, Bahorel might show up at his door any minute.

Grantaire stood, arms crossed, watching Enjolras get ready. He couldn’t help but feel self-conscious under his stare. He pulled the sweater over his head, his face feeling warm as he tried to smooth his curls.

“You really suck,” Enjolras told Grantaire when he was ready, grabbing his keys and phone off his desk and turning the light out.

Grantaire just gave him a shit eating grin. Enjolras rolled his eyes.

They left the dorm together, bracing themselves for the November night air. Enjolras felt it clear his head and fill his lungs, the crisp iciness of it jarring and extraordinary.

“Eponine texted that they’re all on the East Lawn,” Grantaire told him, and Enjolras nodded, taking a left out of the building.

They walked silently, both periodically looking up at the sky, but there wasn’t much to see except the trees hovering over them. They would have to wait until they got out from under the tree cover and into the open.

It wasn’t a large campus. They were nearing the East Lawn only a few minutes later, the voices of their fellow students getting louder with every step. The trees opened up dramatically as they reached the edge of the large field.

Enjolras stopped, his heart caught in his throat.

The pinks and greens of the Northern Lights danced above them, moving and twisting through the sky. Surreal as ever, Enjolras found himself mesmerized by them.

He was distantly aware that Grantaire still stood by his side. When he finally convinced himself to pry his eyes away from the Lights, he turned to find Grantaire looking not at the sky, but at him.

He felt his face go hot again, and was grateful for the cover of darkness.

“It’s beautiful,” Enjolras said to him, dazed.

Grantaire just nodded back. Enjolras swallowed.

“We should join the others,” Grantaire finally said. It was Enjolras’s turn to nod.

Together they made their way across the field to find their friends in the group of kids gathered, all of them under the big sky in the middle of nowhere, looking up at the Lights.

[alicedrawslesmis]

@ Grantaire being The Hot One and Enjolras being average: what are the implications of this when Enjolras sends Navet off to Corinthe in Preliminary Gayeties?

Also, would Grantaire be happier if he had more company? Or would he rant and ramble about the state of the world all the same?

(sorry abt any future typos this is a borrowed phone)

the thing I think would change the most in the story is that Grantaire would be actually listened to, even when he's usually so full pf shit. People would just stare because he's the Hot One unbothered that he's saying nonsense. Obviously that would mean they are enabling his worst habits, and I think Grantaire would be a worse person for that. He'd go on about life being rewarded for his flaws, I think he wouldn't get any happier with it he'd just get bolder with his antics

the dynamic between him and Enjolras would be radically different since E is not the Hot One illuminated by the dawn etc and Grantaire would not be obssessed with him right away, he might only be once he hears him talk in one of his Symbolism moments and be like 'oh shit that's hot' that's even assuming he'd even go to the ABC meetings, but he'd not go there for Enjolras. Bossuet and Joly would have to drag him there

As for Enjolras, now that would change him a lot as far as R is concerned. Noticing that people listen to Grantaire that could either lead to him just kicking Grantaire out of the group for being a distraction or maybe realise on some level that this is an asset to the Revolution. He's pragmatic that way. But Grantaire is still Grantaire, so he can't help. So it could go from Enjolras ignoring Grantaire and basically forgetting that he exists once he's out of view to Enjolras knows this guy could rile up a crowd he just needs to figure out How

So I think they'd be closer, but Enjolras would actually dislike him this time.

in preliminary gaieties I think he'd still send a note to l'aigle, he knows Grantaire can't be trusted with it

Enjolras being the average guy does mean that he can't just stand there and be the Revolution in form of a person he needs to try a lot harder. He can get his moments of grandeur but other than that he's an average guy. There would be a lot more reliance on Courfeyrac to lead and Combeferre to direct the group (meaning the group is less radical). Bahorel would have to take a bugger role, and I think Feuilly would take a smaller one seeing that Enjolras is busy Trying Harder. Or he would have a much much larger role since Enjolras would rely more on him too. It's all a question of balancing people

and finally since the group is less disciplined they would bring dates in the meetings, probably to flirt. Girls would be allowed in but since they weren't brought because they care about the cause just to date they aren't really in it for the revolution and that makes things complicated (but I bet sone of them would be really good for the group Enjolras. try to find some girls that believe in the cause they would do you some good)

that's just some thoughts I had about this AU

[midasinc]

modern era jehan hcs:

-jehan is the only member of les amis still in university. they're in their senior year atm and they're majoring in theatre! courfeyrac is already planning an extravagant grad party

-(from pet hcs) they're really handy and creative with diy projects and work around the apartment, so jehan has created an entire play area for their rats. it's very big, very elaborate so that they don't get bored when jehan is at class

-speaking of being handy, bahorel/feuilly/jehan are practically a maintenance crew for the rest of their friends. jehan in particular is weirdly good at sorting out plumbing problems and issues with showers, so they'll always take on a job for something small in return (typically just lunch)

-for the past year and a half, jehan has had a podcast with enjolras. they do three episodes a week (when possible): two that are about whatever jehan wants to blabber on about and one where enjolras can rant and rave about politics, politicians, companies, and whatever else is bothering him atm. jehan's youtube channel has gotten suspended before due to enjolras's "inflammatory language", so now they have a printed out list of words/phrases enjolras isn't allowed to use when they're on-air. there's also an episode where one of jehan's rats crawls into enjolras's lap when he isn't paying attention and when he notices, he shrieks so loud that it momentarily blows out his mic.

-the podcast only has 38 listeners, but to jehan that is a HUGE number

-jehan is really big into nail care. whether that means taking care of their cuticles or painting their nails, they are very particular about how they treat their hands and their nails. their hands are always moisturized and their nails are always clipped evenly and filed into uniform shapes. when other people are over, jehan will do their nails and let them go off about their life

-they also belong to a slam poetry organization and they love slam poetry, but they haven't ever won a competition. their excuse is that their poetry is too deep for everyone else (in reality, their delivery is so corny but they don't know that yet)

-(from tween era hcs) eponine is actually a really good friend of jehan's! they were in that creative writing club together in middle school and to this day, jehan will send her poems they wrote and will receive short stories that eponine wrote herself. jehan brought her to the slam poetry club one time, but eponine accidentally started laughing during someone else's act and got the both of them kicked out for the night. they really like having her over for sleepovers and movies

-i believe in chub jehan supremacy. jehan is perfect for being a big spoon and they have ass for days goodbye and goodnight

-THEIR HAIR IS NOT NATURALLY GINGER !!!!! jehan dyes their hair, like, every other month. their natural hair is very very dark. they get it from their mom, who's from tahiti and immigrated from french polynesia before marrying jehan's dad and jehan really resembles their mom. they tan super easily and have a naturally dark complexion, but they saw a ginger model one time on instagram and started vibrating because they decided in that instant that they were going to dye their hair. at the moment, their roots are very grown out; they havent had time to hit the hair salon

-they have this one gucci shirt that- oh my god. everyone hates it. jehan thinks it's so awesome but oh my god it's awful. nowhere near worth the price. courfeyrac wants to steal it in the middle of the night and throw it away but jehan would beat the shit out of him. they think it's the best purchase they ever made (asides from their rats <3) and they flaunt it like they're at the met gala. they essentially ARE at the met gala- but they're the celebrity that everyone roasts for three years afterwards because it's THAT ugly