#both of them make courfeyrac cry with their fashion choices

[maggie44paint]

someone here on tumblr once said that modern AU Enjolras would 100% wear hawaiian shirts so I couldn't help myself

[kcrabb88]

A Sort of Electric Spark

Note: A piece for Barricade Day 2019. 

As midnight settles over the barricade, Enjolras takes a moment to mourn the deaths of Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire. Courfeyrac soon joins him, and then the rest of his friends. The remaining Amis grieve together, missing two of their own without knowing what the dawn holds. 

In the beyond, two souls wait. 

An impossible, raven-black midnight falls over the barricade.

Enjolras looks up at the sky, searching for any scattered stars. He finds a few, latching onto their dim light and pulling that light into himself. The crescent moon is lost among the deep, impenetrable black, the clouds holding it hostage. Enjolras sits down on the ground in a dark, shadowed corner outside the Corinthe, snatching just a tiny fraction of a moment alone. He looks toward the Corinthe itself, weak candlelight spilling out from the window of the room where their ill and dead lay. The orange glow drips onto the paving stones outside, revealing the smears of red-brown blood on the stone.

Bahorel is dead.

Before Enjolras could even catch his breath, Jean Prouvaire died, too.

He remembers the chills that shot up his back and down his arms when he realized Jehan was missing, taken in that first breach of the barricade that stole Bahorel’s laughter.

He saw Bahorel fall. He saw the smirk on his face die in a moment of grim surprise as the guard thrust the bayonet into his chest, fresh, bright blood pouring from the wound and onto his scarlet waistcoat.

Enjolras wanted to run to Bahorel, then. But Bahorel was dead in a minute. Less, perhaps. Lucky, because he wasn’t in pain, though it left no room for even a fleeting goodbye. He remembers hearing Jean Prouvaire call Bahorel’s name in a strangled, grief-stricken cry, the sound piercing the night sky like the final lines of an epic, tragic poem, soaked in tears and blood.

He lost track of Jean Prouvaire after that.

Long live the future!

He remembers those words. Those final, fateful words. He remembers the anger bubbling up in him like hot, sticky, inevitable lava when he spun around to the police spy, the boiling rage turned cold as it left his lips.

Your friends have just shot you.

Truth be told, part of him wanted to shoot Javert then and there, but good sense won out.

Jean Prouvaire understood him, somehow, when he shot that man in the head. Although, Jean Prouvaire understood so much. More than most.

As for myself, constrained as I am to do what I have done, and yet abhorring it, I have judged myself also, and you shall soon see to what I have condemned myself.

Death. Death is all around him. He knew it would be, but the reality of watching his friends fall is something else entirely. Something he could never prepare himself for, no matter how much he might have tried. He prepared himself too, for taking life on the barricade, though he shivers at the memory of that particular incident, done not in the heat of battle, but with a rationality as everyone else watched. There was nothing for it—it had to be done, but it did not make the doing less gruesome.

Oh, Enjolras, Prouvaire said to him once, when they both stayed late at the Musain, his friend’s lips stained red with wine. You can keep no secrets from me, you know. You are not so mysterious.

Mysterious? Enjolras asked. Have I ever claimed such?

No, Prouvaire said, leaning across the table, that particular glimmer in his eye, that glimmer that made Enjolras feel as if Jehan might have lived a thousand lives before and just wasn’t saying so. But I think you worry, sometimes, that you struggle to articulate how much you love us all. But we know, Enjolras. We all know. You are not so hard to read, if one knows you well.

Prouvaire’s face appears in his mind’s eye, the light brown eyes filled with determination as he leans over a poem, the page splattered with black ink. Prouvaire’s hair was always over long, and Enjolras sees it now, the reddish-blond strands falling from behind his ear and onto the paper, the tips just brushing the still wet drops of ink.

That’s when Enjolras feels the tears coming. He sucks in a breath, trying to stop them. He doesn’t have time for his grief, not when they must sort bodies and tend to the ill and repair the barricade and and and…

The grief leaves him no choice.

The grief comes, anyway.

It crawls up from the pit of his stomach and pushes against his chest, the white-hot tears finally falling from his eyes, some of them landing on the blood-streaked stones beneath his feet.

I so admire you for your gravity, Enjolras, he hears Bahorel whisper in his ear, a memory of a few months ago. But I think today what you need is a bit of laughter. Don’t you agree?

Enjolras laughed softly at just those words. You don’t think I laugh enough, Bahorel?

Oh, you laugh, Bahorel said then. But it’s that quiet, dignified chuckle, you see. I like to make you really laugh. You snort when you find something particularly funny, and I’ve only heard that, oh a handful of times. I aim to make it happen again today.

He cries harder, feeling the sobs rack his body as he fights for control of himself.

He puts a hand over his mouth, stifling the noise and trapping it all against his palm.

He misses them, and it’s only been hours. The future lays out in front of him like an infinite mystery. Will his other friends survive? Will he? Will they come out victorious? He would lay down his own life to achieve the other two things, but he does not get to dictate the end of this simply by swearing a sacrifice. He wishes he could. He wishes and wishes and wishes.

This was never a guarantee. Not once. Not ever in the course of history. The point is in the trying, and both Bahorel and Jean Prouvaire knew that. And if enough people tried, if enough people tried again and again and again as time flowed on, then one day, they might win. Even with winning there would always be another fight. Their problems were like a hydra—many headed and complex—but it did not make the vanquishing any less necessary or immediate, even if everything could not be won at once, nor taken with a strategy that would only leave them with more struggles than they started with.

The future builds itself not by some inevitable course of progress, but through the reverent and constant dedication of anyone who might believe they can help better the world. That belief takes many different forms and follows different paths, but that truth remains.

Long live the future!

He hears Jehan’s last words again, ringing louder inside his head.

He thinks of another memory, one of the last memories he has of Bahorel and Prouvaire before they heard the news of General Lamarque’s death. They were all stuffed into Combeferre’s rooms, all nine of them together, and Bahorel was sitting on Combeferre’s sofa with his waistcoat undone and his sleeves rolled up, Jehan splayed out across the cushions with his head resting on Bahorel’s thigh. Prouvaire was saying something about one of the poets or dramatists both he and Bahorel admired, waving his hands about while he told the story. Something he said made Bahorel really, truly laugh, throwing his head back against the sofa as the sound filled the room and sent a smile sliding across Enjolras’ lips, even if he didn’t know what they were talking about.

Here in his place of darkness and death, that’s how he’ll remember them.

More tears come, after that, and he jerks up when he hears the sound of footsteps coming toward him, a warm, familiar voice whispering his name.

“Enjolras?”

Courfeyrac.

“Enjolras?” Courfeyrac repeats, stepping closer to him. “Are you all right?”

Enjolras wipes his eyes, not quite able to speak just yet. He nods, but Courfeyrac knows him far too well for that silent lie.

Courfeyrac gives him a sad, half heartbroken smile, sitting right down on the ground with Enjolras and crossing his legs. “Even when you’re looking for darkness you still sit near a little bit of light, don’t you?” Courfeyrac gestures at the candle in the window.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispers, willing his voice to work. “I just needed a brief moment I….I’m afraid I let myself get upset.”

Courfeyrac leans forward, thumbing away some of the stray tears with a careful, gentle touch, his fingers moving to brush Enjolras’ loose, golden curls behind his ears.

“Your hair is too long again,” Courfeyrac says, his voice trembling. “Brushing the tops of your shoulders, almost. So unfashionable, Enjolras, it’s not the 18th century, you know. What will I do with you?”

“Prouvaire’s always was too long, as well.” Enjolras feels his voice grow a touch stronger as he shares his grief with someone else who knows it all too well.

“Yes, well…” Courfeyrac murmurs, his hands coming to rest on either side of Enjolras’ face. “I never knew what to do with him, either, and all his medieval clothes. Bahorel was the one with the fashion sense.” Courfeyrac’s voice cracks here, and Enjolras learns forward, pressing their foreheads together as Courfeyrac moves his hands to take Enjolras’ own. “You’re allowed to be upset, Enjolras. I know we don’t have much time…” Courfeyrac trails off here, and Enjolras isn’t certain whether he means because of the work they need to do on the barricade, or with life itself. “But you’re allowed a moment. You’re allowed a moment for our friends.”

A thousand arguments brim on Enjolras’ lips, but he doesn’t pay them mind, tonight. Not when Courfeyrac is looking at him like that, with tears swimming in his dark green eyes, a thin slice of moonlight falling on his brown curls as the clouds finally move away. Courfeyrac pulls Enjolras into a tight, long embrace, his touch lifting away some of the heaviness in his chest. Enjolras runs his hand up and down Courfeyrac’s back, reveling for a moment in all the tiny signs of life: the heat of Courfeyrac’s skin in the late spring weather, his slightly hitched breaths, the feeling of his fingers clutching onto Enjolras’ shirt.

“I love you, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac’s words pierce the air like a warm, invisible magic, and Enjolras doesn’t just hear them. He feels them, too.

“I love you, too.” Enjolras’ voice shakes as he speaks, and he doesn’t swallow that vulnerability back. He wants Courfeyrac to hear it. He wants Courfeyrac to know just how much he loves him, because none of them know whether tomorrow might be the end.

They break apart then, another familiar figure squatting down next to them, the newly revealed moonlight glinting against his spectacles.

Combeferre.  

“There you two are,” he says gently, having been crying himself. Even if others might not notice, Enjolras knows, because he knows Combeferre. “We were all looking for you.”

Enjolras looks up, seeing Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly standing a few feet away, the newly revealed moonlight making their faces soft and silver. Enjolras thinks the gold of dawn suits them better, but he’ll take whatever light he can find, right now. The paint stains on Feuilly’s fingers are visible under the moon’s glow, which also accentuates Joly’s freckles and winks off the edge of Bossuet’s sad smile.

Combeferre helps both Enjolras and Courfeyrac up from the ground, keeping a hold of their hands as they walk over to the others. There’s no need for words, really, because they already know. All of them.

They’re missing two of their own. They’re missing two pieces of their hearts. Their souls.

And they don’t know what the dawn will bring.

Enjolras has perhaps never been more aware of his own breathing as he is right now. Never more aware of his heartbeat. Never more aware of the smell of the evening breeze and the faint sounds of a sleeping city. These are things he often doesn’t pay attention to, because he is always doing something, always thinking, that sometimes those simple pleasures don’t occur to him as often as they ought to. But he feels Prouvaire’s poetry in the air tonight, bidding him to stop, and stand still.

All of them gather into one embrace, holding tight to each other.

“If I know anything,” Enjolras whispers, closing his eyes and soaking up the presence of these people he loves best, and the absence of two others. He feels Paris itself breathing around him, wondering whether or not the people will rise with the sun. “It’s that you all represent the best parts of the future we dream of. And that we have tried. That we have lived. And that whatever happens, there is no one I would rather face tomorrow with. You, and the two we’re missing.”

“To Jean Prouvaire,” Feuilly says, meeting Enjolras’ eyes as they all break apart. “Our poet.”

“To Bahorel,” Joly adds, wiping his eyes.

“Our very own brawler for the good of man.” Bossuet raises his hand to the sky in absence of a glass, his eyes flickering briefly to the upstairs of the Corinthe, where Grantaire still sleeps. “I imagine wherever they are now, they’re together.”

“Look.” Combeferre grasps Enjolras’ arm, pointing upward. “A shooting star. Or. Well it’s not really a star, it’s a bit of meteorite. But still. Lovely.”

Courfeyrac shakes his head, his soft laughter like music to Enjolras’ ears. “Let’s just call it a star, for tonight.”

Enjolras looks up, watching a brilliant streak of silver shoot across the black sky before it vanishes.

Prouvaire was always the one who believed in signs, but tonight, Enjolras thinks he does too.

I see you, Enjolras says inside his head, hoping, praying, even, that something exists beyond this world, that his friends can hear him. Their bodies might be gone from this earthly plane, but their spark still stays with rest of them, and Enjolras holds it close to his chest. And I suspect I might be seeing you soon.

                                                                       #

“Where do you suppose we are?”

Bahorel asks the question, standing in wide, white, empty space with Jean Prouvaire. Prouvaire finds the place delightfully eerie, or at least he would, if he weren’t still processing the fact that he’s dead.

And the sense that they’re waiting for something.

“In some kind of in-between sort of place, obviously,” Jehan says, his hand still grasping Bahorel’s sleeve, which he hasn’t let go of since they both woke up here, their deaths separated by only a short stint of time. He remembers watching Bahorel fall. He remembers swallowing the horrible wave of nausea that swept him up in its grasp and the way his heart seemed to thrum throughout his entire body, those memories almost more vivid than his own of being taken by the guards. Of his own execution.

Bahorel laughs, the sound echoing even louder than before. “Obviously. I’d like to shoot those men who shot you. See if I don’t.”

Prouvaire smiles at him, blinking back a few tears. “We’re dead, darling. You can’t.”

“Never say never to me, Jean Prouvaire.”

“Hush.” Prouvaire waves his hand in the air to cut Bahorel off. “I hear something. Someone’s coming.”

Prouvaire narrows his eyes, watching one figure come through the white haze in front of him.

Two figures. Three. Four.

Joly first. Then Bossuet. Then Feuilly. Then Courfeyrac, all one after the other.

Prouvaire’s hand slides down from Bahorel’s sleeve to his hand, still unwilling to let go. Before they reach their friends another figure appears, three bayonet wounds marking him.

Combeferre.

All seven of them crash into one another, and Prouvaire starts crying.

“You’re here,” he says, kissing each of their foreheads in turn. “We…we waited.”

“Didn’t have much of a choice,” Bahorel adds, his voice husky and near to cracking. “Where’s…”

“Grantaire was still asleep,” Combeferre answers, and his voice does crack. “Enjolras is…I don’t know. I think he went into the Corinthe but then I lost track of him.”

“Not a scratch on him, last I saw,” Feuilly adds, taking Prouvaire’s free hand when it’s offered. “Don’t know how.”

“Bastard,” Bahorel mutters fondly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“That’s Enjolras.” Courfeyrac turns as he speaks, hearing the same footsteps Prouvaire also hears, reaching back for Combeferre’s hand and taking it in his own.

Another, curly-haired figure appears through the white haze, looking disheveled, his face oddly full of color, even in death.

Grantaire.

“What’s…what the hell is this?” he asks outright, though he looks relieved to see them.

“Don’t know,” Bahorel answers, clapping him on the back.

“Where’s Enjolras?” Prouvaire asks, searching through the haze. He doesn’t want Enjolras to be dead, he only feels certain that he is.

“He…” Grantaire swallows, his hands shaking as Bossuet and Joly each take one in their own. “We were shot at the same time. Together. He took my hand so he must be…”

Then, a final figure walks through the haze, and Prouvaire sees the bloody marks of eight bullet wounds.

Enjolras.

Eight. One for each of their friends. Enjolras stops in his tracks, gazing at all of them as if he has never loved anything or anyone more, even here at the edge of time and space.

Prouvaire of course, has always known that Enjolras loved only one thing more than the cause he dedicated his life to.

All of them.

Prouvaire reaches Enjolras first, putting his hands out for Enjolras to take as Bahorel comes around to his side, throwing an arm around his shoulders.

“We waited for you,” Prouvaire says, pulling Enjolras’ hands toward him and pressing a kiss to his knuckles.

Enjolras presses Prouvaire’s hands tight, giving Bahorel a smile. “Where are we going?”

Not where are we, but where are we going?

“Onward,” Prouvaire whispers. “Wherever that may go. Lead the way, Enjolras?”

Enjolras smiles, and even in death it’s dazzling.

“All right,” he says, very softly. “Let’s go.”

After that, there is only a warm, bright light, and maybe, just maybe, the voices of those who came before them and the ones who will come behind, all ringing out in one unified chorus, welcoming them to whatever lies beyond.