#combeferrre

[ptompetompetomalleyways]

abc it’s easy as 123!

Forget star signs, everyone should have a sun, a moon and a rising Ami of the ABC

[lys-9-10]

Posted Ch. 5 of In which Enjolras spurns Grantaire's affections and Éponine gives him a piece of her mind... possibly prompting him to reconsider This story is not going where i thought it would... I love when that happens. Feel like im discovering it the way a reader is. Excerpt:

Enjolras sat with his elbow on the coffee table, his forehead on the heel of his palm, and his shoulders slumped. It was an odd look on him — the man’s usual posture was extremely erect, adding to his formidable air of command and confidence. As such, Combeferre couldn’t help but start when his eyes fell upon his comrade after entering the coffee shop.

“Enjolras?” he said hesitantly, as he approached him from behind.

Enjolras lifted his head and looked around. Immediately upon making eye contact with Combeferre, he pulled an impassive look over his face. Then, he straightened his posture.

“Combeferre,” he said, nodding cordially. “Begging your pardon, I didn’t hear you arrive. You have the photocopies?” His eyes fell to the stack of papers tucked under Combeferre’s arm, which were the purpose of their meeting (some articles and book chapters Enjolras wished to read before the next ABC Meeting). “Ah. I see you do. Many thanks.” 

Enjolras stood up and held out his hand to receive the papers from Combeferre. But the latter’s eyebrows were drawn together in concern, and he didn’t offer them. “You look pale,” he said instead. “Are you ill, Enjolras?” 

“What? No. I’m in good health.” 

“Is something troubling you, then?” 

Enjolras bristled. “No,” he said again, rather more sharply than he intended.

The slightest flicker of hurt crossed Combeferre’s face, before he promptly wiped it away and smiled — with only his mouth. “Glad to hear it. Here are the photocopies. Feel free to call, if you want to discuss them prior to the meeting.” 

Combeferre extended the papers, placing them in Enjolras’s still outstretched palm. But Enjolras merely stood stock still, his face stricken. For a moment both men stared at each other, frozen, the stack of papers held between them. Then Combeferre’s brow furrowed again.  

“Enjolras...” Combeferre began. But he stopped before he completed a sentence. 

Was it worth trying to probe further at Enjolras’s wall? Such efforts had always proven fruitless before... Combeferre had long learned to accept that this was simply the way Enjolras was — he only ever related to people in a professional, detached capacity. There was no such thing as Enjolras unburdening himself to a friend, Enjolras sharing what was on heart... 

In the early days of their — not friendship. Partnership? — Combeferre had not yet understood this. He thought maybe Enjolras just needed time to grow comfortable with a person. And so, he would occasionally extend invitations for Enjolras to open up a little more, relate in a more friendly capacity. He’d do so in the most tactful, gentle manner of course, as was always Combeferrre’s modus operandi.

But Enjolras never took the bait. And eventually, Combeferre stopped trying. It had been years, in fact, since Combeferre had stopped trying. 

All that being said, it remained the case that Combeferre’s nature was overwhelmingly warm and caring. And the sight of Enjolras’s stricken face was enough for Combeferre’s nature to overcome his logic.

“Enjolras, why don’t we sit down for a bit,” Combeferre said kindly. He placed a hand on the man’s shoulders and gently guided him back down into his chair. “I’ll order us a couple teas.” 

To Combeferre’s surprise, Enjolras did not resist. 

When their teas came — rooibos, Enjolras’s favourite — Combeferre was still thoughtfully considering how he could try to broach the conversation with Enjolras. He was taken rather off guard, therefore, when Enjolras spoke first. “Combeferre, am I an asshole?” The question was abrupt. Enjolras’s voice was rough as he asked it — for the roughness served to cover more vulnerable emotions.

“Pardon me?” Combeferre was genuinely astonished. When Enjolras didn’t speak again, Combeferre collected himself. “Why would you ask that?”

Enjolras stared at his rooibos. “Last night I was an asshole to Grantaire,” he said to his mug. “Despite the fact that I was determined not to be anymore. And I was an asshole to Éponine and her siblings, who were gracious enough to have me in their home... I left abruptly, in a manner that was entirely lacking in the most basic decorum…” Enjolras’s eyes finally flicked upwards and met Combeferre’s. “And just now, I was an asshole to you.” Combeferre was enduring a remarkable clash of emotions. He was at once stunned that Enjolras was opening up to him this way, excited by the novelty of the experience, and filled with pained compassion at the plight that had prompted it. He frowned slightly in concentration, attempting to collect himself. Wetting his lips, he considered his response. “You can be a little chilly sometimes, Enjolras,” Combeferre admitted finally. “But I would never call you an asshole.” 

“I snapped at you just now.”

Combeferre shrugged. “I was prying.” “You weren’t. You were being kind.”

Combeferre hesitated — then he inclined his head in grateful acknowledgement. “Perhaps so,” he said. “But a harsh tone now and then doesn’t make someone an asshole. You care far too much to be an asshole, Enjolras.” 

Enjolras scoffed bitterly. “Care about what? About concepts and ideals, but not about people? Care about progress, but not about those whom progress is intended to serve? A sad paradox that is.” Enjolras glowered darkly. Then, he added in a low tone: “Éponine was right about me.” 

Combeferre cocked his head. “You’re speaking of that day when Éponine told you off at Le Café Musain?” 

Enjolras nodded. 

Combeferre hummed. “I thought you and Éponine had resolved your differences since then? Were you not invited to a movie night at her apartment? Presumably that’s where you were last night when you left ‘without basic decorum’?”

Enjolras sighed. “It was Grantaire who invited me,” he said. “Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, Éponine said things about me that day which were true. Perhaps she had softened her opinion of me since then… but if so, she was mistaken to do so. And I’m sure she knows that now after the way I treated her best friend last night… again.”

Combeferre’s gaze was soft and compassionate as he said, “Tell me what happened.”

Enjolras heaved another sigh, then recounted the events of the evening — how Grantaire had invited him to dance, and how he had sharply refused and walked out, leaving the devastated expressions of Grantaire and Éponine in his wake.

At the end of the recounting, Combeferre rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Why didn’t you want to dance with Grantaire?” 

Enjolras reddened slightly. “Because…” He trailed off — then, with the air of decision, shook his head. “I’m not at liberty to say. It involves Grantaire’s personal matters, which are not mine to share.” 

Combeferre arched an eyebrow. “You’re not just talking about his crush on you, are you? Because everybody knows about that.” 

Enjolras’s mouth fell open. “What?” he said, astounded. “They do?” 

Combeferre burst into laughter, rocking into the back of his chair. “Crowley, Enjolras, I never knew you were so thick!”

Enjolras’s flush deepened and he scowled. Combeferre allowed himself a few more chuckles — then he sobered and regarded Enjolras with an earnest eye. 

“Now look here, Enjolras,” he said. “Would an asshole have made a point of protecting Grantaire’s privacy like that?” 

Enjolras blinked. He stared at Combeferre for a moment — then he bowed his head. “Thank you,” he said quietly. 

Combeferre’s eyes crinkled in a soft smile. He reached across the table and briefly squeezed Enjolras’s hand. The man’s blue eyes darted up to his as he did so, and something entirely new — a silent moment of genuine connection — passed between them. It made Combeferre feel as though his heart had grown a size.

“Alright,” Combeferre said, folding his hands in front of him again. “So Grantaire has a crush on you. And therefore you didn’t want to dance with him because…?” He left the end of the sentence open, for Enjolras to finish. 

“Well, I don’t wish to give him the wrong impression.” 

“… The wrong impression being that you return his feelings?” 

“Quite so.” 

Combeferre eyed Enjolras carefully. “So you don’t, then.” 

Enjolras’sbrows pushed up his forehead. “Did you think I did?” 

“Well, certainly not before. But… I confess I was surprised when he invited you for a movie night and you said yes. I’ve never known you to accept invitations of that nature in the past.” 

“No,” Enjolras said thoughtfully. “Indeed not.” He furrowed his brow, meditating for a moment. “Truth be told, Combeferre, I don’t know what’s come over me of late. Ever since Éponine ranted at me that day at Le Café, I…” He trailed off. Then huffed in exasperation. How could he possibly explain to Combeferre what he didn’t understand himself? He pressed his palm to his forehead, thinking. “I used to hate background noise,” he said at last, fixing Combeferre with a serious gaze, as though he was imparting crucial information. “It interfered with my ability to think. But lately, I’ve been coming home and my apartment has felt so… silent. I hate it. I’ll do something completely out of character, like turn on the tv — or even something nonsensical, like turn on the fan above the stovetop, just so there’s noise.” 

Combeferre frowned, mulling over this information. “Are you trying to avoid thinking? Is there something on your mind which is uncomfortable for you to spend time thinking about?” 

Enjolras shrugged. “Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t think I’m trying to avoid thinking, per se... I’m just trying to avoid the silence.” 

“Why? How does the silence make you feel?” 

Enjolras hesitated. His eyes searched Combeferre’s face for a moment. He saw nothing there but empathy and trustworthiness… So, he ducked his head and said in a low voice: “It reminds me that there’s no one in my apartment but me.” 

Combeferre’s eyes widened. In a flash, he understood.

He never thought it could happen. He didn’t think Enjolras was made of the stuff that got lonely. And quite certainly, he wasn’t before. 

But something had obviously changed. Something about the way that girl Éponine had marched into Le Cafe to stick up for her friend — something about the words she’d said to Enjolras at the time — it all seemed to have gotten under Enjolras’s skin. It had evidently launched a process in which the frigid ABC Leader had started to say yes to things like movie night invitations… And Combeferre did not doubt that going to a family movie night had given Enjolras plenty of other material to remind him of his lonely lifestyle. 

“Enjolras,” Combeferre said suddenly. “You know…” He paused and wet his lips. “You don’t have to wait for an invitation from Grantaire to get out of the silence of your apartment. Don’t get me wrong — it’s wonderful you and Grantaire are becoming friends. I encourage you to keep that relationship up, if you can do so without leading him on. But all I’m trying to say is: I’m always around too, Enjolras.” He hesitated a moment, before adding in a somewhat lower voice. “Always have been.” 

Enjolras gazed silently at Combeferre… And perhaps Combeferre was imagining it, but he thought he saw the slightest shine of moisture in them. 

In that moment, Enjolras realized that what Combeferre had said about him in jest was, in fact, true. He really was thick. For Combeferre had always been there. Loneliness had never been a necessity for Enjolras. It had only ever been his choice.

“Thank you, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, his voice was husky and thick with emotion. “I will remember that.” 

Combeferre smiled... And so did Enjolras.

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[lesamisandlesmiserables]

Do any of you believe in love at first sight?

Feuilly: I loved these guys at first sight.

Montparnasse: I believe in annoyance at first slight.

Javert: Nope.

Cosette: Such a thought is a one of beauty so intoxicating it is delirious!  Of course I believe in love at first sight- ah, it feels to me one of the surest things. For eyes to meet and, with but a single glance, love finding a match! Well…I do admit some doubt may be expressed in the matter, and perhaps a true first sight is more important to state. But, yes. 

Babet: Bold of you to assume I believe in love at all.

Gavroche: Love’s gross, but everyone who sees me loves me

Claquesous: annoyance at second, and third, and forth sight-

Bossuet: I don’t think I’ve ever fallen in love that fast. It’s a development and tends to happen with people I knew before.

Valjean: Of course I believe in love at first sight. How else would I have known my daughter?

Bahorel: It’s what I felt when I met my cats. To be fair is what I feel everytime I see any cat .

Combeferre: I mean, I’ve never really thought about it because I tend to go for the chemical definition of love, but didn’t some author write something along the lines of, “The power of a glance has been so much abused in love stories, that it has come to be disbelieved in. Few people dare now to say that two beings have fallen in love because they have looked at each other. Yet it is in this way that love begins, and in this way only.”

Marius: OF COURSE I BELIEVE IN LOVE AT FIRST SIGHT I MEAN WHO DOESN’T!?!?!?!?!? It’s amazing! It’s magical! It’s miraculous!!! How is it possible? Two complete strangers just LOOK at each other, and BAM! It’s hard to believe but it’s true! Not to say that I’ve ever experienced it… because I haven’t… but I know people who have and it’s a REAL phenomenon. 

Fantine: I think you can think it is real. You only know if it was actually love at first sight if that person proves themselves to there through thick and thin. 

Enjolras: Not at first sight, no.

[m-siecle]

Enjolras was the more virile, Combeferre the more humane. Homo and vir, that was the exact effect of their different shades. Combeferre was as gentle as Enjolras was severe, through natural candidness. He loved the word citizen, but he preferred the word man. He would gladly have said: Hombre, like the Spanish. He read everything, went to the theatres, attended the courses of public lecturers 

Hugo, Les Misérables, III.IV.I

.

Ad caedes hominum prisca amphitheatra patebant, ut discant longum vivere nostra patent

The amphitheatres of the past were open for the massacre of people, ours are open for them to learn to live a long time

Santeul, inscription on the amphitheatre of Saint-Cosme and Saint-Damien, later inscribed in the new amphitheatre.

.

In the nineteenth century, the shape of the amphitheatre imposed itself on all disciplines. It is the place of the great public courses per excellence, open to all, at the Sorbonna as at the Collège de France. The professional space has bcome a place of prestige and representation comparble to theatres and operas. After 1880, in the faculties of the University of Paris, amphitheatres are constructed in great number: concieved with attention to technical problems, furnished with modern equipments best adapted to the discipline taught, sumptuousy decorated, they are a place where different actors come together (professors, students, mere auditors) and where varius rites are carried out.

Christian Hottin. Un lieu d’enseignement : l’amphithéâtre, espace du cours magistral. Universités et grandes écoles à Paris, les palais de la science, 222 p., Action artistique de la Ville de Paris, p. 45-52., 1999, Paris et son patrimoine.

[just-french-me-up]

Triptych

Enjoltaire Week | Day 1 | Painting

Summary:  Three portraits are discovered in a hidden cellar in Paris, all three dating back from the nineteenth century. What's weird is that the man in the portraits looks an awful lot like Enjolras. What's weirder is that the paintings are all signed "R."

Tags: Modern AU; Reincarnation AU; Rated G

Word count: 3.5k

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"Remind me why anyone would choose to watch what is considered to be the worst movie in history?"

Enjolras sat on the couch and balanced a huge bowl of popcorn on his lap. Courfeyrac's picks for movie night were usually more mainstream and understandable. Well. As understandable as romantic comedies could be, but at least they didn't require much brain activity. At least it allowed Enjolras to switch off his brain and shove handfuls of popcorn into his mouth while wondering how heteronormativity and dumb misunderstandings had become such crowd-pullers.

"That's because it's an experience!" Courfeyrac argued, slumping on the couch next to Enjolras and seriously compromising the balance of the popcorn bowl. "As your best friend, I just can't let you die a Room virgin!"

"What's so great about it, anyway?"

"Everything! The acting is so bad! It's like... You know how people say that if you let monkeys in a room full of typewriters the monkey would eventually end up rewriting Shakespeare? Well switch the monkeys with aliens who only have a vague idea of how human interactions work and you've got The Room! It's flipping fantastic!"

Enjolras shrugged. The enjoyment of intrinsically bad media was beyond him.

"There are some really interesting studies about trash movies and their ironical audience, actually," Combeferre chimed in as he joined them in the living room. He brought heavy-looking pizza plates that he settled on the coffee table before settling next to Courfeyrac. "Something about collectively liking something so bad that it gets good."

"Exactly!" Courfeyrac exclaimed, triumphant. "So sit back and brace yourself for this absolute masterpiece."

He switched on the TV and started rummaging through the pile of DVDs to find the right one. Automatically, the first channel popped up on screen. The news were still on and a generic news anchor looked at the three of them in the eyes.

"Wait," Enjolras said before Courfeyrac could switch on the DVD player.

"And tonight we come back on an incredible discovering in Paris earlier today," the news anchor announced, "when three paintings were discovered in a cellar in the Latin Quarter. The three works of art allegedly date back from the nineteenth century and predate the Haussmanian renovations of the capital. For more on this story, we go to Olivier Barron in the Latin Quarter, Olivier?"

The three paintings appeared on screen. Silence fell on the living room, leaving nothing but the artificial chatter of the television. In his seat, Enjolras turned to stone.

"-Twitter already rushed to title the works names such as 'Apollo in Red'-"

"Enjolras..."

That jaw line. That nose. The same eye colour. Enjolras' throat tightened. A cold shiver ran down his spine.

"Holy shit," Courfeyrac whispered. "Enj, it's you!"

Enjolras shuffled some papers around, trying to get his hands on notes he had written down the night before, somewhere around his third cup of coffee o'clock. There were some points about the upcoming the labour reform he really wanted to discuss during the meeting, if only he could find the damn thing. A pat on his shoulder took him by surprise.

"I think you're looking for this," Combeferre said, handing him the very notes he was looking for. "I forgot to tell you I took it. I just added a few remarks."

'A few remarks' in Combeferre's vocabulary entailed enthusiastic and colourful highlighting and additional notes scribbled in the margins that were illegible, including to Combeferre himself. Still, two minds were better than one, and Combeferre's mind was an undeniable asset. Enjolras took the revised notes with a smile.

"Thanks, I'll read though them."

Combeferre nodded and took his seat between Courfeyrac and Feuilly. Enjolras was the only one standing at this point, towering over his notes and the various things he had brought with him. The chatter began to fade. They all turned their attention towards him. The meeting officially begun.

"Okay, guys, so I thought we could start things off with some details about the labour reform and how―"

"Er-Sorry," Courfeyrac cut off, "but aren't we going to talk about the fact that they found paintings that look exactly like Enjolras?"

His remark was met with a few raised eyebrows and confused looks. Enjolras nervously raked a hand through his hair. Courfeyrac had not let this go since the night before.

"Oh come on! It was all over the news! Didn't you see it?"

"Courf, I don't think it's―"

It was already too late. All the others had already taken their phones out. Enjolras stood there awkwardly while they checked the news, and even more awkwardly when their eyes went from the screens to him in shock. Joly's jaw dropped.

"Oh my god, Enjolras, it is you!" he exclaimed.

"There's even the mole on your shoulder!" Bahorel added.

"See? It's him, I'm telling you!"

Emboldened by the number of allies on his side, Courfeyrac started listing the similarities between the painting and Enjolras, much to the latter's dismay. Why did it matter? Maybe he had a nineteenth-century look alike who had the same mole at the same place. So what? Enjolras let out a long sigh that was immediately drowned in the voices rising from the table. He shared a look with Combeferre, who picked up on his mood.

"Okay, but can we try to focus on the meeting?" Combeferre tried, rushing to Enjolras' rescue.

Almost like reprimanded students, the rest of les Amis sat back properly on their chairs and quietened down. Enjolras nodded in Combeferre's direction as a 'thank you'.

"So, as I was saying―"

"It's signed R," Feuilly said, deadpan.

"What?"

"It's signed 'R.'," he repeated. "It written right here, 'all three works are signed by the same hand, an unknown painter only identified by the letter R.' R. Like Grantaire."

There was electricity in the air. All eyes turned towards Grantaire, who looked as stunned as the rest of them. The room grew suddenly silent.

"What?" Grantaire asked, shuffling uncomfortably on his chair.

"I mean, you have to admit it's weird," Bossuet said.

Grantaire pointedly avoided looking at Enjolras in the eyes, running his hand through his curls. That was a lot of coincidences, even for Enjolras. For a second, his mind when for outlandish scenarios about how Grantaire could have planted those paintings there for whatever reason, before his logic took over. No. That cellar had been buried underground for more than a century. There was no way for Grantaire to know it was there! And experts had already dated the paintings!

Enjolras cleared his voice.

"Grantaire, did you somehow go back in time to paint me before abandoning those paintings in a random cellar?"

Grantaire snorted.

"No."

"That's what I thought," Enjolras said, giving Courfeyrac a meaningful look. "Now, if that's settled, can we go back to the labour reform and how it's going to affect us all?"

The rest of the meeting went without a hitch, with the usual amount of wits, snark, and dedication Enjolras cherished in his friends. Joly had been in charge of writing down all the ideas and suggestions for them to use as a starting point the following week. All in all, an evening well spent.

They all lingered in the backroom of the Musain for a while, talking about more casual topics while they stacked the chairs against the wall. The room emptied slowly. Enjolras was putting his things away in his satchel when Jehan came up to him.

"Hey. Can we talk?"

They looked a little hesitant. Enjolras smiled at them in an attempt to put them at ease.

"Sure. What's up?"

"It's about that thing with the paintings."

Oh. Clearly something in his expression had changed, because Jehan rushed to add:

"Just hear me out. It's just―Listen, okay? Is it okay if we sit?"

Enjolras nodded and sat on one of the few remaining chair. Jehan took another and sat across from him. They looked very serious, all of a sudden.

"Okay, so when I was in highschool, I participated in that poetry contest my school organised every year. So I wrote my poem and submitted it, but it was denied. Plagiarism. Even though I'd written it all myself. I didn't get it, so I asked what the original poem was from, just to see it for myself. It was from an old poetry collection from the nineteenth century, a book that had been sleeping in the Parisian archives for decades. And my poem was in there. Word for word. And the rest of the book was just... me. My style. It was like an out of body experience."

Enjolras listened intentely. He didn't know what to think about it. It was too weird. Stuff like that... It was only weird coincidences, right? What was it that Courfeyrac said about monkeys and typewriters? Still, he could not deny the sick feeling weighing on his stomach.

"Do you know who wrote the poetry collection?"

Jehan shook their head.

"I asked, but the people at the archives just told me it was seized propriety from someone who had committed treason. Then maybe someone deemed the poetry good enough to archive it. There was no name on it. The last poem was written in 1832, and the pages are all blank, so I guess the poet was arrested around that time."

"Sounds like a free thinker," Enjolras smiled. "Maybe you have more in common than poetry. So you think it's a similar thing? That it's a coincidence?"

"I don't know," Jehan sighed. "But it's weird, right? I mean surely it means something. Stuff like that wouldn't randomly pop up unless there was an explanation behind it, even if it's not a scientific one."

That where Jehan differed from Enjolras. While Jehan accepted the metaphysical and the paranormal as a natural aspect of life, Enjolras' mind favoured more rational interpretations. It was weird, for sure. But people simply did not exist in two timelines. That didn't happen. They would know about it by now if it existed.

Enjolras rubbed his neck. It was stiff from staying up too late doing research on that fucking labour reform.

"I don't know what to tell you, Jehan. It's just beyond my understanding, you know? Maybe someone really looked like me, two hundred years ago. It happens. People have look alike, even today. As for the poem... I just don't know."

Jehan smiled at him softly and rubbed his shoulder.

"It's getting late, Enj'. Courf and Ferre are waiting for you. Get some rest, okay?"

"Thanks, Jehan. I'll try."

When Enjolras went to bed that night, he dreamt of a book of blank pages, and when he looked down, he had a rose in his breast pocket. The colour had bled onto his shirt, and the stain kept growing, and growing, and growing.

When he woke up, he could still smell a hint of gunpowder.

The following days were spend avoiding the news, which was highly inconvenient because a) Enjolras liked to keep himself informed and b) you never know how much news exposure there is until you try to avoid it. Enjolras just couldn't bear to see his face on the screen, or whoever's face it was. It freaked him out. It would have freaked anyone out. He didn't even know how Jehan coped with the fact that there was a book out there that mirrors their lyricism.

Eventually, he resorted to studying in his room, in the hope of avoiding the clutter of thoughts that raged in his mind. It's nothing, his reason kept telling him. In two centuries, at least two people were bound to look alike.

Still, he couldn't focus. He kept rereading the same sentence from his textbook over and over, none of it making much sense to a very noisy mind. Frustrated, Enjolras snapped the book closed and leant back against his chair. On his desk, his laptop was open on the google search page. He hesitated. Reason held back his hand, but another voice whispered to his ear. What if there was really something going on? Curiosity killed the cat, reason retorted. Enjolras took a deep breath.

Fuck it.

A quick search informed him that the paintings were being studied by experts in Paris, so that they could properly date it. A website had uploaded close up photographs of details, ranging from the golden laurel wreath crowning the model's head to his beauty marks. An uncomfortable feeling weighed on Enjolras' stomach. Even the details were uncanny.

The signature was studied under every angle, with matching hypothesis about who the painter could have been according to the loop of the R. People had really spent time on this. Enjolras was a stranger to art history and discoveries, so perhaps those paintings were a gold mine for people who worked in that field. Perhaps it was their Howard Carter discovering Tutankhamun's tomb moment.

He went back to the google homepage and typed "1832 France." The first results mentioned something about a cholera epidemic. Enjolras kept scrolling until something caught his eye. Republican Insurrection in Paris, 1832. Jean Maximilien Lamarque. He clicked the wikipedia link and started reading. Barricades, students, National Guard, Faubourg Saint-Martin... His eyes were glued to the screen.

That's something I could see myself participate in, Enjolras thought, before the uneasy feeling overwhelmed him again. That event felt too close for comfort. Yet, Enjolras kept on reading.

A knock on the door made him jump. He almost knocked his chair over, and himself with it. The sky had gone dark outside, and Enjolras's eyes had the greatest difficulty to adjust to the darkness. Someone switched the lights on.

"Are you okay?" Combeferre's voice asked.

"Yeah. I've just been staring at the screen for too long," Enjolras said, rubbing his eyes.

Though blurry, his vision got slightly better. For one thing, he could see Combeferre standing by the door. He was holding steaming mug in each of his hands.

"Is that coffee?"

"Infusion, actually," Combeferre smiled. "I came to see if you wanted one. You've been in here for hours, we were starting to get a little worried."

"I'm fine. I was just reading stuff."

Enjolras scratched his scalp and lifted his arm to accept Combeferrre's plant water. It wasn't coffee, but he had to admit he was parched. Combeferre sat on the bed next to him.

"Anything interesting?"

"Just history stuff. Very educational."

Enjolras closed the various tabs he had opened on the June Rebellion, accidentally missing the one about the three paintings. "Apollo in Red." The name seemed to have stuck.

"I thought you weren't interested in those," Combeferre pointed out, taking a sip out of his mug.

"I don't. I mean, I do but it's not... It's weird, right? I keep telling myself that it's not weird and that those kind of coincidences happen all the time, but it's still weird."

"Well it doesn't happen every day, that's for sure."

There was a moment of silence during which Enjolras sighed and dragged his hand across his face. His mind was buzzing.

"You look like you could use a break," Combeferre said, giving his shoulder a light squeeze. "Come. Courf is making dinner."

Enjolras nodded slowly. Maybe he did need a break. He followed Combeferre to the kitchen, holding his warm mug against his chest. In his room, Apollo in Red shone in the dark.

A few weeks passed. Enjolras still heard about Apollo in Red here and there, but it was quickly replaced by other, fresher stories. His heart still made a double back-flip when he heard that the experts had situated the completion of the pieces around the 1820s early 1830s. After that, he did his best to direct his mind towards the future to avoid dwelling on the distant past. Whatever happened to that sitter or the poet of Jehan's book, they were long gone. There was no time like the present.

Yet, in spite of his best efforts, Enjolras couldn't seem to escape the past. One morning, Courfeyrac presented him with a museum ticket, sliding the piece of paper across the breakfast bar.

"Thank you?" he said, a little confused. And sleepy.

"They're putting the paintings on display today," Courfeyrac explained. "Now you can see them from up close."

Enjolras' gaze went from Courfeyrac to the ticket. It was too early for this. He didn't even know if he wanted to be awake right now.

"Or you can just go to the museum after class," Courfeyrac shrugged, since Enjolras hadn't said anything. "For fun. Or whatever you go to museums for. Elevate your understanding of humanity, or some shit."

Enjolras let out a hoarse chuckle in his mug.

"I guess I'll consider that as a cultural outing. Thanks, Courf."

He carried the ticket around in his wallet for the rest of the day. By the end of it, Enjolras had forgotten up to its existence. It's only when he looked for his métro pass that he noticed the piece of paper stuck between his ID and his insurance card. The museum was only three stations away. For a minute, Enjolras stood there, debating whether or not he wanted to dive head first into the uncanny and the unexplainable. He looked at his watch. The museum was closing in an hour. The past can't hurt you, he thought as he got into the coach, waiting through the three stations.

There weren't as many people at the museum as he had expected. Perhaps because closing hour was slowly but surely ticking by. Enjolras didn't need to look for the painting for long. They had made sure to guide people right to the jewel of the exhibition. As Enjolras entered the oval room where the paintings were kept, his attention wasn't directed to the paintings, but to a familiar face, standing a few yards away.

Grantaire.

Enjolras' heart did a somersault. There was something about seeing Grantaire here, right next to Apollo in Red, but Enjolras couldn't quite pin point it. One of his hands  held nervously on to the strap of his satchel as he came closer.

"Hey," he said, trying to sound casual, though the atmosphere didn't quite work in his favour. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"Well, apparently I painted these, so I thought I might as well go and see them. My first exhibition. It's a very emotional moment."

Enjolras could tell he was joking, or endeavouring to. Maybe that's how he dealt with the uncanny and the unexplainable. On the wall, one of the paintings stared back at him. It was like looking in a mirror, but with a 180 year reflection delay. Enjolras lowered his eyes, stared down by his own image.

"Did Jehan tell you about their poem? The one that got denied for their poetry contest?"

Grantaire nodded, still looking at the paintings.

"Do you really thing it's remotely possible that this is me?"

"Maybe," Grantaire shrugged. "Why not?"

"Because it doesn't exist! It just doesn't happen like that. There's no way that could be me. I'm me, I am one person."

Voicing all the thoughts and doubts that had been reeling in his mind for so long felt liberating, though he had to keep his tone in check. Grantaire smirked at him.

"Now who's the skeptic, Apollo?"

"You can't be serious. It doesn't make sense."

"We're on a blue ball adrift in the universe, rotating around a giant ball of fire that will swallow us all one day. Nothing makes sense. Me painting you almost two centuries ago makes more sense than that."

Enjolras opened his mouth, but realised he had nothing to say to that. Yes. Maybe things didn't make sense. Maybe trying to make sense of it didn't make sense. He took a couple steps back and sat on a plastic bench. Grantaire followed him.

"So what if this is actually me? What does that mean?"

Grantaire shrugged.

"We may never know. But I have to say, my shading game was on point on that one."

"It's very beautifully done indeed," Enjolras agreed, giving him an amused look.

"Thank you."

"So that means we were close, right? If I sat for one of your pieces. Well. Three of your pieces."

He didn't really know if he was joking in all good fun or actually talking seriously anymore. For some reason, it felt right.

"Close enough for you to accept being drapped naked in a red sheet. It'd say that's pretty fucking close."

"How close?"

"Very close."

As close as they were now. Enjolras realised his hand was almost touching Grantaire's. To his own surprise, he found that he didn't mind it. On the contrary. That too, felt right.

"How much do you know about the June Rebellion?" Enjolras asked.

"What I've read online, why?"

"Well, I thought maybe you'd like to hear about it. It's all fascinating stuff. Maybe around a coffee, or something?"

He barely recognised the chirp in his own voice. Grantaire looked at him, as though he couldn't believe the words Enjolras had uttered. His face softened a second later.

"Yeah. Coffee sounds nice."

[writingrevolutionary]

‘Years later, several lifetimes in fact, distant memories prompts les amis out of bed in the middle of the night on June 5th.’ Happy Barricade 2021! Hope you enjoy this little contribution

[midasinc]

ENJOLRAS - BAHOREL FRIENDSHIP HEADCANONS

omg so true

-i think in canon era enjolras really admires bahorel. at times. he really admires his strength and charisma and humour. although he absolutely doesn't think bahorel takes their group as seriously as he should sometimes, he likes bahorel. enjolras thinks he's really good to have around for moral

-he goes out one day with jehan to a boxing match that bahorel and grantaire are both in to support their comrades because why not? but enjolras watches bahorel fight and is very much so impressed with his skills that after the match he goes up to the ring where bahorel is drying off his brow w a rag and asks if he could teach him to fight like that

-and bahorel is immediately like LETS GOOOOOOOOO because who wouldnt want to teach enj something

-they get together to box and it's how they become closer. bahorel likes enjolras for his dry humour and open-mindedness and it's fun to learn little things our his dear leader. like the way he has a really snorty ugly laugh and the way that he actually has really good core strength but no lower body strength at all

-bahorel is also enjolras's fave back-cracker. don't tell combeferrre he said that, but the way bahorel can crack his spine is so satisfying.

-bahorel is also somebody that enjolras doesn't have to feel like he needs to be super prim and proper around. this becomes increasingly more and more funny to bahorel as he hears enjolras let out nasty swears and phrases and just be laid back in general. it's different in a fun way; he likes it

-enjolras's nose also gets broken by bahorel. it was an accident ofc, it was during a boxing match of theirs, but it was bad. there was a lot of blood and bruising but all enjolras could say was "that was an incredible swing" and bahorel keeps trying to clean up the blood like "please shut the fuck up and let me apologize". now his nose bends to the right and has a little bump from where it was broken. bahorel still feels bad about breaking that "fine statue" but enjolras is honestly glad he has it- he kind of hates when he's trying to talk about something serious and people only have comments about how noble his nose is or whatever

[adamsvanrhijn]

[7:11 PM] marschallin: what does older combeferrre look like

[7:13 PM] smithens: normal 45 year old i guess!

[7:14 PM] marschallin: no special facial hair ?

[7:14 PM] smithens: normal facial hair

[7:15 PM] smithens: as stated like, he has a beard

[7:15 PM] smithens: he's a transcendentalist now

[7:15 PM] marschallin: what does everyone else think of that

[7:16 PM] smithens: he confesses to being unitarian at one point and courfeyrac is like

[7:16 PM] smithens: ???????????? what does that even MEAN

[akallabeth-joie]

Brick Spoilers, 5.1.21-23

Because this has been on my mind a lot, and we won’t reach the barricade chapters until next summer.

Characters as symbols. Normally, I’m very much against this, preferring to think of characters are people, with motivations and backstory and development and other, human, traits.  But ever since that post about Jehan and Bahorel standing in for Hugo’s Romantic friends, and being the first members of their circle to die...I’ve come to accept how very elaborately symbolic these chapters are? 

Anyway:

Grantaire: Cynicism was passed out to begin with. Everyone’s fighting for ideals at this barricade, so poor Grantaire is just unconscious in the corner from the start. He wasn’t invited, anyway.

Bahorel: The very first casualty [of our named group] is the one eager for fighting. Like, if this wasn’t obviously a meta-commentary on the experience of being in combat, it just became that. The first thing to go is joy in fighting.

Prouvaire: Gentleness and appreciation for beauty dies next. Innocence, in a way? Also, this makes 2/3 of our resident Romantics gone, sacrificing themselves for the future [which our third brooding Romantic hero will actually get to realize].

[Mabeuf, Eponine & Gavroche have their own things going on.]

Bossuet: Bossuet’s optimistic and very unlucky. In quick succession, we lose ‘good humor’...

Feuilly: ...international brotherhood/looking at the big picture...

Courfeyrac: ...friendship and joi de vivre...

Joly:..and the rest of our optimism. I sort of see Joly & Bossuet as different forms of optimism: liveliness facing fear (at least, fear of disease) and facing ill-fortune.

Combeferrre: Philosophy helps others to the end, and is also the last casualty of the street battle.  From here (having lost all these characters/the good things they represent), Hugo makes it explicit that any sense of nobility is gone, and it’s all just awful, gory, and horrible--the descriptions of the fighting degrade into diabolical comparisons.

Marius: Our last romantic, and ‘the soul’ of the barricade, continues fighting while wounded. He’s incapacitated, but not killed, and lives to see the future.

Enjolras: The ideal of republican virtu, ‘the logic of the revolution’, remains completely unharmed even after everyone else is dead. Ideas are bulletproof, etc. At the extreme end, cynicism--Grantaire--finally wakes up, but only to voluntarily die at idealism’s feet.  The fighting ends.

But the soul persists. It goes (literally) underground, it hides, it slowly recuperates. But it lives. And it will be happy.

[combeferre-the-mothman]

Combeferrr held him and gently played with his hair.

Poseidon rarely took human form. He much preferred staying below the waves with the sea life and sirens. But every now and then he got curious about the mortals and how they were progressing. He walked up out of the sea still in his godly form and slowly transformed into his human form. He wandered towards a temple built for his brother, Zeus.

Courfeyrac spent most of his days at the temple of Zeus, having grown up with the intent to become his priest. However, he always longed for the sea, he wanted to follow Poseidon’s teachings. Not that he’d ever be allowed to do that.

He was at the temple, setting up an offering like he did every morning, not hearing anyone approach.

[lesamisandlesmiserables]

Who in the blog are still active?

Fantine: Me!

Bahorel: 👻

Combeferre: Still here

Enjolras: I’m still here!

Eponine: Also still here! 

Babet: You’re never getting rid of me.

Cosette: I survived the novel, I’ll sure as summer survive this also ❤️ Happy to say I will be sticking around

Joly: I haven’t been around a lot but I’m still here, and I’m going to try to be here more often!! 💛

Claquesous: I’m not just going to walk away

Jehan: As much as it doesn’t seem so, I am still here

Courfeyrac: Here as often as I can!!

Marius: I’ll try and be more active ❤️

Valjean: I’m a lurker but I’m here!

Grantaire: I’ve got a life but i make time when i can

Feuilly: I am!

[clenster]

part of something im working on which ill prob never finished

[ispeaktheyburn]

Top 5 musicals?

1. Parade2. Evita3. Les Miserables4. Next to Normal5. The Last Five Years

put “top 5” anything in my ask and i will answer ok go

[allsferreinloveandwar-blog]

Whoever this was, you were amazing.

[subsequentibis]

Caroline! For the playlist thing? uwu

Come on Eileen - Dexy's Midnight Runners

Ain't It Fun - Paramore

Rag and Bone - The White Stripes

Octopus's Garden - The Beatles

Lonely Boy - The Black Keys

I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire - The Inkspots

No Prejudice - Pollapönk

Explosions in the Sky - Magic Hours

[vermilionvermeer]