#enjolras and courfeyrac are both the sun

[a-la-sante-du-progres]

Happy Barrière du Maine Day

[stardancerluv]

A Time to Love and to Fight

Part 29

Summary: New developments for Enjolras and his girl.

Notes/Warning: 18 & Over! Male receiving consensual handjob. The death of some rats. Mentions of violence.

My sweet angel - mon doux ange, Angel - Ange

❤️, reblogs, comments…feedback…messages are always welcome! And thank you!

You inhaled deeply, the fresh flowers brought a sweetness to the air that reminded you of walking or sitting in the park. It made you miss such days. You sat up against the plush pillows and gave Enjolras a look, eyebrow raises.

“This is a lovely room, truly it is.”

The shades of pink and cream were like something out of a dream. Enjolras, wanted you to have that. The bed gave as he came to sit beside you. “It really came together.”

It had been hard for him to acquire so many things. He had never been one to enjoy excessive spending. Though he knew it was expected of him to appear a man of means. However, making a home with you, and knowing you were with child; it grew easier. You missed being with him and picking out treasures.

“But, but I miss coming out with you. I miss doing things.”

He placed a hand over yours. “But look what has been happening.”

“I only fainted once.”

“Once is too many.”

You could see his jaw tighten.

“And now you are carrying our child.”

“I’ll be careful.”

He glanced around. He spoke just above a whisper. You knew he didn’t necessarily trust the staff.

“England doesn’t sit well with me, my love.”

“I’ll be with you. We, we could go to a market or perhaps a dress maker.” Your gave him a soft look. “They can’t be dangerous.”

“I’ll think about.”

He reached over to the nightstand, he grabbed the book you both loved. He handed it to you.

“Read and travel among the stars with this.”

He paused, a smile appeared on his lips.

“I have secured more candles. You do not have to only read by the light of the sun.”

You didn’t care you, you hugged him then. He shifted in your embrace to put the book down beside the two of you. His arms wrapped around you. You sighed laying your head on his shoulder.

*********

He drank a little more and played cards with a riskier flair.

Before arriving at the pub that night, he finally sent off a letter to his mother. He had pressed the envelop to his lips and then heart before bidding it a safe journey to his mother’s hands. With a twirl of the feather he wrote reams of how the house was coming along and how she was to be a grandmother in the coming months. He did not dare telling her of your lightheadedness or even the fainting spell. No darkness would be out on paper, only happiness and joy.

Now that you were tucked away in the house, in that beautiful room. He felt like he could relax. Now, you be comfortable and grow into your role as mother.

Coins jangled on the wooden table, paper notes of value were shuffled about and ale on occasion spilled along the side of the tankards. Some tightened while others loosened their hold on the cards would deliver a victory or a loss.

Once the moon was high enough in the sky, and his head was filled with the pleasant fuzzy warmth his ale gave him, he returned home. He’d shed his boots and coat and pull you close. He’d be lying if he didn’t miss your quick with or a peal of your laughter while sitting in that pub. The few moments, he had shared you with the company of Courfeyrac or Grantaire he missed it.

Pressing his lips together, he made it back rather easily to where he now resided with you. Not sure if he should be pleased or not, he was able to remain in cloaked darkness of the shadows and managed to make it very easily back up to the lovely bedroom, he made for the two of you.

The door creaked ever so as he opened it, it made him wince and he slipped in and soon moved fast so he could close it as soon as he opened it. Not going far, he soon let his heavy coat fall from him. He loosened some of the buttons on his shirt before leaning against the wall and gritting his teeth he pulled one and the other boot free of his person.

A soft sound floated over to him, where the candles burned low. Glancing in its direction he could just make out as he saw you moving.

“Love? You’ve returned.”

He smiled, making quick strides over to you. “It is I my ange, I have arrived.”

You rubbed in eye and smiled, pulled the blanket aside. “Then I welcome you home my love. I have missed you.”

His heart picked up speed, he knew the curves and beauty that was barely cover by the chemise you wore. Easily, he crawled in, then sitting up and he urged you to curl up to his side.

You looked up at him, your nose gently wrinkled. “Oh? I can smell the ale.”

“In my excitement of winning some hands, I did spill some.” He rose his eyebrows. “Do you forgive me?”

You smiled. “I do.”

His lips curled into a broad smile as he felt your lips just barley grazing a spot on his face where he tamed the growth there.

He cupped your cheek, his thumb caressed you. “You are so lovely.” He whispered. His heart warmed a she could actually feel as you flushed.

“I am glad you still think so.”

He paused, the fuzzy warmth still there but your words stuck him. “I always will.”

“Even when my belly grows with our child?”

“Yes, especially.”

He pulled you closer and finding your mouth, he kissed you then. It had felt like a lifetime. At first, you were hesitant but then he felt as your responded. He held you closer. Your warmth and softness was exactly what he had needed.

As he held you closer, and your hand drifted over him as you moved closer, a groan of deep rooted pleasure bubbled from him breaking the kiss. His stomach had tightened. His pleasure of having you so close had quickened his heartbeat.

“Oh? My love are you well? I have not injured you. Have I ?”

“No.” He chewed on his cheek. “But I have not eyed, your chemise as closely. It has quickened my heart for you.”

“Oh? Is that so bad? I am your wife. I miss being one with you.”

The dip in your voice stung.

“Angel, don’t despair.” He bent his head, pressing some soft kisses where you allowed. “Since you are with child we have to be careful.”

You sighed. Your breath warm and soft, distantly he smiled. It was obvious you had some tarts while he was out. Its sweetness lingered on you. “You would be.”

“I could only hope. But what if I hurt you or them, I would never forgive myself. “ He paused, in the muted light he relished the sight of your beauty. “Though I have an idea. And we can still be intimate.” He assured you.

“Oh tell me.”

“Nestle, closer my love.” He urged you. He had remembered how you had enjoyed touching him that one day. “Do you remember, the day you touched me?”

“Yes.”

“I would like you to do that again.”

“Oh can I?”

“Yes, mon doux ange you can. I will help you.”

Shuffling, he managed to open the buttons of his trousers and then move his shirt. He glanced down at you. “Love, I will take myself out and I will let you touch me. I can guide you.”

“Please. You will have to, I will not want to hurt you.”

He smiled, relief filling him as he heard how breathless you had become. He knew this was making your heart beat harder just like his own heart. Easing himself out of his trousers, he sighed and soft moan broke his lips.

“Oh, you are still magnificent.” You whispered.

Your words making his heart squeeze.

“Thank you, love. May I take your hand now?“

“Yes.”

Gently, he took your hand. He help you wrap your fingers around him. His entire being tightened. It felt unbelievable.

“Are you ok?” Your hand twisting on him as you looked back at him.

He coughed. “Yes. That, your hand feels amazing.”

“Oh, good.”

The gently he began guiding your hand. It almost made him come undone right then there.

“Your hand feels so good.” He whispered.

Trembles coursed through him and he bit the inside of his cheek. He would no let go just yet. This was entirely new way of you making him feeling so good.

“Just like that angel.” He encouraged.

He wrapped his hand around yours once again. We will do this a little firmer. He felt like this was a pleasurable torture. Also however in the shadows, watching your hand as it up and down. Was almost too much. His sweet angel.

“Oh, my angel that feels so good.”

He was so close to coming undone. His stomach continued to twist into pleasurable knots. He shook.

“I’m…I’m….oooh angel!” He called out. And soon, he expelled his seed.

“Ooh!” You rubbed a little harder, and he reached out and stopped you.

“That’s it my love. You have made me undone.”

He panted and melted back into the pillows. He licked his lips.

You hand held him gently. “Did I help you to feel good?”

He blinked. “Yes, love that was amazing.”

That’s when it dawned on him, he reached into his pocket and took out a cloth. “I wasn’t thinking. I am sorry.” He gently took your hand and cleaned off his essence.

Gently, he tucked himself away. “Angel, thank you for making me feel so good.” He was still breathless. He ran his fingers along your cheek. “Would you like me to return the favor?”

“Can you?”

His stomach once again tightened with pleasure.

“Yes, I can.”

*******

He crouched in the shadows. He longed for a real meal. Once in London, he would. There he grab some salted and dry meats for the journey to the new world.

He was tired of the sorry excuse for the stew the cook had been making the last few days. He ignored the burning or the cramping of staying there in the shadows, waiting on another rat. He had already managed to catch four of the seven that came into the corridor.

******

He banged on the kitchen door. The chef looked him up and down. “What?”

He held up six dead rats. “Add their meat to the stew.”

The man grumbled. “If you grow ill, it is your fault.”

The man shrugged and walked away. This would hunt more tomorrow. Now he’d have strength again. He had to keep it up, he was going to find the man who killed his son.

@henry-cavs-tudor @corrodedcoffn @dealswiththedevilsblog @randomstory56 @pl1nfa1 @phantomxoxo @ladybug0095 @the-iridescent-phoenix @maryan028 @kindablackenedsuperhero @amethyst-serenade @moondev1l @samunson83 @julieteagk @little-wormwood @wafflepixie @shadyhamiltonfanatic @gretavankleep37 @peacefroggg23 @capailluiscedove @poisonedeuphoria

[thebrickinbrick]

MORTUUS PATER FILIUM MORITURUM EXPECTAT

Marius dashed out of the barricade, Combeferre followed him. But he was too late. Gavroche was dead. Combeferre brought back the basket of cartridges; Marius bore the child.

“Alas!” he thought, “that which the father had done for his father, he was requiting to the son; only, Thénardier had brought back his father alive; he was bringing back the child dead.”

When Marius re-entered the redoubt with Gavroche in his arms, his face, like the child, was inundated with blood.

At the moment when he had stooped to lift Gavroche, a bullet had grazed his head; he had not noticed it.

Courfeyrac untied his cravat and with it bandaged Marius’ brow.

They laid Gavroche on the same table with Mabeuf, and spread over the two corpses the black shawl. There was enough of it for both the old man and the child.

Combeferre distributed the cartridges from the basket which he had brought in.

This gave each man fifteen rounds to fire.

Jean Valjean was still in the same place, motionless on his stone post. When Combeferre offered him his fifteen cartridges, he shook his head.

“Here’s a rare eccentric,” said Combeferre in a low voice to Enjolras. “He finds a way of not fighting in this barricade.”

“Which does not prevent him from defending it,” responded Enjolras.

“Heroism has its originals,” resumed Combeferre.

And Courfeyrac, who had overheard, added:

“He is another sort from Father Mabeuf.”

One thing which must be noted is, that the fire which was battering the barricade hardly disturbed the interior. Those who have never traversed the whirlwind of this sort of war can form no idea of the singular moments of tranquillity mingled with these convulsions. Men go and come, they talk, they jest, they lounge. Some one whom we know heard a combatant say to him in the midst of the grape-shot: “We are here as at a bachelor breakfast.” The redoubt of the Rue de la Chanvrerie, we repeat, seemed very calm within. All mutations and all phases had been, or were about to be, exhausted. The position, from critical, had become menacing, and, from menacing, was probably about to become desperate. In proportion as the situation grew gloomy, the glow of heroism empurpled the barricade more and more. Enjolras, who was grave, dominated it, in the attitude of a young Spartan sacrificing his naked sword to the sombre genius, Epidotas.

Combeferre, wearing an apron, was dressing the wounds: Bossuet and Feuilly were making cartridges with the powder-flask picked up by Gavroche on the dead corporal, and Bossuet said to Feuilly: “We are soon to take the diligence for another planet”;

Courfeyrac was disposing and arranging on some paving-stones which he had reserved for himself near Enjolras, a complete arsenal, his sword-cane, his gun, two holster pistols, and a cudgel, with the care of a young girl setting a small dunkerque in order.

Jean Valjean stared silently at the wall opposite him. An artisan was fastening Mother Hucheloup’s big straw hat on his head with a string, “for fear of sun-stroke,” as he said. The young men from the Cougourde d’Aix were chatting merrily among themselves, as though eager to speak patois for the last time. Joly, who had taken Widow Hucheloup’s mirror from the wall, was examining his tongue in it.

Some combatants, having discovered a few crusts of rather mouldy bread, in a drawer, were eagerly devouring them.

Marius was disturbed with regard to what his father was about to say to him.

[dolphin1812]

“As soon as a revolution has made the coast, the skilful make haste to prepare the shipwreck.”

It’s interesting that, in a novel full of drowning imagery, Hugo chooses to reference a shipwreck here (remember Jean Valjean drowning in societal neglect at the beginning of the novel!). It’s not just the intentionality in this shipwreck, or the general tragedy of one; it’s that we very specifically know what the worst part of a shipwreck – victims drowning – looks like. Just as intentional ship-wreckers leave countless to die horrifically by drowning, so do the “skillful” cause others to suffer (and also die) by choosing to prevent the further progression of the revolution. The intentionality is actually a bit shocking to read after the last chapter (which wasn’t that harsh on the Bourbons) with the knowledge that Hugo is generally far more critical of the Bourbons than Louis Philippe (remember how good-humored he was about the gamin’s pear portrait?), and it also contrasts with the unintentional drowning seen with Jean Valjean (where he isn’t seen or heard, just as the social order makes him and his suffering invisible). Then again, Hugo also says the “skillful” are just as aptly called the “mediocre,” so their destruction could be a mix of malice and incompetence (he adds “traitors,” so the malice is still there, at least for some).

I find the dynasty paragraph hilarious because of how he says “procure a dynasty.” I don’t know why, but I find the phrasing very funny. More seriously, I love how he points out the “mask of necessity.” As he said in the last chapter, part of the issue facing the Bourbons (and then Louis Philippe) was that the French no longer saw kings as being so necessary because they had lived without them. Of course, peace and stability were appealing after the tumultuous years of the French Revolution and Napoleon. But monarchy wasn’t the only option anymore, and justifying a dynasty as “necessary” because France was part of a “monarchical continent” seemed bizarre when France had gone so long without a king. It could still seem convincing in the moment, but it’s also easy to see how upsetting hearing that would have been when it’s clearly wrong. The image of swaddling the people is similarly funny, but I like the addition that it’s done to increase fear and suspicion, making someone out to be ill when they’re healthy to discourage action.

And then there’s this:

“Now, logic knows not the “almost,” absolutely as the sun knows not the candle.”

Going back to Les Amis de l’ABC: the “logic of the revolution” is Enjolras. He, unlike Marius, would certainly have been upset by 1830 (especially given the thoughts of Combeferre and, more dramatically, Courfeyrac, who are both presented as more “moderate” than he is). This sentence tells us why he’s so active. He can’t tolerate the “almost” of the July Revolution because small forms of progress can’t satisfy him. Only an actual republic – the sun in this case – can, and that “light” was greatly diminished by the July Revolution’s aftermath. He, along with “absolute right,” has “retired into the darkness” because it is only with concealment that he (and members of other republican organizations) can plan to continue “progressing” when the government is hostile to them.

Hugo’s insistence that the bourgeoisie isn’t real is a bit strange, but the idea of “halting” rather than “stalling” is interesting. As we saw with Les Amis, people are still organizing in hiding. It’s a “halt” to plan in that interest in progress never actually disappears or decreases; it simply becomes less visible, constrained to the realm of plans and theories until the opportunity to act appears.

[justgayrevolutionnaries]

It's still more sweet if it's all in vain

As the end is getting near, Combeferre and Courfeyrac discuss hope and loyalty at the barricade.

Aka my fic for barricade day ! I was originally going with something else entirely (see tags / notes for more info) but I am very happy how this one turned out

And yes it still counts as a barricade day fic because it's not midnight yet shhh

Find it on Ao3 here !

Usual tw warning for barricade day : mentions of violent death, main character death and graphic descriptions of violence. Stay safe guys <3

It was all calm. Maybe too calm.

Combeferre was sitting on top of the barricade, looking down at the street, empty and lifeless before him. It was only dawn, and everything was bathed in an orange glow. Ironically, Combeferre was facing west, meaning that the sun was rising behind the barricade, and that end of the street appeared surrounded by a halo of light.

Next to Combeferre was Courfeyrac, his chin resting on his knees, a thoughtful look in his eyes as kept fidgeting with his hat, putting it either on his head or in front of him. Both of them had been sitting in a comfortable silence for a while, which was more than uncommon for the latter.

At the other end of the barricade stood Enjolras, silently contemplating alternatively the street and the space in front of the café. He, too, had been silent since the five men had left the barricade. His face was as unreadable as usual, but Combeferre knew him well enough to perceive that, behind his severe attitude, his look could almost be qualified as melancholic. When his two friends had tried to call him, it was as through he couldn't even hear them.

Courfeyrac was once again the first one to break the silence.

"You know, if this is to be the end of the world, I always imagined it to be different. More sensational, at least. So we could enjoy it properly."

Without moving, his friend answered with a small smile on his lips : "And in what ways does this disappoint you now ?"

Courfeyrac shrugged in response : "It is taking too long." He tilted his head on the side to look at the entrance of the café. "And some of us can not even be here to enjoy it."

Combeferre didn't need to turn, nor did he even want to. He knew what his friend was looking at. The table at the other end of the Corinthe; the bodies they had no choice but to lay down on them, covered by a white blanket Enjolras had found God knew where.

Bahorel.

He could still remember the agony that had filled his heart as he watched Bahorel fall back in the barricade, the fatal wound that had killed him almost invisible on the red of his shirt. His only consolation was knowing that he would most likely get to see his friend again in less than a few hours.

Still not taking his eyes off the street in front of him, Conbeferre simply answered :

"Enjolras would tell you that is the cost of freedom. We know some of us have to die, only because we wish for a better future for this world."

Courfeyrac turned to him with an inquisitive look in his eyes.

"And what would Combeferre tell me ?"

So many things.

Combeferre was about to answer that he agreed with Enjolras. That freedom, and the light of the future, were all he had ever looked forward to ; that all of them had always known their life was the price they must be ready to pay for it. Because after all, what else was there to die for ? Except at this moment, he knew this wasn't the answer Courfeyrac was waiting for.

Looking back to the Corinthe he could see Enjolras, an austere look still on his face. He had been joined by Feuilly, who was gesturing to the top of the barricade and, from what Combeferre could make out of his voice, inquiring about the number of men and weapons they had left. His heart clenched as he remembered the one thing that had really been on his mind since the previous day : the face of his best friend, one he had known for so many years, looking down at the man he had just killed, an overwhelming sadness in his eyes.

Back then Combeferre had claimed he would always follow him, no matter what fate this should lead him to. And as much as Combeferre hated violence, he still believed those words.

So, as Courfeyrac placed a soft hand on his arm, still looking at him in expectancy, all he could answer was :

"I couldn't think of any other people I would rather die with."

For a moment here Courfeyrac seemed ready to add something, a strange glint in his brown eyes that were focused on Combeferre's face. However, he let his hand fall down and, biting his bottom lip, simply nodded in acknowledgement.

As he stood up and seemed about to leave and go back inside the café, Combeferre tried to hold him back by grabbing his left wrist.

"It is too late for us to have regrets now anyway, my friend. By noon-"

Combeferre found himself unable to finish this sentence. It seemed useless now, to try and conceal what both of them already knew. Yet like the others, he wanted to preserve a spark of hope, to think that the men inside the barricade still had a chance. Because at the end of the day, if they couldn't even believe in that, how many of them would have the strength to keep on fighting ?

By noon this may all be over.

"No one is coming anymore, are they ?"

The question called for no answer, yet Combeferre turned to his best friend with a bitter smile. He couldn't even tell how much it broke his heart that even Courfeyrac, ever the optimistic, had given up on hope. But before he could answer, Courfeyrac spoke again, his eyes fixed on the horizon and a new, softer light in his eyes :

"You know what Prouvaire would tell us if he were still on this barricade ?"

Following his look, Combeferre could do nothing but nod, his throat tightening at the mention of their friend, as Courfeyrac added :

"It's still more sweet if it's all in vain."

Combeferre softly answered : "But it is not in vain, my friend. This is why we are here, you and I. This is why Prouvaire and Bahorel have already left us. This is what Enjolras told us earlier, what we truly believe in. We must die here, yes, but do not think that will be in vain. A sacrifice is never in vain. We are like the light of the star, a light that hasn't reached the earth yet. But it will one day, and this day all will be changed, just like a new dawn, a new sun rising. And this day, I promise, men shall be truly happy."

In response Courfeyrac offered him a sad smile, so far from the beaming, humorous one Combeferre had grown to be used to over the years, yet still a smile. And at this moment, it seemed bright as a star.

As Enjolras and Feuilly started making their way toward them, Combeferre muttered Enjolras's words to himself once again, his gaze fixed on the clouds dotting the morning sky, now turning to a pale blue color.

"We shall be happy..."

That was what he thought later when he saw, down the street, the national guards bringing in not just one, but two cannons, and felt his heart miss a bit as the realization finally struck him.

None of them was going to make it out alive.

That was what kept him from screaming his heart out when he saw Gavroche fall down one time, then get up only to fall down again. Only a few meters away from the barricade, yet too far to run to him and bring the boy back to safety. All he could do instead was cling to Courfeyrac as hard as he could, refusing to let another of his friends die in front of his eyes.

That was the only thing that kept him from going mad as he had to watch, through his tears, Joly fall down, his face red with blood, followed shortly by Bossuet, shot trying to run to his best friend.

Those were the words he heard when the bullets pierced him, over the screams of his friends, over Enjolras yelling his name, over Courfeyrac's agonizing cry, as he looked up to the sky that was now as bright as his friend's smile had been, so little time ago. An eternity ago.

We shall be happy.

And even if he couldn't be here to see it, he knew it was a sight worth dying for.

[kjack89]

Bonfire

For @themiserablesmonth Day 2: Fire.

E/R, modern AU. Lots of Les Amis friendship/general assholery. Predominantly fluff, but it's me so you know I can't resist sneaking some feels in there.

Marius glanced around the backyard of Courfeyrac’s family’s lakeshore cabin, both eyebrows raised. “This is…nice,” he said, holding Cosette’s hand as he followed Bossuet down to the logs surrounding an already roaring bonfire.

“You sound surprised,” Bossuet said over his shoulder.

Marius shrugged. “Well, when Courfeyrac invited me to a bonfire, I kind of figured we’d be burning something, uh, specific.” He swatted at a bug buzzing near his ear. “In a, um, slightly less than legal way.”

Now Bossuet turned around to walk backwards so that he could smirk at Marius. “Who’s to say that there’s not something highly illegal in there?”

Cosette just looked intrigued. “Is there?”

“Only insofar as we can consider any kind of wood stripped from forests to be illegal,” Joly said from Bossuet’s other side as they arrived at the bonfire.

“Though for tinder, we did use those fake newspapers that the Republicans have been mailing to people,” Courfeyrac informed them, standing up to kiss Cosette, and then Marius, on both cheeks. “Which isn’t illegal, but it does feel good.”

“Fuck Dan Proft,” Bahorel added from the other side of the fire.

Marius and Cosette sat down on a log, waving and nodding at the rest of Les Amis gathering around the bonfire as the sun set. “Still, I guess I was just expecting there to be some kind of purpose to this gathering,” Marius said. When he caught Enjolras’s eye, he hastily added, “Not that I’m complaining! I am absolutely not complaining!”

Jehan stretched languidly and shrugged. “In fairness, we’ve tried a couple of times to have actual meetings out here around the bonfire, but things tend to go off the rails.”

“Why?” Cosette asked, curious.

Courfeyrac winked at her. “Because Grantaire usually takes advantage of the darkness to start doing unspeakable things to Enjolras, which tends to, y’know, distract him.”

Combeferre nodded. “And then once they’ve disappeared somewhere darker and theoretically more private—”

Feuilly wrinkled his nose and muttered, “Though last year, they really needed to pick a better spot.”

“—None of us really have the desire to keep going,” Combeferre finished.

Courfeyrac stood to distribute metal sticks to everyone. “So now we figure, why bother. It’s one night where we can all just relax, enjoy the fire, enjoy each other—”

“Enjoy beer,” Grantaire added, “and s’mores.”

Joly raised his beer bottle in a toast. “And s’mores flavored beer.”

Grantaire made a face. “That sounds disgusting.”

Joly leaned around Bossuet to stick his tongue out at him. “Don’t knock it til you’ve tried it.”

Marius scooted closer to the fire to roast his marshmallow. After he’d gotten a satisfactory color on it, he sat back next to Cosette and waited for it to cool before suddenly brightening. “Oo, you know what we could do? We could tell ghost stories.”

Almost immediately, everyone said simultaneously, “No.”

Marius looked crestfallen. “Why not?”

“Because Combeferre likes to bust out his greatest hits of lectures about historical evil that continues to haunt our society until this day,” Bahorel said in a bored voice, “which is even less fun than you might think.”

Combeferre scowled. “I’m sorry that I can’t make systemic racism and the lingering legacy of Jim Crow fun for you.”

Bahorel gave him the finger, and Cosette rested a hand on Marius’s arm before asking, “Then what about non-ghost-related horror stories?”

“Absolutely not,” Grantaire said firmly, as Courfeyrac and Bossuet both shook their heads pointedly at her.

Cosette arched an eyebrow, looking amused. “Dare I ask?”

“Because then it’s time for Enjolras to rant about the horrors of the 1%,” Grantaire said grimly.

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “I mean, am I wrong?”

Grantaire gave him a look. “No, but again, somewhat less fun. Especially since you’re preaching to the fucking choir.”

Enjolras scowled. “Your face is less fun,” he muttered mutinously.

Grantaire just laughed and leaned in to kiss him, which Marius took as a good time to clear his throat and offer, “I had a really scary dream recently.”

“Apropos of absolutely nothing,” Combeferre muttered, and Courfeyrac elbowed him in the ribs before saying brightly to Marius, “Do tell.”

Marius sat up a little straighter on the log. “All of you were there. Except for Cosette. And, well, all of you died.”

“The fuck,” Feuilly said to Bahorel.

“Except for me, but I was, like, really badly hurt,” Marius continued. “But Cosette’s dad rescued me – but to do so, he had to carry me through the sewer, so we were both covered in…well, you know.”

Even in the darkness, it was pretty easy to tell that Marius was blushing, and Jehan looked flatly at Marius. “I don’t,” he said.

“Yeah, what do you mean?” Grantaire asked, though he ruined the joke slightly by snickering.

Marius’s blush deepened. “Y’know…” he said, looking wildly around before adding, sotto voce, “poop.”

Combeferre choked on an ill-timed bite of s’mores, and Courfeyrac patted him on the back while muttering to Marius, “I’m shocked you managed to say something so dirty—”

“Anyway,” Marius said loudly, “we were almost killed by Cosette’s step-dad, but then he killed himself instead. And I got healthy and married Cosette but then her dad died.” He glanced at Cosette’s slightly horrified face, and added, in what he seemed to think was a helpful way, “And then I woke up.”

A long silence met Marius’s story, before Bahorel cleared his throat and said, loudly, “Dude, what the fuck.”

Feuilly shook his head. “That’s not even scary, that’s just depressing.”

“Miserable, even,” Jehan added.

Marius wilted slightly. “Well, I thought it was scary,” he said to Cosette, who patted his hand.

“It’d be scarier if it was a musical,” Feuilly said. “Like if there was just haunting singing happening during all of that.”

Bossuet rolled his eyes. “You think all musicals are scary.”

“Yeah, because they are!”

Bahorel cracked open a beer before remarking, “You know I was in a musical once, in high school.”

Feuilly gave him an affronted look. “Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Bahorel said with a shrug. “I was awful but they needed dudes, so I made sure that every time I was onstage, I was hidden or blocked by something and never near any of the action, so no one could really see me.”

Joly snorted. “Incredible.”

Bahorel grinned. “Yeah. I did it so well that a bunch of people even thought some random extra was my character.”

Combeferre arched an eyebrow at him. “I’m not sure that’s something you should be proud of.”

“Why the fuck not?” Bahorel asked, a challenge in his voice.

“Hey, where did Enjolras and Grantaire go?” Marius interrupted.

Courfeyrac smirked. “You don’t want to know.”

Marius made a face. “Gross.”

“I think it’s sweet,” Cosette said loyally.

Courfeyrac gave her a look. “That they’re out there in the dark fucking somewhere?”

Cosette met his look with one of her own. “That they like each other so much that they can’t keep their hands off of each other.”

Feuilly elbowed Bahorel, snickering. “Yeah, or they’re just horny.”

Marius glanced around the group. “So should someone go find them?”

Almost everyone laughed, and Courfeyrac leaned over to pat him on the shoulder. “Now that would give you scary stories to tell for the rest of all time.”

— — — — —

Enjolras dabbed at his eyes with a Kleenex. “Thanks,” he said to Grantaire.

“Of course,” Grantaire said easily, leaning against the tree next to Enjolras and pocketing the bottle of eye drops he had brought with them.

“I’m sorry that my allergies hate me.”

Grantaire snorted. “It’s not your fault that your eyes and sinuses are bothered by smoke,” he reasoned.

Enjolras shrugged. “Still, you didn’t have to come with me.”

Grantaire just laughed lightly. “Yeah but then they wouldn’t be swapping stories about us out here somewhere having sex, and who am I to rob our friends of those kind of scary stories?”

Enjolras scowled. “Just because that one time—”

“It’s been more than one time,” Grantaire said.

Enolras rolled his eyes. “Ok, a few times,” he said impatiently.

Grantaire cleared his throat. “Mmm, more like a dozen.”

For a moment, it looked like Enjolras might argue, but instead he chuckled and ran a hand across his mouth before asking, “We’re not that bad, are we?”

“Maybe,” Grantaire said, leaning in to kiss Enjolras. “But I wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

“You’re not wrong,” Enjolras said fondly. They sat in silence for a long moment, neither in any rush to get back to the fire, and Enjolras nudged Grantaire gently. “What are you thinking about?”

“Honestly?” Grantaire said, a little ruefully. “Marius’s scary dream.”

Enjolras made a face. “About all of us dying?”

“Yeah.” Grantaire took a deep breath. “That’s my nightmare too, you know.”

“All of us dying?”

Grantaire shook his head. “Well, mostly you dying.” He looked up at Enjolras. “Losing you is the scariest thing that I can think of.”

Enjolras’s expression softened, and he reached out to grab Grantaire’s hand, lacing their fingers together firmly. “I’m not going anywhere,” he told Grantaire, something fierce in his voice.

“I know,” Grantaire told him, hesitating before adding, “Just know that if you did—”

“Grantaire,” Enjolras sighed, well aware of where this was headed.

Grantaire ignored him, carrying stubbornly onward. “—if you did, I’m going with you.”

Enjolras was quiet for a long moment, then sighed. “How about we plan on neither of us dying?” he asked quietly.

“Deal,” Grantaire said easily, resting his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. “I love you.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras said, squeezing Grantaire’s hand again. “I know.”

[aflamethatneverdies]

The 4th of June 1832

The clear day as the sun rose in the sky seemed to be long, drawn and unbearable in terms of heat and without any respite in terms of rain for the Parisians. All through the day Enjolras had been walking across several districts and quarters of Paris, his shoes showed some signs of wear by the evening. As the sun went down, Enjolras waited at his lodgings for the arrival of his friends. 

Bahorel and Feuilly knocked on the door softly three times, there was a sound of the latch being removed and the door opened, the fresh face of Enjolras greeted them. He had taken off his cravat, rolled up his shirt sleeves and smoothed out his printer's smock which he wore over loose dark trousers. His black waistcoat and white shirt underneath were still in immaculate condition. His dark blue (almost black) frock coat was laid neatly on the bed.

Enjolras told them that he wanted to air out some words to dry and needed their input, causing their conversation to start with a laugh, not because they hadn’t heard this in casual conversation enough times, Enjolras sometimes used a printer’s language because of habit and also because it was familiar, comfortable and warm. He knew this, and had always greeted his friends in this manner, to see laughter on their faces. They fell to discussing immediate strategy and placement of their groups, once the funeral passed through Faubourg Saint-Antoine. 

Combeferre and Joly were still at Necker and Salpêtrière respectively, finishing their shifts, after Combeferre had returned from Picpus in the morning, and Joly from talking to medical students. Courfeyrac was milling outside the cafes and neighbourhoods where polytechnics gathered, and Bossuet was haunting the law school courtyards, engaging the students. Prouvaire had not yet returned after being told to speak to the lodge of the Rue de Grenelle-Saint-Honoré.   

Enjolras’ eyes were a little red, his face more brittle, visible lines of concentration and worry were evident on it. He had spent the entire day, after an early meeting with Cougourd d’Aix- with workers around the markets of Saint-Denis and Les Halles; among the hustle and bustle of , men, women, children coming and going, bicycles speeding past, gamins and gamines playing in the street. There was a basket maker’s shop, a fishmonger’s stall, a tailor’s shop and a butcher's shop; several rag pickers were walking around, as well as some hawkers and women who plied their trade as prostitutes.  He then walked to Rue Saint-Martin and Rue Aubry le Boucher and made arrangements for a safe house where insurgents could congregate after the riot.  

The tocsin of the Saint-Merri Church rang eight or nine times before he thought to make his way back to his lodgings. It was as well as he did that. He had formulated a plan in his head of the best ways to attack and defend the barricades.

He had been hearing stories of workers who were struggling to feed their families, now that cholera was also waging a war on the city. He had heard these stories for the past few months, both from the workers and from Combeferre, and had tried to reassure some of his friends that they were fighting for a change and needed their support. It becomes hard when he seems families, each with a similar affliction of poverty, misery and hunger. Combeferre had talked of bodies of the dead piling in the hospital, going unclaimed in the morgue; they could not even remove them quick enough. Enjolras' thoughts were always turned towards the people, even more after the heartache of July Revolution.

Enjolras has a family, well he has a father, back in Puy, nestled in the Auvergne-Rhône-Alpes Region. Sometimes when he was in a mood, Enjolras could tell an amusing story about  his grandfather who had lived a colourful life before settling as a bookseller-publisher after 93.   

The business had been successful, the grandfather not only opened a printing press in his home town of Puy but travelled to Paris and with the help of an old friend set up shop in Paris. His uncle had no sons, and his only daughter was married to a man in a different trade who showed little interest in printing. Thus it was that Enjolras had been training as an apprentice since his teen years, having finally graduated from an apprentice journeyman to a journeyman despite the Le Chapelier law, which had banned many guilds and trade unions.

He had been talking to workers in different trades, tailors, joiners, masons, and others, to get a sense of how hard it was for them to form unions or mutual aid societies. Some mutual aid societies were emerging in secret, a few had been discovered and banned and arrests made. Some journeymen allowed to continue on their Tours without much resistance. It depended on how good a master you had. Enjolras shifted his printer's cap in his hands, that is not how it should be.

There was much to fight for still despite a lot of blood having been spilt over centuries fighting for greater rights for workers. He thought back to the Réveillon riots of 89, the dawn of liberty had to be delivered from the birth pangs that had gone on for too long, it was inevitable. It was also late, he sighed wistfully, looking at the clear sky. He felt a stirring of melancholy within him, Prouvaire often talked about that, the one that was the burden of poets and revolutionaries. I am not a poet, he told the sky, and smiled as he felt some raindrops on his face.

For himself, he had found the occupation of a printer-publisher of much use; a Master printer is always in communication with different sections of society, he could set the type (he laughed a little at his own joke) of the entirety of Paris, while also choosing to work against his own class, the petit bourgeoisie.

His uncle did know that he dealt in marrons and chose to not inquire too deeply about which books he was illegally smuggling because Enjolras was a willing and efficient worker. Enjolras had therefore at his ready use, a supply chain which was not just useful for smuggling books under the cloak, so to speak, but for all sorts of revolutionary materials, and which had been honed to a high degree to evade random police inspections.  

It was unclear how the conversation had drifted to their own families. Courfeyrac had delivered the box of bullets and cartridges to Enjolras for safekeeping and it was sitting snuggly underneath the floorboards, hidden by the rug. Enjolras had positioned his chair near it.

Courfeyrac was attached to this box, it was his greatest piece of art, he ranked it even higher than a novel or two he had written while bored. His oldest brother had inherited the running of his father’s estate, his second brother had taken the cloth and become a priest, and here he was, the third brother, with his playthings and his mistresses, as his father would say. He did not mind being called frivolous in the least.   

Bahorel was sitting opposite him taking up two chairs and striking his favourite pose, Feuilly ended up taking the chair in the middle. There was a thrill in the air, of things having been set into motion- the heat matched the tempers of Paris.

“I feel a thrill of happiness when the community around Saint Denis or Les Halles or Saint-Antoine know that they can turn to me or to any of us,” Feuilly said smiling. “And we may not always know where to turn to, but we find the help needed somehow or we work towards it together. We have made some strides towards the idea of unions, of workshops, of less hours, of children having more time to play and to get an education.” That I could not receive beyond a few classes, he added to himself.  

“You have created an ever expanding family around you, my friend.” Enjolras squeezed Feuilly’s hand in his and Feuilly responded by placing his head on his shoulders. The wind from the open window swept through his hair and Enjolras rearranged it for him. 

Feuilly looked back over his childhood, the years of uncertainty and longing for love, of living in a foundling hospital, of having the village school master beat him and other children, of being sent as an apprentice to do odd jobs at 12. At being taken in by a kindly fanmaker in Grenoble, and then being passed around to his cousin in Paris. His years were not entirely happy, but he was able to create temporary pockets of familial comfort. He had seen many childrens’ futures disappear under the yoke of labour and the prospect of earning a few sous to feed themselves, but for the kindness of strangers who had welcomed him, his might have followed suit. Tears had started rolling down his eyes, and he let them flow.   

Enjolras softened and in the warm glow that the gas lamp threw on his face, looked at them both fondly, “I was going to wait until the others returned but, you, all of you are my family.” He took out his handkerchief, and wiped the tears from Feuilly’s face and then softly and tenderly he hugged him.

Bahorel tried to joke that he was an ardent Philadelphe– midway through the sentence, his voice broke down, choked with deep feelings of love for them both; for all of them, he declared to the entire room, his voice more of a howl than a shout of joy. For the others were always present here with them even when they were scattered around Paris and even if they scattered around the world or became busy in their lives, he would still carry them with him. He was a Romantic after all.  

Feuilly had to brush a few odd tears that had strayed in his eyes again at this fresh declaration and outpouring of love from Bahorel. He may have adopted many of the communities as family, but his closest, dearest family were still the ones gathered here. Enjolras too was not immune to the romantic passions in service of revolution and friendship, he hugged them both. The door opened at that instance and Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Prouvaire walked in. 

“What, no greeting at the door?” Courfeyrac asked, putting some more rifles and boxes down. Combeferre opened the trap door and hastily moved them all there. “We were waiting there for your usual greeting, aren't you afraid police spies might be trying to enter-” he broke off as he saw their faces full of happy tears and hugged them all.

“I came through a long circuitous route and made sure I wasn’t followed but the police rarely give a second glance to a bourgeois looking gentleman carrying arms,,”Courfeyrac said laughing, putting his hat down and sitting cross legged on the bed. He and others had trailed some mud across Enjolras’ floor, he grinned sheepishly. “I had stashed some arms away from the July Revolution and from my friends who are all into hunting parties.”

They all took their places on the chairs or on the rug on the floor and conversations flew back and forth cheerfully. They were confident and hopeful that they had reasonably managed to do as much preparation as they could in the time they had, which had been only a few days from Galois’ funeral to General Lamarque’s. A day or two’s preparation was all that was often given to prepare for riots in a city that was as much a lover of riots, as Paris was. A day or two was all that was sometimes needed if everything else went to plan. 

They had set the powder kegs around the city, only a spark was needed, and Paris had assured them that it was ready for that spark, for that fire. They were talking about the future in high hopes, discussing how they all should take a few days to rest and remain underground once the riot ended, no matter what the outcome. They promised themselves not to burn themselves out, neither on literature (Prouvaire and Bahorel added a resounding ‘hear hear’) nor on political organising.

Everyone turned towards Enjolras, he was lost in thought, hope shining in his handsome face as he gazed quietly at the people around him and beamed. "I will try." he said, laughing and hiding his face. Combeferre squeezed his hand, the strains of Ça Ira broke out in the room.

Enjolras thought he might visit his father in Le Puy and take Combeferre and Courfeyrac with him, Bahorel and Prouvaire had made plans to visit Bahorel’s family in Lyon. The talk had moved to discussing all the various eccentricities of their own families or employers, uncles, aunts and cousins were also not spared, and in Bahorel’s case of the various farm animals too.

They echoed their feelings of mutual adoration towards each other several times, and why should they not? They had survived many years of riots, navigated many differences of opinion and still cherished each others' company and turned to each other for support.  

One thing they kept coming back to and were heartily agreed upon, was that if they were not killed in these riots, they were not going to stop from trying to set the city alight to usher in the new dawn.

[everyonewasabird]

Brickclub 4.12.4 ‘Attempt at Consoling the Widow Hucheloup’

A few random observations:

With no fanfare at all, we learn that Grantaire was wrong--the sun did come out today. Of course, he wasn’t awake to see it.

--

Courfeyrac has something of the same impulse Gavroche did a few chapters ago, of wanting the people who complain about both the government and the revolution to understand that the latter is their solution to the former. He doesn’t manage to comfort Mme Hucheloup very well, though, since even if the government lost her some money, the barricaders are certainly losing her much more money. Hugo’s metaphor to illustrate this is wildly racist and I won’t repeat it here.

--

Of the ragtag barricaders:

One would have said they were brothers, they did not know each other's names.

echoes the meeting of Marius and Cosette, where they knew all the important things about each other before they remembered to bother with their names.

It feels like an important addition to how names work in this book: full legal names belong to the rich,  the poor are named haphazardly, with one name, or a nickname given by a stranger, or no legal name at all. And that’s part of the discrimination against the misérables, because names matter to the government--but they don’t matter to the Infinite. Like with Fantine’s grave, or Valjean’s, God doesn’t need a label to know people.

And in the heights of brotherhood and union, people don’t need labels to know each other either.

--

In the billiard room, Ma'am Hucheloup, Chowder, and Fricassee, variously modified by terror, one stupefied, another breathless, the third alert, were tearing up old linen and making lint; three insurgents were helping them

I never noticed until Pilf pointed it out one time, but of the women, only Madame Hucheloup is necessarily having a bad day. Which makes sense: she’s an employer and a property owner. She has something to lose.

As mere wine-shop employees, Chowder and Fricasee are startled by all this, but also possibly invigorated--Fricasee in particular. We heard earlier that she was delivering stones to the barricade in the sleepy manner she used to deliver wine to customers. Now, for the first time since we met to her, she’s awake.

--

And Gavroche is being wonderful, annoying the builders, shouting orders, adding more creative ideas to the barricade. Paris may not have risen yet, but the spirit of Paris is on their side, trading childish insults with Enjolras and still using the new argot word Bahorel taught him. Which is such a charming detail about the effect Bahorel had on him.

The text says he

took position, stopped, started up again, flitted above the tu­ mult and the effort, leaped from these to those, whis­ pered, hummed, and stirred up the whole team; the fly on the revolutionary coach.

You guys, there’s a revolutionary coach. The revolt has overturned the omnibus that represents society (and freed the horses that were its downtrodden workers and let the bourgeoisie walk away unscathed), but now, metaphorically, it’s become its own form of cart. It’s a society emerging, and we already see that in the metaphors.

--

The chapter ends with a "stray dandy” who’s flâneuring on a street corner, watching the proceedings. Gavroche challenges him to join to help his country, but he flees.

I’m not sure how to read it. Possibilities:

- It’s another worrisome piece of evidence that the people aren’t rising.

- “Stray” certainly could convey something cat-adjacent in English, but I’m suspecting the French “fourvoyé�� probably doesn’t--a brief search seems to imply it’s more along the lines of “lost,” “led astray,” or “misguided.”

- The full phrase is “un élégant fourvoyé.” I seriously doubt it’s literally Montparnasse, but Montparnasse has been described as “un élégant” before--I think “stray dandy” could very much be read as invoking his image.

Before today, Montparnasse was the only adult future available for Gavroche to look forward to. But as of this morning, Gavroche has been repeating the word “hercules” at every opportunity, modeling himself and his language after his new role model, Bahorel.

The dandy driven away may be ominous for the barricade, but it feels like it represents hope for Gavroche. For the first time, he has something to fend off that lost dandy looming at the corners of his life.

There’s a possible future for him after all.

[permets-2]

Happy Barricade Day from those of us at @aristosmusical ! Our 11′oclock number is called Who Is This Boy, a desperate and aching piece that narrates Patroclus’ ultimate decision to don the armor of his lover Achilles and fight in his stead. It also asks the questions of who they have each become after ten years of battle, if they still knew each other, and what it meant to see someone in a new light. 

And as Les Amis stans first and people second, @everydayatleast​ @courfeyracs-swordcane and I wrote a parody of Who Is This Boy about Enjolras and Grantaire’s final moments atop their barricade while in quarantine almost a year ago; we’ve been dreaming up reasons to produce it ever since. This year as we gear up for the release of the ARISTOS: The Musical album, we conscripted a few of our album cast members to sing the ExR Who Is This Boy for this year’s Barricade Day. Lyrics are below the cut! 

Grantaire: Grace Connallon Enjolras: Julia S. @alto-arietis​ Piano and Orchestrations by Aaron Reed Lyrics by Muse Lee, Ruby Chan-Frey, and Teddy Hall

ExR Lyrics in italics, original ARISTOS lyrics are normal! [GRANTAIRE] Who is this boy? His noise and his danger? We took the world by storm  ‘till your dark flag was torn Apollo had to be a martyr I’ve loved a boy I’ve watched his endeavors  But there’s a day he rose and took a lion’s pose And I learned we don’t have forever I’ve grown too brave for pretending But then the darkness meets your deathless gaze  It feels like this will be a bright forever Memory’s like a dream and I’m so close to waking Be serious, I’m wild Each word is a challenge And sunrise is falling Like the ashes of tomorrow [ENJOLRAS] Who is this boy? He stands and bears witness? Our new world is bright and tender in his eyes How can I permit this? [GRANTAIRE] Is this the boy Who no man can frighten?  Atop his barricade, amidst the mess he’s made And so like a child again Yet through the haze he is bending towards the sun  Like a bowstring yields to let its arrows blaze He’ll raise his flag and lead us to our freedom And it’s almost real and I can’t help the ache  And swiftly I’m falling through heavenly thunder He’s taking my hand as his eyes fill with wonder [BOTH] Who is this boy? Who is this boy? Who is this boy? I think that I love this boy

[restlesswasteland]

Miserables Month Day 12: "Farm"

Written for the Miserables Month @themiserablesmonth Courfeyrac laughed as he looked up from his seed packet, a smudge of dirt on his nose.

“You can’t be serious,” he giggled. Jehan nodded fervently.

“Completely serious. Cross my heart, hope to die, hand on the bible, over my mother’s grave,” Jehan swore, one garden-gloved hand over his heart.

“Your mother isn’t even dead,” Courf said, throwing himself into another laughing fit.

Enjolras smiled to himself, not entirely sure what Jehan was swearing over but amused all the same.

He continued pulling weeds from the row of kale that he was kneeling in. The motion was rhythmic. Pull weeds, throw in the bucket. Pull weeds, throw in the bucket. Uncomplicated. He found it reassuring.

Enjolras paused to take in the scene around him. His friends under the high noon sun, sweaty and covered in soil. Combeferre was harvesting tomatoes. Bahorel was watering the carrots. Cosette and Grantaire were laughing about something while they pulled weeds in the pumpkin patch.

And Jehan and Courf were planting seeds that they would never harvest.

When Enjolras had asked them why, they both looked at him soberly.

“Just because we won’t be here,” Jehan said, “doesn’t mean we shouldn’t give something a chance to grow.”

Enjolras understood the sentiment. While he found it pointless, he left the two to their planting. If that’s what made them happy today, who was he to interfere?

Enjolras had found the Intervale two years ago. It was its own little agricultural revolution, hiding in the middle of a bustling city. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t heard of it before. Acres of land dedicated to farming fresh food. A community based in planting, growing, harvesting, eating. Repeat.

Their work was restorative and sustainable. Human-based. They grew what they could, they ate what they needed, they gave away the rest. They fed any and all that came to their doors.

Enjolras was in love at first harvest.

And now the city was planning to pave over it to create more unaffordable housing.

They had tried. They wrote petitions, they held protests, they spoke to representatives. They went to city council meetings, Enjolras gave speeches. They appealed to every single person they could think of.

But the Intervale was perceived as a useless hippy commune, and no matter how hard they all tried, they couldn’t change that. And in the end, that was the nail in the coffin.

People simply couldn’t see the need for a sustainable agriculture community when they were being courted with false promises of new housing initiatives.

Enjolras saw right through their bullshit. And it made him furious.

When the Intervale Community Board decided that they would continue on a few acres of land just outside city limits, the Amis had taken a vote. It was unanimous. They needed to move on. Enjolras grit his teeth and accepted that they had lost the battle. It was time to focus on winning the war.

He was glad that the Intervale would continue, of course. But it was too far out of the way to be able to make consistent visits to. And while it bothered him that he would no longer be an active participant, it bothered him significantly more to think of all of the people they fed in the city that would no longer have a stable source of nourishment.

He yanked out a particularly deep-rooted weed, thinking of everyone that stood in between him and this land. He was going to make those motherfuckers pay. He was going to get them where they lived.

But not today. Today, he was going to harvest.

When he reached the end of his row, he wiped the sweat from his brow. Then he joined Combeferre in the tomato plants. The two looked through the cages methodically, side by side.

When there were no more tomatoes to pluck, no more soil to till, no more seeds to sow, they slowly drifted out of the fields for the day. Only Combeferre and Courfeyrac were left with Enjolras when the sun began to set.

Enjolras wasn’t a sentimental person. But he knew he would miss it here. It was a change of pace for him. Using his body to make change, instead of his voice and his mind. The simplicity of planting, of weeding, of picking. It was straightforward, and in that, it was magnificent.

He felt a hand in his as he looked across the rows of green.

“It’ll be dark soon,” Courfeyrac said gently. Enjolras nodded.

Combeferre joined them, coming to stand on Enjolras’s other side. The three of them watched the breeze rustle the leaves of the snap pea plants. Courfeyrac didn’t let go of Enjolras’s hand.

“We were lucky. To be part of something great,” Combeferre said quietly. Enjolras knew exactly what he meant.

He took a breath. Took one more look at the fields. And then he turned and walked away.

Courfeyrac kept up, hand still in his. Combeferre followed. They walked the long and uneven path to the gates.

When they reached it, Courfeyrac stopped suddenly, tugging Enjolras to a halt.

“Look,” Courfeyrac said, and Enjolras found him staring back at the fields.

He turned around. The sunset was beautiful.

[bahorell]

Les Amis (& co.) and what they’re like camping

Enjolras: Is kinda scared of the woods. Also he’s that guy that really has a hard time putting his phone down because “I just have to respond to this one email”. “Yeah give me one second I’m dealing with a work thing”. “omg did you hear about what’s happening in Canada? It’s horrible those poor people” “Enj the point of this is to get away from everything for a couple days” “Right I know…”. So if there’s even one bar of service they gotta go find a different place. When he isn’t on his phone he’s very active in all his friends activities. He’s not super outdoors-y so he mostly tags along when other people do things. He’ll have Baz or Courf take him on rides on their paddle boards. He’ll tag along when Chetta and Ferre go on hikes. He’ll be Feuilly’s little helper person when Feuilly’s working on building the fire. Or he’ll just hand out with people at camp or on the beach of the lake/river and just talk.

Combeferre: Loves camping because of all the bugs and critters! Found the tiniest little frogs on the shore of the lake one time and made everybody look at them. Brings plant and animal and bug ID books with him and will take little leaves or flowers and stick them in the pages of the book when he thinks he found a match. He doesn’t usually snack too much when he’s at home but when he’s in the woods he is always eating something and it’s really when he’ll let himself just go balls to the wall with the junk food. The only thing he doesn’t really like about camping is that he doesn’t get to go on jogs in the morning because he’s smart enough to not run into the woods in the middle of nowhere with no service by himself.

Courfeyrac: Has an inflatable paddle board that he bought! He likes to play lifeguard and will paddle around to all his friends who are swimming and give them rides to shore. He likes to share his paddle board with his friends but he didn’t have enough money to buy a super super fancy one that has a large weight capacity so usually if someone else is on it with him it sinks into the water enough to stress him out. Also he shares a big tent with Combeferre and Enjolras and he likes to sleep in the middle of the two of them.

Joly: Invested in a super super cute small teardrop camping trailer a couple years ago. It’s easier for him to get in and out of than a tent or god forbid a hammock (Bahorel has to lift him into it then Joly wants to get in one… this is also partially because Bahorel sets up all the hammocks and they are p much impossible to get in unless you are also 6’7”) The inside of the camper is just a bed and the back hatch opens up to cabinets and drawers and a counter and stuff that makes a nice little make shift kitchen. He’ll set up the camp stove and the cooking area right next to it. He’s not super involved in any of the cooking it just gives him less stress when the food area is organized and the table legs are on a flat surface.

Jehan: Jehan tells the ghost stories. They aren’t very good at telling ghost stories so nobody really gets scared (except for Marius and if they’re really doing a good job Enj will get a little spooked). They also wake up with the sunrise so they’re up and ready to start the day at like 5am… and they really aren’t quiet about it so they manage to wake up 2/3 of everybody else at camp. Has more dietary needs than other people so when every one gets together to build a grocery list and meal plan for the trip they’ll make their own list. They really don’t mind because they HATE sharing snacks so having their own little baby cooler all to themselves is the best. Bousset: Somehow manages to have the most amazing balance and can get on and off Bahorel or Courf’s paddle boards like it’s nothing but when he gets in the canoe with anybody they somehow always tip it over within like 20 seconds. He is the opposite of Jehan he’ll sleep until like 2 in the afternoon if one of them doesn’t come to wake him up. He’s also usually in charge of getting all the booze together for the trip bc he’s very aware of what everyone likes to drink. He takes turns with Chetta sleeping in the trailer with Joly since not all three of them can fit. When he’s not sleeping in the tent he’s sharing a tent with Grantaire.

Feuilly: Fire guy. Loves the fire. Is always excited for the sun to go down so he can start the campfire. Will not take his eyes off the fire. I mean seriously. They once played never have I ever and when it got to be his turn they timed him to see how long it would take for him to realize it was his turn bc he was too busy staring at the fire to pay attention (it was a solid 4 minutes). Sleeps in a tiny little one person tent that would make anybody else claustrophobic but he LOVES it. He does set up a hammock right next to Bahorel’s. He doesn’t sleep in it but the two of them will take naps together in their hammocks. He also has to dowse his body in SPF 10000000000+ because he’s the whitest person ever, and somehow he still manages to get a sunburn on some part of his body.

Bahorel: He’s the guy thats super picky about the camp spot. “eh i mean this one is cool but it’s a little too close to the other campsite and I don’t wanna be that close to other people thats the point of this trip is to get away from everybody.” “This one WOULD be perfect but it doesn’t have good access to the lake so it’s gonna be hard for those of us that have boats to get down there” “Bahorel the boat ramp is like 1/8 of a kilometer away we can just walk down to that…” “i mean we COULD… but it just kinda sucks” Also Bahorel has this super nice hammock system with like a bug net and a rain tarp, he will not sleep on the ground because he is scared of bugs and also the baby boy likes getting rocked to sleep. He always follows Feuilly around when he’s looking for a place to put his tent and he’ll set up his hammock right next to him. And he WAILS to Feuilly when they get back home because his SKINCARE ROUTINE GOT MESSED UP FEUILLY OHHH MY GODDDD

Grantaire: Not super big on camping but if he’s with his friends he’s having fun. There’s something about being in the woods that makes him quiet… but not in a sad way. He feels really peaceful when he isn’t dealing with a bunch of people in a big city (Even tho he loves the city). He always brings stuff so that he can draw or paint the mountains or his friends on the lake but he usually doesn’t get enough time to really make anything more than a sketch. He’s not scared of water but he avoids going in the lake if it’s not a part of it that’s deeper than his tummy. He won’t get in the boats unless there’s a lot of coaxing (usually by Enj)

Marius: LOVES being in the woods. I mean really loves it. Surprisingly it’s usually Marius that sends out the text to the group chat that’s like “hey is everybody free in a couple weekends? I wanna go camping!” He just really doesn’t like going by himself or going with just one or two people. He wakes up super early as well and usually will sit with Jehan and share coffee waiting for everybody else to wake up. Sometimes the two of them will go on a little walk together. He winds down pretty early in the evening though since he wakes up so early and is usually ready for bed by like 8:45pm. He’s also that guy that wants to eat all the berries on the bushes they walk past and has almost given Combeferre a heart attack like 7 times.  

Eponine: She’s… alright to camp with. She gets kinda grumpy in the mornings because of how cold it is but she warms up (both temperature wise, but also her mood) once she’s eaten and it’s gotten warmer out. She really just likes to lay in one of the communal hammocks and read book after book. She’ll also tag along with Gavroche on a lot of his little adventures. When she’s not with Gavroche or letting Combeferre show her all the little bugs and cool plants he found, she just sunbathes. For HOURS straight. Going camping for her is just a really long fun weekend to get her tan on.

Cosette: She’s so fun to camp with!! She’s like… the best person to camp with. She always does the planning and researches everything there is to do at and near the campsite. She knows all the hiking trails nearby and what areas have service and which ones don’t. She knows which campsites have lake/river access. She also makes the best camp coffee. It’s really the only time she drinks coffee unless it’s like… finals week or she’s got an early flight or something. She also ALWAYS has to tell her dad where they’re going. She shares her location and route with him on the drive there and texts him to let him know she’s about to lose service and texts him the second she has a bar of service. He’s just very protective and she wants to make sure that he knows she’s safe. Plus if anything DOES happen he knows where she’s going and can come save the day.

Musichetta: She sleeps like the entire time she’s camping. She’ll wake up in the morning and move from her tent or the camper and go lay in one of the communal hammocks near the fire ring and doze off with her hot chocolate… which she has spilled a couple times. Once it warms up a little she’s walk down to the lake or river and lay down, get her tan on, and take a nap. One of her favorite things is to go on hikes with Combeferre. He’s one of the only people in the group that can keep up with her. If they go with other people usually by the time they reach the end of the trail the rest of the group is about 2 miles behind them. One of the best parts of camping for her is going home and showering after not showering for like 3 or 4 days.

Gavroche: Spends the entirety of the first day trying to find the perfect tree to put the perfect swing on. He also likes to try to find any big rocks near the campsite and go bouldering and run around on top of them. He still really has that childhood curiosity about everything and no fear. He’ll run off trail trying to find deer or elk. If he doesn’t get back home with a couple scratches or bruises he doesn’t consider it a good camping trip. He also will swim out to Bahorel’s paddle board and Bahorel will grab him out of the water and throw him back in. Gavroche thinks it’s the most fun thing in the world even though he’s growing really fast and it’s taking a little bit more muscle every year for Bahorel to throw him as far as Gav wants him to.

[barricadebops]

For the prompts post, if it's possible to choose two, how about Fluff number 3 and Misc number 4 for Enjoltaire? And if not, you can choose the one you want. Also, your writing is amazing ❤

"Have you seen my hoodie?" "Nooooo..." "You're wearing it, aren't you?"/"Sharing is caring, now give me the hoodie!"

I split up the first prompt part in different places, I hope that's okay?

---------------------------------------------------

It started on a stormy day, hard rain and thunder crashing down upon the pavement, battering down on houses, the crack of lightning as if a whip across the sky, like Zeus's masterbolt, like how Grantaire had told him about, the--

Well, this much description was hardly necessary, really. But Enjolras supposed the thought was influenced by the constant poetic Jehan is constantly waxing. Forgive him for taking the time to listen to his friends.

But, for simplicity's sake, it started on a rainy day.

In foresight, it perhaps would have served better if Enjolras told Grantaire it would be raining on the day that he suggested they go out for a picnic, but the sparkle in his eyes had been too bright for Enjolras to break it to him. Besides, the weather forecast he listened to was wrong half the time (and honestly now that he considers it, he really should change which weather station he listens to.)

Unfortunately, this one time, the weather forecast had been correct, and right as they finished laying a blanket to sit upon, the first drops of rain that Enjolras had tried hard to ignore morphed into a battering of rain as the sky suddenly gave way to grey and thunder rumbled the ground.

From there it was a mad dash to the car, but even the little time spent in the car had them both soaked to the bone.

So much for a picnic.

And yet, as they got back to Grantaire's place and stumbled through the doorframe into his apartment, Grantaire was laughing brightly as the sun that they had hoped to see that day, and Enjolras simply couldn't find it in himself to be upset when hearing such a delightful sound. In the past, he had heard Grantaire chuckle bitterly or let out bursts of drunk laughs not appropriate for the moment, but this was one that warmed him from his chest down to the tips of his toes despite the chill of the rain soaking through to his skin.

Courfeyrac would likely say Enjolras' affections are blinding him. And they were, considering Grantaire's laughs were loud and gruff, hardly the stuff of dreamy sighs, but one in love remains impervious to such truths. Something Marius would likely say, but hey doesn't mean it's wrong. That Marius is a good fellow, Enjolras wondered if he can perhaps persuade Courfeyrac to bring him back to the Musain.

But at the current moment, he had just returned from a steaming shower and grimaced a little as he stared at the clothes a little. They would all dangle off of his lither, shorter form as compared to Grantaire's; it wasn't as if he wasn't used to it. Most of the clothes he's ever had to borrow in the past have been considerably bigger than him, but it was always just the slightest bit a hassle to have to roll up the sleeves and the legs of the pants so he doesn't go tripping and falling and breaking an arm (that last comment is a true story--just ask Combeferre. Or maybe not. He burned that pair of pants after he was distraught about Enjolras sustaining an injury from it. Courfeyrac was delighted. Not from Enjolras injuring himself of course, from the whole burning thing. It rather reminded him of that time he burned one of Charles de Gaulle's speeches in the fireplace.)

Whatever the case, he did have to roll up the sweatpants, but the shirt was short sleeved and fine, if but a bit baggy on himself.

But it was the hoodie that made things a lot better.

In truth, it wasn't even in the folded pile of clothes Grantaire gave him. It sat on the rack of clothing, but Grantaire never minded when he borrowed clothes, and how could he resist. It was his favourite. He never actually had the opportunity to wear it himself, of course, but he had seen it on Grantaire a number of times, and he allowed himself one indulgent inhale of its forest green fabric before he slipped it on and nearly laughed at the proportion of the hoodie to himself--it nearly reached knees, but if anything, he saw it as a good thing. The day was chilly, and the hoodie was warm and soft. Yes, this was definitely his favourite.

---------------------------------------------------

"Did you trip and break your arm again?" he heard Grantaire ask as he reentered the living room. He was searching through his collection of DVDs on the carpet, but at the sound of Enjolras going "Very funny," he looked up, his eyebrows furrowing for a moment and his mouth opening for a few seconds before closing. "That's my hoodie."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow in amusement. "Grantaire all of these clothes are yours."

Grantaire blinked. "Wait. Yes. Yes they are."

He laughed before plopping himself down beside him on the carpet, leaning against the back of the sofa until Grantaire draped an arm around his shoulders and drew him to lean against his broad chest.

"And where did you find the hoodie, huh?" he heard him mumble into his hair.

He hummed. "Your shelf."

"And who gave you permission?"

He froze. "Oh. I'm sorry, I thought you would be okay with it, I can give it back--" he moved to take the hoodie off, but the arm around his shoulders tightened.

"I was joking, Enjolras, I don't need you to take it off, God, I'm not a brute." He felt himself moved to lean more comfortably against Grantaire. "Besides, it looks nice on you."

He rolled his eyes. "You once said I would look good in a potato sack, but I'll chalk it up to you being drunk."

"Being drunk is exactly how you get every truth out--"

"Grantaire," he sighed exasperatedly, but not without a smile. He burrowed in deeper and contented himself to relishing in the warmth provided by both the hoodie and Grantaire himself, Grantaire's breath ruffling his hair.

As he sat there, watching Grantaire sift through all sorts of movies, he couldn't help but agree.

Yes. Yes, the hoodie did look good on him.

---------------------------------------------------

Grantaire was almost done packing, and as always, just like everyone else, he was scrambling around the apartment, throwing things into his bag that he thought of last minute.

He watched Grantaire threw open his closet for the fifteenth time in the last five minutes and silently wondered what he was searching for. Enjolras kicked his legs off from where they hung, too short to reach the ground where he sat on a high chair.

"Have you seen my hoodie?" he asked at last, reemerging from the depths of his closet.

Enjolras snorted. "You're going to have to be more specific than that. You own quite a few hoodies."

Grantaire ran a hand through his curls. "The dark green one."

Enjolras pursed his lips and hoped his admission of guilt didn't show in his eyes as he thinks about the aforementioned hoodie sitting back in his closet, hidden away from the prying eyes of Courfeyrac--something to hold onto before Grantaire leaves for four months on his art tour. "Um. Noooo..."

The way he trails off, however, is definitely enough to rouse the suspicions of anyone who has even the slightest bit of sense to know when something's off. And for a second, Enjolras thinks that Grantaire, clever as he is, has detected it too, for there's a strange look in his eyes when he stares at Enjolras, but ultimately, he shakes off whatever it was he was thinking about, shrugs, and says "okay," and heads back to packing frantically.

He doesn't resume looking for the hoodie, though.

---------------------------------------------------

It had been a few weeks, and they're no stranger to Skyping. With Grantaire's art having recently grown ever more popular, he's left before on tours and exhibitions.

He's never left for quite so long, however, and though they don't yet live together, Enjolras still misses his presence in Paris.

And it was time, eventually, that led to his slip.

For all his Skype convos with Grantaire, had had never once donned the hoodie that he now wore freely around the apartment, regardless of Courfeyrac's teasing and Combeferre's insistence that he would only end up giving himself a heat stroke. It was especially important that he wear it on those days when he felt especially lonely, when Combeferre had an extra long shift at the hospital, and Courfeyrac was made to stay longer on accounts that a lawyer had to "make their way up through hard work when they first start off" and Grantaire was miles away in Croatia and all Enjolras is left at home with is a stack of papers to mark and a wish that someone was there to maybe hold him and make him feel not quite so empty inside.

So the hoodie was of vital importance. But it never came on during their Skype sessions. Grantaire could never know. What would he say when he saw that Enjolras had lied to him that day, that he actually did know where the hoodie was, and that he took it? He could never know.

And Enjolras had been so careful. He thought he was doing well. But on this particular night he came home exhausted after a lengthy and quite frankly irritating meeting with the principle on advocating for more funding to the school's arts programs, and he was simply much too tired to realize that when he changed at home, he threw on the hoodie and sat in front of the screen, waiting, as always, for the call to come through.

And there it was, there was that face he had missed so dearly, with a grin that seemed to lift even the smallest bit of exhaustion from his shoulders and let him breathe a little easier, a grin that softened into something gentler at the sight of the way Enjolras seemed so tired this night.

At first, the conversation was as it always was; moments to share, repeated I miss yous, and of course, the bickering that stemmed from concern. Enjolras let his guard down. He hadn't been paying enough attention. Not, until, Grantaire had started again--

"By the way," Grantaire said abruptly. "I never did find my hoodie. And that one you have on right now looks kind of familiar, don't you-- shit Enj, are you okay?"

He asked because Enjolras had toppled off the chair quite unceremoniously in his haste to get off screen. The hoodie! He looked down in horror at what he was wearing. Of course Grantaire recognized it, that was his hoodie! The one Enjolras hid from him before he left!

"Enj?" he heard from the laptop screen.

Well how would he face him now?

"Enj, are you okay? I'm kind of getting worried here."

Well there was nothing to do now. Throwing off the hoodie would only cause more suspicion. So with a red face, he made his way back up on his chair and muttered, "I'm fine."

Grantaire looked flabbergasted. "What's wrong?"

He let his eyes flit briefly into his. "Nothing."

"Is this about the hoodie?" Grantaire asked, amused.

He bit his cheek.

"You're wearing it, aren't you?" he heard him say, voice smug.

He buried his head in his hands. "Yes."

Grantaire's laugh, loud and bold, rang through the screen, and Enjolras was quite confused to say the least. Why wasn't he pissed? "I fucking knew I didn't just lose it. Joly gave me hell when he heard I left without it, told me I was always losing stuff--"

"Aren't you mad?" he blurted out. Grantaire's face turned confused for a moment before he let out another burst of laughter.

"Why the fuck would I be mad?"

He waved his hands in a frenzy. "Because I took your hoodie! Because I lied to you when you asked me where your hoodie was! Now you're stuck without a hoodie in Zagreb--"

"Zagreb's pretty warm actually--"

"And you were left wondering all this time where it was when I knew all along! Why aren't you pissed?"

Grantaire looked both amused and bemused. "It's really not that big a deal, you know. Although, I mean you don't have to steal it, you could just ask to borrow it. Or to keep it if you're so fond of it."

He bit his lip. He still felt guilty. "Still..."

Through the screen, his boyfriend squinted and shook his head gingerly. "You're overthinking things again, Enj. I'm not mad just because you took a hoodie, though I'll admit it would be nice if you just asked next time. I think everyone knows I wouldn't say no to you for something like this." He paused for a second before cracking a grin. "Besides, I already knew the hoodie was with you before this. Courfeyrac sent me a picture of you sleeping in it."

Enjolras hoped the thought of his plan to eat all of Courfeyrac's baking chocolate chips in front of him while he stood helplesssly as revenge for this wasn't showing too clearly on his face. Which he probably didn't have to worry about considering even he could feel how heated and red his cheeks had blazed.

"Sorry," he muttered again with embarassment.

Grantaire quirked an eyebrow. "I just told you I'm not mad." His voice softened, "Besides, like I said before--it looks good on you." This last part, this at least, was able to wring a genuine smile from Enjolras.

He pulled the hoodie tighter around himself. "I miss you," he admitted softly.

Grantaire gave him a gentle smile. "I know, Enj. I miss you too."

They remained silent for a minute, soakihg up the bit of presence online meets allowee before Enjolras cleared his throat and asked, "So what are you wearing overtop at the hotels if not your hoodie?"

"Hm? Oh I bought a new hoodie. From a store when I was in Madrid."

A new hoodie he says? That detail... Well... it was quite interesting to Enjolras...

---------------------------------------------------

When Grantaire finally came back, after months of touring, Enjolras vowed to spend the entire night and then well into the next day, in his arms.

And he did. He allowed himself to burrow deep in his chest and take a greedy inhale of his clothing, lingering with his scent, and drift off to sleep peacefully, satisfied after having his fill of the news of the success of Grantaire's art.

It was the next day, that his mind cleared a little enough of the excitement and euphoria that had clouded it the previous day, enough for him now to be able to realize that he'd never seen the cloth that Grantaire now donned, where Enjolras was now watching him put away the last of his dishes in the sink from where he was sitting on the table. He beckoned him closer, Grantaire coming to stand in front of him, lightly skimming his fingers over Enjolras' hips.

"What's this?" he asked as he tugged a bit at the cloth of the new black hoodie Grantaire wore.

"It's just the new hoodie I bought."

He pondered for a minute. "Have you worn it yet?"

Grantaire frowned. "Well, yeah, when I was back at the hotels and done for the day I--"

"I want it."

Grantaire blinked. "What--"

"I want it. Your hoodie. I want it."

With a laugh, Grantaire shook his head. "You already stole one of my hoodies, Enj, this--"

"I want this one too."

Grantaire stared at him in amused disbelief. "Are you going to steal all my clothes?"

"Yes."

Raising an eyebrow, Grantaire smirked and said, "You can't have this one."

So, really, he brought it on himself when Enjolras climbed a chair and launched hinself through the air at him.

"What the fuck!"

They both crashed to the ground as Enjolras landed atop him and tugged at the cloth. "Sharing is caring, now give me the hoodie!"

"Enj, holy shit--"

They went rolling on the carpeted floor until Enjolras managed to rip the hoodie out of Grantaire's hands, jumping up and throwing it on himself.

On the ground, Grantaire groaned.

Enjolras pursed his lips. "I thank you for your valuable contribution," he said seriously, before cracking the smile he had been trying so hard to hold back.

Grantaire huffed. "Well, you stole my old hoodie. You stole my new hoodie--"

"That's because they smell like you!" Enjolras interjected distressedly, unable to figure out why Grantaire wasn't aware of this.

"--Do you think maybe you could at least give me a hand?"

Rolling up the dangling sleeves, he reached a hand to clasp Grantaire's own and made to tug, only to feel himself tugged down atop Grantaire's broad chest. He yelped as he fell, Grantaire laughing as he wrapped arms around his waist, holding him close.

This time, Enjolras huffed. "What's this for?"

Grantaire hummed. "Payment. If you're going to take my hoodies, you're going to pay for them."

He raised an eyebrow. "In injuries?"

He got an eyeroll in return. "In cuddles."

"Well don't you think that would maybe be a better idea if we weren't on the ground?"

"Yes, but consider this: I'm too comfortable to get up."

Enjolras huffed once more, but burrowed further into Grantaire's chest anyways.

All in all, not a terrible price to pay.

[cumbercookiebatchs]

Okay, so, this is my first time joining something like this and im pretty nervous, but here’s my take for @enjoltaire-winter-week

7.12- Family x Colors

Everything started when Combeferre had a break down.

Right.

Enjolras still couldn’t think about it, but between university, his job and the numerous project he was carrying to top it all, even Combeferre had fallen under the pressure, unleashing a concatenation of events that had found its end in Courfeyrac’s offer for them all to go and spend Christmas at his family’s cabin.

“Won’t your parents object?” He’d asked because, yeah, with a cabin on the alps ,Enjolras guessed they’d want to spend Christmas there, with snow and all that.

“Nah, they’ll spend Christmas with my aunt”

So, it was settled, and a week later the amis found themselves on the road, so early in the morning the sun had yet to come up.

Enjolras didn’t mind that much though, sat as he was, plastered against Grantaire and his warmth. He didn’t even know how he’d ended up there, but coming to think of it, it could have been because of Cosette and the scheming she started as soon as she’d learned about his crush on Grantaire.

Oh well.

The chattering from the front seats was low and steady, and soon he was asleep again, blinking his eyes open when something tickled his nose.

It took him a few seconds to realize what was really going on, how he was hugging Grantaire’s arm, with his head on his shoulder, but when he did his whole face went ablaze.

Grantaire didn’t seem to have a problem with it though, and just smiled at him that cute little smile of his, “We’re here, Jo” and, yeah, right, the car wasn’t moving anymore.

He tried to get a grip on himself and moved away to free Grantaire’s arm, stifling a yawn in the process and definitely not peeking at Grantaire and at how well his coat framed his shoulders. Uh.

Another smile, and Grantaire stepped outside on the snow-covered soil. He stretched his legs and bent down, smug face grinning at Enjolras through the car’s window “Oi, did you know that you snore?”

Enjolras gasped, throwing his hat at his face, “Liar!”, he screamed, but Grantaire was already jogging inside, leaving Enjolras in the car, blushing and without his hat.

And, yeah, that coat was really something.

Sighing at himself and at his horrible romance skills, he got out of the car too, taking in the landscape before him for the first time. Everything was white and silent, the snow shined under the bright sunlight and jumped into his eyes. Enjolras filled his lungs with the icy air  before stepping inside.

 The cabin was a bit of a dusty mess, but by night everyone was settled, the whole place cleaned up and on its way to look like Santa’s village.

On the far side of the room, the Christmas three glittered red and green, just like the lights Jean was draping everywhere. Courfeyrac moved around the room spreading tinsel and chocolate and kisses alike, and it  felt  so much like home, the laughers, the warmth, filling his chest with love and affection. A sweet smell of cookies came from the kitchen, and suddenly everything was too much, melancholy wrapping around him like a cloak.

Sighing, he rested his temple and shoulder on the frigid window, confused by himself and his treacherous mind.

It was so dark outside, the sky filled with stars.

He shivered but he paid it no mind, watching his own breath fall humid on the window.

Something fell on his shoulders – a blanket, he noticed- and Grantaire sat down beside him right after, rubbing his palms on his jeans. He was wearing antlers toppled with bells, and they giggled when he leaned down.

“Is everything alright?” he murmured, as if catching the strange daze overcoming Enjolras, and he was just so, so endearing, with his warm ugly sweater and his crocked nose, it was so hard for Enjolras not to curl up beside him and bask in his warmth, but he settled with a tiny shrug of his shoulders instead. “I’m just, not used to spend Christmas like this. Makes me notice what I’ve missed, I guess”

“Your family’s not much for the holidays?”

“My family’s not much for family.”

“Oh, I see.”

Grantaire’s voice was soft, his eyes warm as he scooted closer, cradling Enjolras’ palms and playing with his fingers. He wasn’t looking at him, his gaze on their intertwined hands, but Enjolras ‘eyes were fixed on him, on his fringe and how it fell on his forehead, on his little smile that showed off his dimples, and another wave of feelings washed over him, made him falter as his heart sped up.

Grantaire ran the rough pad of his thumb on Enjolras’ knuckles, looking at him from under his lashes.

Enjolras felt his cheeks heat up violently, feverishly so, breath hitching when Grantaire leaned in again,“You know, - he said- as a wise man once said, family doesn’t end with blood, and it seems to me that we both did a pretty good job in finding our own family, don’t you think?” and, his smile was so tender, doing all kind of things to Enjolras’ heart.

His eyes even watered, just a little bit.

“You’re right. You really are.”

Grantaire gasped playfully, maybe to lighten up the mood, Enjolras didn’t know but was glad anyway, subtly wiping his eyes with his sleeve.

“Yeah, you’re right, but don’t think I missed the Supernatural quote” he said, chuckling and leaning his head on Grantaire’s shoulder, in what he hoped would pass as a simple show of gratitude. Their hands were still intertwined, resting where they were on Grantaire’s thigh, and Enjolras squeezed them. He felt the rumble of Grantaire’s voice right on his skin, “well it was fitting, don’t you think?”

And, yes. It was.

It was fitting, and true, and Grantaire was warm and soft beside him, left Enjolras with no choice but to lean up and kiss his cheek softly, uncaring of their surroundings and his own reddened cheeks.

Grantaire blushed too, though, so Enjolras considered them even.

--------------

okay so, this is some sort fo an hybrid thing? Like- i wanted this to be a multichapter, but it turned out more like a collection of one shots, some of them (maybe all, if i can) sharing this same setting. 

anyway, i hope you like this and i didn’t went off theme.

[brickstudies]

To Make the World a Home, a Feuilly & Les Amis fanmix for @feuillyweek​ 2020 (Deezer / Spotify)

Tracklist kinda crack-y??? judge for yourself:

1. Five for Fighting – World 2. Silvio Rodríguez – La Era Está Pariendo un Corazón (tr. The era is giving birth to a heart) 3. Big Thief – Forgotten Eyes 4. Nadin Amizah – Kanyaah (tr. Dearest) 5. Tracy Chapman - Talkin’ Bout a Revolution 6. AJJ – People 7. Emmylou Harris – Sweet Old World 8. Sleeping at Last – From the Ground Up 9. Bon Iver – PDLIF 10. White Hinterland – Napoleon at Waterloo 11. Bastille – 4AM 12. John Murphy – Cosette’s Piano (from BBC LM) 13. Banda Neira – Yang Patah Tumbuh Yang Hilang Berganti (tr. What’s broken will regrow, what’s lost will be reborn)

Feuilly was a workingman, a fan-maker, orphaned both of father and mother, who earned with difficulty three francs a day, and had but one thought, to deliver the world.

What kind of world do you want?/Think anything/.../Should there be people or peoples/.../Let every man own his own hand (1)

Feuilly had a generous heart. The range of his embrace was immense. This orphan had adopted the peoples.

The era is giving birth to a heart/And we must run to its side/.../And if necessary, we must burn down the sky/For the sake of any man in the world, for the sake of any home (2)

In the absence of his mother, his thoughts had dwelt on the motherland. He did not want any man on earth to be without a motherland.

The wound has no direction/Everybody needs a home and deserves protection (3)

This poor workingman had constituted himself the tutor of Justice, and she recompensed him by rendering him great.

O, red flower/you call to the weary/you revive them/Like an embrace that permits me/to be more vast and less troubled/Like an embrace that allows me/to be less vast and be troubled (4)

���Listen to me, Feuilly, valiant worker, man of the people, man of the peoples. I revere you. Yes, you clearly behold the future, yes, you are right. You had neither father nor mother, Feuilly; you adopted humanity for your mother and right for your father. You are about to die, that is to say to triumph, here. [...]”

[More under the cut]

...

‘Cause finally the tables are starting to turn/Talkin' bout a revolution (5)

“[...] Citizens, whatever happens today, by our defeat just as much as by our victory, what we are going to achieve is a revolution. As fires light up a whole city, so revolutions give light to the whole human race.”

People are my religion because I believe in them/People are my enemies and people are my friends/I have faith in my fellow men/and I only hope that he has faith in me (6)

Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire, Feuilly, Bossuet, Joly, Bahorel, and some others, sought each other out and united as in the most peaceful days of their conversations in their student life, and, in one corner of this wine-shop [...] with their carbines loaded and primed resting against the backs of their chairs, these fine young fellows, so close to a supreme hour, began to recite love verses.

See what you lost when you left this world/This sweet old world/Millions of us in love/Promises made good/ Looking for some truth/.../Dancing with no shoes/The beat, the rhythm, and the blues/The pounding of your heart strong/Together with another one/Didn't you think anyone loved you? (7)

The time, the place, these recollections of youth, a few stars beginning to twinkle in the sky, the deathly quiet of those deserted streets, the imminence of the inexorable drama that was about to unfold lent a pathetic charm to these verses softly murmured in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a gentle poet.

One by one the knots we’ve tied will come undone/Like picking locks, we’ll sow our seeds beneath the sun/Our accomplice is the rain, with patience, that of saints (8)

Enjolras had advised two hours of sleep. Advice from Enjolras was a command. Still, only three or four took advantage of it.

Feuilly employed these two hours in engraving this inscription on the wall which faced the tavern:

—LONG LIVE THE PEOPLES!

These four words, hollowed out in the rough stone with a nail, could be still read on the wall in 1848.

Please don’t live in fear/We can’t see from here right now/.../I will say there will be a better day/There will be a better day (9)

"Can any one understand," exclaimed Feuilly bitterly, "those men,—[and he cited names, well-known names, even celebrated names, some belonging to the old army]—who had promised to join us, and taken an oath to aid us, and who had pledged their honor to it, and who are our generals, and who abandon us!"

And Combeferre restricted himself to replying with a grave smile.

"There are people who observe the rules of honor as one observes the stars, from a great distance."

As one by one we fall/.../They put their trust in his hands/And a medal on his chest/And the ladies who swoon say/That's the place where his purple heart is/There goes now another man down/There goes now another man down... (10)

*Here, here, my friends and me/You are my familia/.../Four in the morning/we find ourselves here/Best of us passed out/I don’t know who’s where/I got all my old friends and new friends I’ve met once before/In a blanket of smoke as we sink through the floor (11)

[Cosette’s Piano] (12)

(And yet)/what’s broken will regrow, what’s lost will be reborn/ruins will heal/what’s futile bears fruit/these repetitions will someday ceased/and the fallen will take their stands again/What’s broken will regrow, what’s lost will be reborn (13)

[Brick passages are from Donougher and Hapgood; *I’m so sorry]

[demonsonthemoon]

Sunkissed, Sunburnt, Soothed

Fandom: Les Misérables Pairings: platonic Jehan & Grantaire, romantic Grantaire/Enjolras Word Count: 2607 Summary: "The first time Grantaire met Enjolras, he felt for a second like he was going blind. Meeting Jehan had been far less dramatic." Or: the story of not-so-healthy relationships, what they give and what they take, the ways they have of being too much and of being not enough. (Featuring Aromantic!Jehan) Note: Dedicated to my friend Caro (@anastasiapullingteeth), forever the Grantaire to my Jehan and a star in my constellation. This fic was a bit rushed to I could put it out in time for #AggressivelyArospecWeek. I definitely feel like the concept deserves a far longer exploration than I gave it here. Also I have no idea whether the POV and style shifts actually work. Do the paragraph breaks work??? I don't know. I just didn't want to think of how to fix them. Anyway, I hope you enjoy this and don't hesitate to let me know what you thought!

Read it on AO3.

The first time Grantaire met Enjolras, he felt for a second like he was going blind. Like he had just stared at the sun and was about to pay for it. Like the other was a new version of Medusa, turning people to ashes instead of stone.

To be fair, the whole experience may have had something to do with the fact that Grantaire had been well on his way to drunk at the time. Although that didn't explain the continued feeling of being on fire everytime Enjolras looked at him.

Meeting Jehan had been far less dramatic. If Enjolras was the threatening light of the sun faced head on, Jehan was a soft beam peeking above a cloud. He didn't command attention, instead drew it gently with patterned tights, pastel-colored skinny jeans and chunky cable-knit sweaters. Grantaire had taken one look at him and decided he wanted to befriend him. It had something to do with the way Jehan had kept half of his hands hidden in his sleeves, the way his smile had seemed just that little bit uncertain before he let himself be drawn into conversation by Courfeyrac and Bahorel.

Enjolras was so beautiful to look at it often seemed painful. Jehan was a mess of clashing color and haphazard hairstyle, and he was so real it made Grantaire's bones sing.

He had been drunk the first time he had met Enjolras, the first time he had witnessed one of their little meetings from a hidden corner of the Musain. He had been drunk the second time too. Part of his brain had convinced him that the angel, the burning god, would not be there if he came back sober. Part of him had been too scared to face that kind of passion without the flimsy protection of alcohol. Part of him had just been looking for any excuse he could get.

He'd been sober when he'd met Jehan. The young man had joined the group of revolutionaries after Grantaire, although he had been accepted as a friend much more easily. Grantaire hadn't been jealous of that. He could admit he had never made it particularly easy for the other to find him likeable.

Smart people do not bare their skin to the sun at its zenith. They put on a hat instead.

But Jehan had looked past the wide brim of his, had spotted the freckles hiding on Grantaire's nose and had offered to kiss them.

The young man was free with his affection, in that he thought that love should be free. Free to roam and explore, free from the shackles of expectation and propriety. He was free with his love, because he had been told once he could not love right. He had then decided that if he couldn't do it right, at least he would love a lot. Even if it wasn't enough, it would make the world just a little kinder.

Grantaire hadn't ever thought he was able to love in a way that didn't destroy. He had loved laughter once, until laughter had turned into the price he paid for attention. He had loved learning, until learning became the thing he did to prove his parents he was still worth something. He had loved people, and the people had turned into bottles, so fragile between his fingers.

He had loved art. It was the one thing he had managed to renounce before it turned into a blade.

He loved Enjolras.

The truth of that was a block of ice constantly floating around his stomach. It was the kind of cold that burned, and numbed all other feelings at the same time.

Jehan loved him. Not like ice, and not like fire. Not like one romantic lead loved another in all the novels he read.

He loved him all the same.

And Grantaire loved him back, in a way that – for once – didn't feel dangerous. Jehan was the wick of a candle instead of a forest. Sometimes Grantaire resented him for it. Most of the time he was relieved.

They moved in together one day. It made sense for a lot of reasons. Mostly because it was cheaper. But also because they could be there for each other more easily this way. They could keep each other accountable. Keep each other standing. They could promise each other the warmth of another body when they came home.

When one of them offered to share a bed and turn the second bedroom into an art room, it made sense too. So much so that neither of them remembered who came up with the idea in the first place.

It was good. It was nice. In the way that drinking hot chocolate under a blanket while watching the rain outside was nice. It wasn't the same as lazing in the sun, but it was comforting in its own way.

Grantaire hadn't felt like he needed anything else. The grey weather was what he knew, and he would make the best of it. There was a voice in his mind, like the rumbling of far-off thunder, that told him he didn't deserve anything else anyway. That told him he had no choice, that he could learn to swim or drown.

When that voice spoke, when the pain of it flashed like lightning through his veins, Grantaire made Jehan some tea in a quaint little cup, with a hint of honey, and he baked lemon and basil cake.

Then one day the sky caught fire in the most magnificent sunset that Grantaire could have imagined.

Enjolras asked him out for coffee. Not to talk about politics. Not to berate him about his latest interruption during a meeting. Ey asked him out.

Grantaire thought it was a joke at first. He genuinely thought it was a joke, got mad about it and started ranting about how it wasn't funny and he'd expected better from Enjolras.

But it had been real. And Enjolras had been as impassioned as ever when ey had convinced Grantaire that ey was taking this really seriously, that ey was genuinely interested in Grantaire and wanted to give the both of them a shot.

How could Grantaire have said no ?

So they had gone for coffee. And it had been weird at first, but then it had gotten better. If he was honest with himself, Grantaire would admit that he would have gone much further than weird to get a shot at being so close to Enjolras. He called the other Apollo, and laughed when Jehan started calling him Icarus, not noticing the genuine note of concern in his friend's tone.

The one coffee turned into dinner two weeks later, then drinks a week after that, then Grantaire staying at Enjolras' place for the night, then them starting to officially date.

When Grantaire moved out of Jehan's bed and back into their little art studio, he told the other man that it wasn't something Enjolras had asked for. It was something Grantaire had chosen to do himself.

Jehan didn't have the heart to tell him how much it hurt that Grantaire would pick Enjolras over him even when ey hadn't asked him to choose.

That didn't mean that Jehan wasn't happy for his friend. He was. This was what Grantaire had always wanted, and his joy at finally tasting the honey he had coveted for so long was infectious.

At least for a while.

For weeks, for a few months even, Grantaire was glowing. Jehan felt his closest friend drift further away from him, but he happily swallowed his bitterness in the face of Grantaire's smile. It was painful to admit that Enjolras might really have something more to give that Jehan would ever be able to provide, but that didn't mean he would be as selfish as to take it away from Grantaire.

Then Enjolras and Grantaire had a fight.

Jehan hadn't been worried, at first. The couple had always had fights with each other, sometimes in quite spectacular ways. They clashed on many different subjects, partly because they were both opposite and alike to each other. Their ideas often had the same roots, but life had made them grow in contrary directions.

So one more fight hadn't been a cause for worry. Even the fact that Grantaire had grabbed a beer in the fridge right after coming back to their shared flat hadn't really been enough to spook Jehan. It was far from unusual, for Grantaire.

The fact that Grantaire was quiet as he drank, more sad than angry, was a hint that something might be amiss, but not enough to panic. Grantaire was prone to melancholy, a mood which Jehan knew well enough to respect in others.

All this to say that, no, Jehan hadn't been worried. Not at first.

Not after that one fight, and not even after the next one.

Grantaire and Enjolras always made up. They always went back to one another. After all, Enjolras was Grantaire's singular belief. You did not just one day decide to stop following the Northern star when it was what had always guided you home.

The moment when Jehan started getting concerned was after he noticed that the times between arguments were just... less. On the one hand, Grantaire started spending more time with Jehan again. They would huddle up on the couch with one of Jehan's handmade infusions and watch weird documentaries well into the night, and it was nice to have that again. On the other hand, Grantaire wasn't coming home with a dopey smile on his face and apologies for how time had gotten away from him while at Enjolras' the evening before.

Grantaire didn't talk about it. Jehan didn't press, although he did... hover. Just a little.

Then Grantaire announced that he was going to spend a little while at Enjolras' place, longer than usual, because they needed some uninterrupted time as a couple, just the two of them.

Jehan tried to be happy for them, happy that they were trying to make it work, happy that they still believed in one another. He tried not to dwell on how their own appartment had started feeling more and more empty, even when Grantaire was here. He stopped himself before he could make a bitter comment about using Grantaire's room as an art studio again.

Instead, he lead his friend to the door, kissed him on both cheeks, and wished him well. He watched him go like one sits by the sea and waits for the light to sink.

The thing was, Jehan wasn't a saint. He was a human being with needs and desires of his own, and maybe he couldn't love Grantaire romantically, but he did love him. And for a year he had had everything he thought he would never be allowed to get, a best friend, a roommate, someone he could share his bed with at night and who would share Shakespeare-based puns with him over breakfast in the morning. And then a sungod had come in and ripped all of that from him, and he'd been forced to smile through it because Enjolras was his friend and Grantaire was happy.

But there had been something tense in Grantaire's shoulders as he'd packed his bags, and it had made Jehan want to scream. He didn't know how to tell the other man that he wanted him to come home without making it about his own pain and the feeling burned in his stomach like acid.

Jehan cried in his bed that night. He would have done it in Grantaire's, but he couldn't bear to step into the room that was now only a shadow of what it had once meant.

When Grantaire called him, three days later, in tears, there was a part of Jehan that felt vindicated. It wasn't enough to stop his stomach from twisting into knots as he whispered comforting platitudes until he could grasp anything coherent in Grantaire's distressed babbling.

“I don't understand what's happening, I don't understand why we just... why we can't... It's like ey can't hear what I'm saying, and I don't understand what ey wants me to tell em, I just...”

“It's okay. It's okay, Grantaire, you don't have to understand everything, just calm down a little. Right now you're panicking. You can't see things clearly if you're panicking.”

“I haven't seen anything clearly in weeks, Jehan. Everything's all blurry now.”

“That's just the alcohol talking.”

“No. It's really not. I wish it was.”

When Jehan saw Enjolras the next day, as they met up with all their friends, he couldn't even be angry. Ey look frazzled. Not in a dramatic way, but anything less than perfection was already dramatic when it came to Enjolras.

Grantaire had made Jehan promise not to say anything to em about their phone call, and Jehan respected that promise even if he didn't like it. That didn't stop him from watching Enjolras intently. There was a weariness to eir gaze that perfectly echoed Grantaire's for the past few days. Eir eyes kept drifting across the room, and Jehan didn't doubt that ey was asking emself the same question that was on his own lips: where was Grantaire?

At one point in the evening, Enjolras' eyes settled on Jehan. He met the gaze face on. He had nothing to hide. He wasn't ashamed of the pain and the fear he felt. It wasn't anything he didn't know he had a right to.

Enjolras didn't recoil. Ey bore the brunt of Jehan's attention and the accusation that sat hiding there. Ey looked on, weary, lost. There was a taste at the back of Jehan's throat that felt like pity, but he swallowed it.

When Grantaire finally came back to their shared flat, he was completely drenched from the storm outside.

“I had an umbrella with me, but I thought this would be more fitting.”

“That sounds like you, yeah.”

Grantaire stayed in the hallway. The sound of water droplets dripping from his hair and hitting the floor echoed ominously.

“I missed you.”

Jehan didn't reply. He didn't know what to say.

“I'm not feeling very good. I think I haven't felt very good in quite a while. I think I didn't realise that you made me feel that way. Good. Like I was good.”

Jehan breathed in. He breathed out. He stopped the screams that were trying to fight their way out of his mouth.

“I got everything I ever wanted. It was supposed to be perfect. It was, I guess. Or it felt like it. For a while. Now it's just... Hell is too warm a word. It's just something rotten. It's taken so much away from me. It's taken you away from me. I thought I couldn't have you both, and I picked em and it... you know that thing about boiling frogs by raising the water's temperature so slowly they don't even try to escape? It was like that.”

Jehan was fighting back tears. Between the two of them, they were about to flood the entire building.

This wasn't what he'd wanted. This was never what he'd wanted. He only wished for Grantaire to be happy. With or without him. Jehan had accepted his fate, he was okay with being left behind if it was for the greater good.

This didn't feel like the greater good. He suddenly wondered if refusing to raise his weapons hadn't been giving up the fight too soon.

“How is it fair to you that I only come back in pieces?”

“It's not.”

“Will you take me back anyway?”

“Of course I will.”

[fics-in-a-bottlepost]

Here's another one that got lost in some black hole on this platform. Courferre(Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Les Mis) this time.

It's a few minutes after 6 when Combeferre drinks the first sip of his coffee and takes a look at his calender. Tomorrow is the one year anniversary of his bookshop. He quickly finishes his coffee, feeds Blaise, his cat, and changes his pjamas for some sportswear before he heads out the door with Blaise on his tail who then disappears around the next corner. Combeferre starts his daily morning run, the route isn't long and therefore barely takes him 30 minutes but he loves seeing the city wake up while he was already on his feet. He doesn't meet many people except for his neighbor Jehan Prouvaire who greets him with a big smile and a "why don't you drop by occasionally? I baked a lot these past few days and could really use someone to taste them!"

Ferre smiles at them and promises to drop by in the afternoon before he goes on.

Apart from a few people with their dogs and a few other people on their morning runs he meets nearly noone. He waves at the young man in the wheelchair who always sits in front of the house at the crack of dawn and gets a cute smile back. Wait-did he just refer to another man's smile as...cute? He tries not to think about it for now and watch out for any obstacles on his way instead.

Combeferre stops abrupt at the corner as he hears a feminine voice behind him. "Hello Courfeyrac. Don't you want to come inside? Breakfast is ready and It's still pretty cold, sweety." She isn't talking to him, obviously, but he's heard that voice before. It's the woman that drops by his bookshop at least once a week, buying a book from different topics each week. He turns around to see her talking to the young man in the wheelchair who's mostly reading in the morning but now just looking around with a book in his lap. Combeferre has seen his movements the past few weeks and months, he can barely lift his hands to turn the side of the books he's reading. He watches the curly haired lift his book a few inches. "I know Courf. One day I'll take you too the bookstore with me. When papa comes back. I can't carry you inside the store, there's no way you can get inside with that wheelchair with those steps outside. One day Courf, one day." she says and patts his head as she turns the wheelchair to roll her son inside.

Ferre spends almost all day in his garage after a quick stop at his shop for some notes and measurements. Apart from Lunch, which Jehan comes by for and takes him back to their house. Ferre loves their house and especially their food, which is vegan and always incredibly tasty. He's glad that Jehan thought of him because he'd probably forget to eat at all. They doesn't let him leave without taking a bag of different cookies and some apple-pumpkin bread. When he gets back to his house he finishes his project with a quick few screws. Then he makes a call and within 10 minutes his friend Grantaire stops with his van outside. The artist helps him carry the ramp he build into the car and unload it at the store until he's off to his boyfriend Enjolras. It fits perfectly over the stairs as he planned. He opens the shop door for a minute to stick a small card into a book he ordered for Courfeyracs mother-or probably Courfeyrac- and decides to drop it off at their house. The man himself sits outside, enjoying the warm air and the rays of sun with closed air. His eyes snap open as Combeferre stops in front of him. The taller man awkwardly pulls the book from his sling bag and holds it within Courfs reach. The brunett smiles at the sight of the book, his smile expands even more as he opens it and reveals the message.

"Dear Courf." he reads whispering "If someone would have told me they would like to visit my shop but couldn't due to their condition of health I would have done something earlier. Anyway, I adapted the entry to the bookshop to your needs and would like to invite you to drop by. Sincerely, Combeferre(the owner)" the card falls from his hands onto the book in his lap as he stares up at Combeferre with shining eyes.

"Really?", he whispers and Combeferre can only nod as the other grabs his hand and squeezes it as a thanks. He returns the gesture as the front door opens and Courf mother walks outside. She recognizes him immediately, judging by the look on her face. She tilts her head at Ferre as her son let's go off Combeferres hand and reaches out to give her the card. She reads in silent as both man stare at her, then turns to Combeferre as she lays the card down in Courf lap. "Thank you so much." she says and shakes his hand. He smiles at her and nodds politely. Courf tucks at her sleeve and makes a gesture with one hand as she let's go of the other man's hand and faces him. "I've got to work to tomorrow, Courf. I can't stay at the bookstore all day long, even if I want. Maybe overmorrow." she answers to his question. The smile on Courfs face disappears and it almost breaks Combeferres heart as he looks at him. "Uh..." he disrupts. Both mother and son turn to look at him. "I could take him with me. I gotta work between 9 and 13 and later between 14.30 and 18 o clock but he could stay as long as he wants." he suggests. Courfeyracs face lights up as his mother agrees. Heloise, as she introduces herself properly, and Combeferre arrange for him to pick up Courfeyrac at 8:30. Courf can decide for himself if he wants to go home and she will come and pick him up.

Ferre almost can't sleep that night. He's too busy thinking about whether Courfeyrac will like his shop. Hes running on 5 hours of sleep and 4 coffee when he stops by Courfs house after his morning run, a quick shower and a few slices of Jehans bread . His new friend sits in front of the door already, wearing blue jeans and a yellow sweatshirt and brightly smiling at Ferre. Heloise stands at the kitchen window next to the door and waves back at Combeferre as he waves at her and moves over to Courfeyrac wheelchair. He finds himself quiet liking the feeling of the handles as he pushes his new friend the way to his bookshop. He needs some more energy to push the wheelchair up the ramp but it's worth it, he decides as Courfeyrac beams with happiness when he looks around and can't even get his mouth closed. They spend the first hour just getting to knew each other in lack of any customers. Combeferre provides him with one of his favourite books "a brief History of Time".

Its 9.45 sharp when the doorbell rings, causing Courfeyrac to flinch in surprise. A red and a green hoodie came into Combeferres field of view through the open door of the backroom and the long hallway as Enjolras and Grantaire enter the shop. Combeferre excuses himself from Courfeyracs side to walk to the front and get the hoard of books R ordered from the cubboard behind the counter. They're mostly art books but some others too. Enjolras gasps as he sees the amount of books his boyfriend wants to purchase but runs off shortly after to look for the second book of a sequel he just started. A shriek rings out from the back where Enj just vanished, followed by a loud bang and both R and Ferre rush to the source of the sound. They find Enj sitting on the ground with a book in his hands and the old wooden latter laying next to him. He's staring at Courf sitting in the corner of the room who dropped his book when Enji first saw him. "Oh shit, I'm so sorry. " Enjolras gasps when he finds his voice again. "Uh, this is my friend..." Combeferre starts but gets cut off by Grantaire. "Courfeyrac, right?"

Mentioned man slightly smiles and nodds. Enjolras carefully reaches for his hand and squeezes it for a second, Grantaire just waves from the back and sets the ladder back to its feet. Combeferre introduces them to each other and picks up the book laying in front of the wheelchair before he pushes him towards the front of the room as Courf asks.

After Grantaire pays for all of his books and Enjolras' as well, Combeferre helps them carry the hoard to Grantaires van in front of the shop. The next few hours are calm, there's only one old lady buying a book and a college student picking a few about mathmatics up. So Courf and Ferre spend their time laying on the big couch in the backroom together and Ferre reading aloud while Courfeyrac lays half on him. They only stop once when Courfeyrac whispers "there's something at the door. I can hear it" and Ferre gets up only to come back with his tabby cat, Blaise who drops by on a regular basis as he's free to go around the city all day. They stop reading when Ferre lays back down and Blaise joins them within Courfeyracs arm reach who happily cuddles her the whole time as he and Ferre talk about different topics. Courf states he never had any friends because it was never nice being a kid that couldnt walk and even barely move and it certainly isn't better being a 22 year old who still can't walk and move just a little bit more than he could 15 years ago.

At the end of the day, Combeferre drops Courf, who he declared as his best friend by now, at his house at 18.30. From now on Combeferre joins him at work almost every day as long as he doesn't have to go to therapy and even helps him a bit, as his physical abilities seem to improve, by calculating the prizes of several books faster than Combeferre can even type them into his old register or putting new books into the shelf within his reach. The curly haired is extremely good at memorizing the names, covers, topics and prizes of almost all books of Combeferres store in a few weeks which is very useful when people come by his store to buy a book they only know the cover or the content off. It takes Combeferre exactly 12 days to accept he's fallen in love with Courf which makes him a bit stressed. When he tries to get help from his friends in their groupchat, R simply answeres "you gotta tell him." and Joly sends a "bring him to our next meeting at Jehan's when you told him". The next day he spends busy with many customers which distracts him a bit from his "problem". But of course his friend notices that he is tense and sits him down in the break. Combeferre doesn't say a word at first but as Courf keeps asking him he leaps up to his feet and throws his arms in the air. "Fine! You want to know what's wrong?" he asks exasperated. Courf nodds and tilts his head a little bit. Combeferre moves around the room and messes up his hair. Then: "I'm in love with you!"

Courf eyes widen and he takes quiet a moment before he reaches out to grab Combeferres shirt and make him stop. His friend stares at him, as he drags at his shirt to get him closer. "Stop running around." he says. "I'd like to kiss you." he continues and takes all his strength together to reach for Ferres collar and drag him down to his height. Combeferre obeys and sits back on the couch as Courf cups his jaw with one hand and pulls him closer to press his lips on Combeferres. He feels Combeferre melt into the kiss as his his hands find their way into his curls and he pulls Courf even closer.

None of them notices the ringing of the doorbell OR Enjolras standing in the doorway with R by his side who's taking a photo of them before E coughs. They withdraw and stare at the other two before Courf throws himself at Ferre again. E and R leave chuckling and with a "finally" as his boyfriend lifts Courf out of the wheelchair and onto his lap to pull him closer. "yes, finally." both Courf and Combeferre think to themselves.