#joly is on the floor sobbing no one knows why

[acewithobsessions]

les mis and everything is the same but each of the abc get a verse in red//black to sing about something they're passionate about

[crymeariveronceagain]

Do you have any Ruewen family headcanons?

oh dude yes tho?

Grady had an okay childhood. His parents were a little distant, a little cold, but he never had to worry about anything. He never had to second guess himself, except about his talent. He worked long and hard hours perfecting his skills in his talent, but his parents neither told him to do more or to do less. He was something, to them. They were all okay.

Edaline did not have an okay childhood. It was just... mess after mess after mess, until one night it went way too far and Juline got CPS involved. Then they moved in with Tiergan. Things got better. But it didn't cloud out the fact that for most of her childhood, things were very not okay.

Grady met Edaline in highschool, at Foxfire. Her eyes had caught his and he'd wanted to make her smile, really smile, all the way. He wanted to see her eyes light up and the cute scrunches in her nose. He wanted to see her throw her head back and laugh and snort and just... be. With reckless abandon.

So he asked her out.

Edaline kissed Grady for the first time a few weeks after she and her sisters had moved in with Tiergan. It had solidified a few things in her mind. She was going to marry Grady. And she didn't give a damn about what anyone thought about that.

They were married a few years later. Somehow, miraculously, Grady had showed up as her fifth possible match on her matchmaking list, and Grady had kissed her so hard when she'd told him that she'd honestly forgotten that she needed oxygen to live. But they were married in the spring, and Edaline had white and blue flowers braided into her honey-orange hair.

They had Jolie ten years later. They hadn't wanted to rush, had wanted to take as much time as they wanted. Ten years was definitely enough.

Their daughter was born on a warm fall day. They named her Jolie because it was Grady's Mother's middle name.

Jolie was smart, very smart, and talented. She knew what she was doing and who she was and why she was. Everything about her was organized, well thought out. She fell in love, and some of that faded. Plans became dreams, plots became hopes. But, Grady and Edaline thought, she was happy. That's what counted.

She died and they mourned her death for years. Six years, exactly. They didn't touch anything in her room. They couldn't. They'd loved her so much, that changing or disturbing anything felt like erasing her.

Edaline had sobbed on Grady's shoulder the day they'd taken in Sophie. She looked so much like Jolie that it hurt. It stung, it blistered. Grady kept it together, but Edaline was falling apart.

But they loved her, they couldn't not. She tried so hard, she looked so hopeful, they had to love her. She called them Mom and Dad one night, and Edaline had been crying again. Grady had been crying too. "Did she mean it?" Edaline whispered. "Does she want us to be her parents?"

Grady had smiled, wide and happy, for the first time in a long, long, long time. "I think she just might."

They cancelled the adoption without telling Sophie they'd even started it. They'd been doing a lot of crying. "It's too dangerous, it's too hard. I love her, really, Grady. I love her," Edaline said. "But we can't. We can't."

Grady kissed his wife's shoulder. "I know, Love."

Sophie fell apart.

The two of them wished they had the strength of heart to adopt her. But they couldn't.

She was kidnapped, and almost in a blur of love, their family was forced to fall together.

Havenfield is small by elvin standards. It's not little, by any means, but in a world of huge castles and archaic mansions, it's just a bit bigger than a big house. It's pretty small. They have carpet on the floor of the living room. They've got a soft gray couch that can fit every single one of the keeper crew. The living room is always full of kids, on the weekend.

Sophie sits there in the kitchen, in the morning sunlight and drinks her coffee at the table while Grady pours over his newspaper and tries to solve the puzzles. Edaline hums as she pulls out cream from the fridge and pours it into her cup of tea.

Edaline lets everyone use her kitchen. There are baking supplies in the cupboards, and there have been many late-night baking parties. The rule is that they have to clean up whatever mess they make. They always do.

The animals' pens are where Grady spends most of his time, and Edaline will spend her time helping him. They do tend to find each other more attractive when they're hot and sweaty from the work, no matter how gross they smell, and there is a slight problem of them making out in the afternoons.

Grady has stupid nicknames for all of the animals. And he will make them up. Endlessly. For instance, Silveny is not only Glitterbutt, but also Pokeyhead the First, Queen Alicorn, Unicorn 2.0, and, affectionately, Sparkles McSparkles Sparklypants. Verdi is Slobbermonster, Sassafrass, and Picky. "It's because she's a picky eater," he had to explain to Sophie, once.

Sophie plays loud music in her room. All the time. Edaline will listen, walking past on her way downstairs. When it's really sad, she'll knock on the door and make sure Sophie's doing okay. 2/5 times, Sophie's having a bad day and needs a hug.

Once Sophie and Keefe start dating, Keefe becomes a constant at Havenfield. It's almost, Grady thinks to himself, like he was looking for an excuse to leave his house. Or rather, looking for an excuse to spend nearly all of his time at their house.

Edaline was primarily in charge of the decor in their house, and the yellow walls of the kitchen were her choice. As were the green walls of their master bedroom. Their whole house is done in natural, sunshiny colors. It warms the whole place and makes everything more pleasant.

Havenfield smells like lemon verbena. It's Edaline's favorite scent, and Grady specifically loves that smell because it's Edaline's favorite smell. Sophie now wholly associates that smell with home. As soon as she smells it, everything will be okay. She knows it will be.

Edaline gives mom hugs. If you've never had a really good hug from your mom, you don't know what this is, but it's a warm, strong pressure on you that pulls you in so much that you can put your head between her good-smelling neck and her shirt and she smells like safety and peace. She will rub your back as you cry, and say nothing about the tears you press into her shirt. Everything hurts, and Edaline understands. She kisses your wet cheek, gently, and doesn't mind when you simply can't let go. She lets you hold on as long as you want. She's not going to leave.

Grady gives dad hugs. If you've never had a really good hug from your dad, once again, you don't know what this is, not really, but it's warm, strong, and fierce. It holds you close, protects you, promises that it will steady you. It's muscles, but the kind of muscles that will never be used against you, only for you. It's only to protect. It smells like warmth, strength, protection. You can press your face into his chest and he will only hold you tighter, because you are important. You are worth everything, and he would die for you. His hugs promise you that.

When you walk into Havenfield, life doesn't press so hard into you. Everything relaxes a little, everything is a little less heavy. You take in a deep breath and realize that it's just safe, warm, and comforting. It's a small house, but it's the right size for a family of three. It's calm, seperate, and safe.

It's exactly what a home should be.

[undecidedpersonality]

Writer’s Month 2020 Day Thirty-One: There Was Only One Bed!

Title: “On the Way Home”

By: Nalijah Daniels

Word Count: 1242

Genre: Fiction - Contemporary

CW: death of a family member

The motel room door creaked open when Joli pushed it open with the tips of her fingers. She stayed where she was, not daring yet to step in. Any kind of creature could be crawling through there, already having claimed Room 321B as its home and would properly attack her, an invader, if she trespassed its territory.

“What are you waiting for?” Brett whispered over her shoulder, his words tickled her ear. A shiver ran down her spine as she felt how close he stood to her. If she barely shifted her shoulder her entire backside would have been pressed into his body. She leaned forward at the waist, trying to create more space between them without taking a step forward. She turned her head, not too far for fear of being mere inches from his and dramatically rolled her eyes.

“Who knows what is in that place,” she jabbed a finger forward. “This place is obviously very old, I don’t want to disturb any presences.”

Brett took his turn at rolling his eyes and gently placed a hand on Joli’s arm before stepping past her. He mocked timid steps by bending slightly at the knees, his hands raised in front of him in case something might jump out. He took a few more steps before he reached the bed, knocked his knee into it and faked a scream. Joli’s scream and jump, ready to run back to their car only ten feet away, was real.

Her fright didn’t wane until Brett began laughing, his cackles echoing through the room, clutching his stomach as he fell forward on the bed. She scoffed and took enough steps in to slam the door behind her. She switched on the light and her mouth immediately dropped at her first observation.

There was only one bed!

“What!” Joli exclaimed, her voice everything but a high pitched screech. “What the––there isn’t even a couch? There’s no pull out couch?” Her eyes were wide as she met Brett’s eyes who finally understood.

“I’ll just sleep on the floor, it’s no big deal.” The way he scratched the back of his neck suggested that it was a big deal.

“That’s not fair though. You’ve been driving the whole trip and you’re gonna drive some more tomorrow so you take the bed. I’ll take the floor.”

“Well that wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me now, would it? To let a lady take the floor in my honor. Plus, there’s not enough pillows or blankets to make an even minimally comfy palette, and with the way the front desk was set up, I’m sure they don’t have extras either. We can,” he coughed suddenly as if he was choking on the awkwardness of his next words. “We can just share the bed.”

Joli’s face burned and the heat traveled through the rest of her body. “We can just ask for a room change. We asked for two––”

“Joli,” Brett cut her off with a small smile. “It’s okay. We’re both tired and we need to get some sleep if we want to get on the road early and get you home on time for Thanksgiving.”

Joli’s shoulders slumped in defeat as she dragged her feet to the bed, plopping down at the edge a few inches away from Brett. Perking up a bit, she crossed her arms and stared him dead in the eye. “We’re building a pillow border in between us.”

Brett put his hands up in defense but had a sly smirk on his face. “I was going to suggest the same thing.”

--

Sometime in the middle of the night, Joli woke up to the bed moving. Slow at first then more frantic and intense. She sat up and begged her eyes to adjust to the pitch black of whatever time it was. Was it an earthquake? Do they get those in the Midwest? When she realized that the source of the shaking was coming directly from the bed, she looked over to see Brett thrashing around under the sheets. She reached out to grab his shoulders, hoping to still him but his eyes shot open as soon as her palm touched his skin. His eyes were wide, no way to tell if he was still asleep or not until he blinked. And blinked. Then his eyes shrunk in size and he sucked in a deep breath as if finally being able to take air into his lungs.

“Brett,” Joli whispered, not wanting the sound of her voice to scare him again. “Brett, you’re okay. It was just a bad dream.”

He closed his eyes and nodded, taking a few breaths before a single tear slipped from between his eyelids. Then he cried, a noiseless scene, but also not trying to hide the other tears, spilling fast now, from Joli to see.

She didn’t know what to do. Joli and Brett had only been friends for about two weeks before they took on the task of getting home for Thanksgiving Break together. Brett was driving home and offered to drop her off on the way since she couldn’t afford a plane ticket. She was hesitant at first. For all she knew, it could’ve been a ploy to murder her and dump her body somewhere off the side of a deserted highway. She only agreed because she was desperate to get home. Her grandmother was sick and Joli didn’t know if she’d be able to see her before… 

When Brett’s tears continued to fall, she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into her chest. He stiffened at first, his entire body going rigid and she feared that she made the wrong choice. I could be overstepping so many boundaries right now, she began to curse herself until Brett’s body relaxed and his arms wrapped around her waist, returning the embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out after a few moments of silence. He pulled away a bit, enough to be able to wipe the wetness off his face. “I get nightmares about the night my grandma died. I was the only one with her, I was ten, and it basically traumatized me. A couple of times a week she dies in a different way… She meant so much to me.”

Joli felt the back of her eyes burn and she blinked quickly to ensure no tears would form. She gave Brett a soft smile, unsure if he could see her expressions in the dark. “You don’t have to apologize. My grandma has been sick for the last few weeks and I’m scared. That’s why I’m trying to get home.”

“That’s why I offered to drive you home. Haleigh told me and I couldn’t bear the idea of not being able to see my grandmother before she died. I’m always torn between wishing I hadn’t been there at all that day and glad that I was the last person she spoke to. Don’t worry though, I’m going to get you home.”

Then it was Joli’s turn to cry. She didn’t expect the tears to fall until they were. Hot and salty rivers pouring down her face. When she began to sob, hiccups racking through her body, they switched positions. Brett’s arms around her shoulders, hers clinging on to his waist as if she were too scared to let go.

“I hope we aren’t annoying any presences in the room with our sadness,” Brett joked and Joli couldn’t help but laugh.

[awreckfics]

Day 1

Okay, my writuary game is slow but I’m getting there. The first prompt was fresh. The characters I drew from my mug were Bossuet and sister Simplice, so here’s the tale.

“Okay, okay, everyone! Let’s calm ourselves!” Grantaire held up his hands until his friends’ cheering subdued. “Now, who wants to start the game?”

The question, of course, prompted another minute or two of intense shouting – he should have seen that one coming, really – but in the end they settled on Enjolras, because he was their leader after all and Grantaire might have influenced them a little when he suggested it rather loudly and enthusiastically bt who was he to say it for sure.

Grantaire’s hands were almost shaking from excitement as he searched the papers for the question, belonging to Enjolras’s chosen number.

“Ha!” he shouted enthusiastically when he had finally found it. “This is a good one. When did our lovely Bossuet first go bald? Give me an age, Apollo!”

“Well” Enjolras looked down at the tea he was holding in his hand, clearly thinking. “I think he lost all of his hair when he was twenty-two. So then?” he looked up at Grantaire expectedly.

“Is that a question?” he asked, pulling up one eyebrow.

“No” Enjolras answered much more certainly this time.

“Hah, you’re wrong!” Grantaire and Joly shouted at the same time.

“Bossuet went bald once, long before” Grantaire nodded seriously. “At the delicate age of fifteen…”

~~~

September 2011

Bossuet was running as fast as he could. At least, he would get a nice warm up before he even arrived, he told himself as he sprinted down the streets, his packed backpack jumping against his back at every step.

He wasn’t a slow runner. With his bad luck, he simply couldn’t be. Just that afternoon his cat had decided to lay down on the floor right where he was about to put his foot, while he was attempting to carry a warm mug of coffee up to his room. So, he ended up having to somehow get his cat to let him wash out the coffee from her fur, which lasted way too long and now he had to run to get this bus and he really, really needed to get this bus.

Right when he was about to reach the last corner, the bus he was supposed to take blew past the street. Without him.

He slowed down, panting. He ran a lot and he ran fast. All for nothing. He let out a long, suffering sigh as he leaned against the nearest fence. Why can’t just one day go well for him? He was about to reach for his phone to text Grantaire that he was going to be late, when a voice from behind him disturbed him.

“Watch out young man, that paint is still fresh.”

“Wha-?” he twirled around to see a nun at the other side of the bright blue fence he was leaning against, holding a bucket of blue paint. Bossuet’s eyes widened as he reached up to touch the back of his head, where he felt something sticky and wet in his hair that made him grimace, expecting the worse. And sure enough, as he pulled his hand back his fingers were stained. Light blue against his dark skin. “Oh, no, no, no, not today!” he muttered as he turned around. “How bad it is?” he asked the woman over his shoulder, clinging to some bizarre idea that maybe the situation wasn’t as bad as he was imagining it.

“I never lie, son. It’s pretty bad” came the answer Bossuet was afraid of.

“No! This can’t be happening. Why today? Can it be washed out?”

“It is a blend made to survive a large variety of weather conditions. I don’t think so” the woman answered, then Bossuet heard keys turning in the little gate at his left and the opening of the hinges. He didn’t turn to see the nun exiting the garden, he stared ahead of him, fighting back his tears.

“Is there somewhere important you need to be right now?” came the gentle question, now from his side.

“Well, I…” the boy started, but he choked up before he could get any further.

“It’s okay, son” the woman placed a calming hand on his shoulder. “You don’t have to keep it in, it will make you feel better.”

“What?” Bossuet asked, forcing his sobs back, though he knew perfectly well what the woman meant. Joly had told him the same, many times.

“The crying” the nun answered none the less.

“I know, I just…” he started before he had to stop to take a few breaths. “Don’t wanna cry on the street.” he finally managed to get out.

“Then come back inside. The bus is not coming for a while and we can see what we should do about your hair.”

“Really?” he looked down at the woman, finally letting the tears to slide down his face.

“Sure, come in!” she smiled.

“So, what is this place?” Bossuet looked around at the tiny corridor, already with a steaming mug of tea, which the nun made for him in an also tiny but pristine kitchen.

“It’s a safe house for homeless people” the nun answered from the little room she had been searching through for a while. “It’s still warm outside, so we don’t have many people in today. It was the perfect way to paint the fence.”

“Just the perfect day” Bossuet murmured under his breath. Just his luck, really.

“Aha, I found it” she rose to her feet after rummaging through some boxes on the ground, holding up a razor. “There are always a few items that get left here. Anyone can take whatever they want from here and…” she paused to look at the item in her hand. “Oh, I see why no one wanted to take this though. It doesn’t seem to change settings, so it can only shave at one length.”

“It’s on zero, isn’t it?” Bossuet asked, surrendering himself to his fate.

“Yes, it is. Do you still want to do it?”

“Well…” Bossuet bit his lips nervously, mentally arguing what would make the better impression, showing up bald or with bright blue paint in back of his hair. “Yeah, yeah, I think it will be better that way.”

“So, what is the big occasion?” the nun asked over the buzzing of the razor against Bossuet’s scalf.

“What?” Bossuet looked up from his phone, distractedly. “Oh, it’s the audition for the basketball team in my high school. You see, I have a really bad luck” he started to explain, since he could imagine the bewildered look that must be on the woman’s face. “I know probably no one else is freaking over about their hair before a basketball team try out, but I was never chosen to go to sport competitions in my elementary school, since all my teachers were familiar with my bad luck. They usually didn’t even let me play, because they were afraid, I would slip and accidentally kill myself, or stuff. But now I’m going to a whole new school and I want to make a good first impression and I can’t do that if it’s radiating off of me that I’m a disaster.”

“And will you be able to make it there in time?”

“My friend just said he will make sure the coach stays there until I arrive” he held up his phone as a proof.

“I see. We are finished” she declared and shut off the razor. “Do you want to look in a mirror?”

“No, I’d rather not” Bossuet grimaced a bit as he got up.

“I can see why” the sister nodded, which was not calming at all, but well, it was too late anyway.

“Now come on, you need to get moving, you have a basketball audition” the sister declared as she quickly swiped together Bossuet’s hair from the ground at placed it in a nearby bin. “I’ll take you with my car. I’m sister Simplice by the way. You shouldn’t sit in a person’s car if you don’t even know their name, even if they happen to be nuns.”

“You could still kidnap me if you wanted to, even though I know your name” Bossuet remarked as he followed Simplice outside to a quite unremarkable, beat up little Citroen.

“You are correct” the sister answered simply, as she got into the driver’s seat.

“I’m Bossuet by the way” he added as he got in after her.

~~~

“Did you get into the basketball team though?” Courfeyrac turned to ask Bossuet after Grantaire had finished telling the over the top tale of how Bossuet lost his hair when he was fifteen.

“Yeah I did. I didn’t manage to convince the coach that I wasn’t a disaster though. I mean I barged in there an hour late, bald” the man in question laughed.

“How did you manage to convince the coach to stay there for that long?” Feuilly turned to Grantaire.

“Well, it wasn’t so much my words that convinced him, rather me climbing up to the top of one of the ropes and refusing to come down until he looked at my friend’s game. See these guns?” he flexed his biceps. “That’s right, I got these for friendship!”

“Wait, wait” Jehan hold up a hand when the laughter Grantaire’s words had caused died down. “How did the haircut look?”

“Terrible” Joly answered with a flat face. “I made him promise never to go bald again.”

“And here you are, nine years later, dating good bald me” Bossuet smiled, showing the top of his head into Joly’s face.

“Makes me wonder which of us really has the universal bad luck” he muttered, pouting until he got a kiss from his boyfriend to make up for his baldness.

first chapter || next chapter 

[hms-chill]

(Not a) Hugger

Summary: It's been a few years since Grantaire was hugged. Or cuddled. Or touched for any length of time.Which is fine. Really.

Except that it isn't fine, and he would very much like to be hugged, but the only thing worse than being touch-starved would be seeming needy.

OR: Grantaire communicate with your friends god damn it

Trigger warning for the mention of an eating disorder. Grantaire's mostly better, but it's mentioned a few times, as is past abuse.

Grantaire can't remember the last time he was hugged. It was probably in high school, as part of one of the big group hugs that always followed successful soccer games the one year he played, so it's been about seven or eight years. Which is fine; he just doesn't think about it. He doesn't think about it when Cosette comes into the Musain for a meeting and hugs everyone, even Enjolras, who gives in and hugs her back, and they both look more relaxed when they separate. He doesn't think about it when she gives anyone going up for a speech a hug, and they relax enough to stay put together. When he gives a speech at a rally, just to get one of those hugs and gets instead a squeeze on the arm, he doesn't think about the fact that it's been years since anyone hugged him.

When he's at a movie night with Joly, Bossuet, and Munchetta, he doesn't think about how much he wants a hug. They'll pile onto each other, cuddling close, but that's fine. Grantaire gets the popcorn to himself, and he doesn't feel left out. He most certainly doesn't think about how much he'd like a hug when Combeferre mentions the effects of touch starvation in a meeting about prison injustice. He talks about it as a cruel and unusual effect of isolation, and Grantaire tries his hardest not to think about how his irritability and insomnia sound a lot like the evils Combeferre is upset about. He knows how it feels to be isolated, and he recognizes the feeling of being alone in a room full of people who claim to love him (and likely do, despite his infinite failures). But that's fine. He can live with all that. He just doesn't think about it.

Except that he does think about it, almost every day. He thinks about it a lot on bad days, when the eating disorder he thought he kicked out a few years ago rears its ugly head to remind him that no one would ever want to touch his body. On even worse days, he thinks about it when he hears his father's voice telling him that no one would ever touch him unless they wanted to hurt him. On the worst days, he wraps himself tightly in a blanket and pretends that's the same thing as a hug, or at least a good enough replacement. It never is, but he can pretend.

In his better moments, his rational brain reminds him that he could ask someone for a hug, but he can never bring himself to do it. If Cosette hugs everyone but him, there must be a reason, and it has to be that there is something wrong with him (the voice of the eating disorder points to the spare tire around his middle that's developed since it ruined his metabolism). If Joly cuddles with Bossuet and Munchetta all the time, it's because they're dating, and Grantaire can't disrupt their relationship any more than he already does. If Courfeyrac hugs everyone else, it's clearly only because he and Grantaire have the world's best secret handshake, and it would be a pity to miss even a single opportunity to use it. Besides, he can't impose on any of his friends. Asking them to hug him would make them uncomfortable, so he doesn't say anything, and if things get worse, he pretends not to notice.

The worst part is that he's not sure why. If he knew why his friends don't hug him, despite the fact that they all hug each other, it might be easier. 'You smell', 'I don't want to', or even just 'bad vibes' would be easier to deal with than the options his shit brain gives him. But he doesn't know, and if he asks anyone, they'll know he's upset by it and everything will be ruined. They'll either hug him out of necessity or continue to ignore him, and he's not sure which would be worse.

It all boils over after a movie night turned sleepover at Combeferre's. Grantaire wakes up before his friends to see nearly all of them cuddling someone. Feuilly's head is on Bahorel's chest, and Jehan is held under his arm. Joly is sandwiched between his partners. Enjolras is holding Combeferre's arm while Courfeyrac hugs his boyfriend from behind. Even Marius, who never wants a partner and is usually not a cuddler, is snuggled up with them, his back pressed against Courfeyrac's. Eponine and Cosette are cuddled close, Gavroche clinging to Eponine's back like a spider monkey. But Grantaire, despite being very available for cuddles, is left out of every single pile. He puts on his shoes and slips out the door. He can't do this. He can't watch from the outside as all his friends love each other; it might destroy him.

Joly finds him later, in his own apartment, sitting on the couch with his knees pulled up to his chest, staring at a dark TV screen. His hair is still damp and sweaty from the hardest run of his life, his breakfast sits untouched on the coffee table, and he's not sure if the salt on his face is from sweat or dried tears. He'd like to blame the tears on the wind, but it's a still day.

Joly sits beside him on the couch, then reaches over to squeeze his hand. That tiny touch is nearly enough for Grantaire to break down again.

"We missed you when we woke up this morning. Bossuet thought maybe you'd come back for your bag, but he had to work, so I brought it over. Do you want to talk?"

Grantaire shakes his head. It would be so easy to lean over and flop into Joly's lap. Just a simple fall, and he'd be touching his friend, and things would be, if not okay, so much better than the pressing loneliness he's used to. But he can't. Joly doesn't hug him, and there must be a reason, and he can't make his friend uncomfortable.

"Alright, well, I just wanted to let you know that we missed you. We love you, R. Do... do you mind if I stay for a bit? It looks like it's going to rain, and that means the bus will be crowded, and we both know people don't respect the handicapped seats nearly enough for me to want to deal with them right now."

"Please do. You can turn something on if you want. Sorry I smell." I'm sorry you're trapped with someone like me. I'm sorry for being a disgrace of a person. I'm sorry you worried. I'm sorry you have to know me. I'm sorry.

"You have nothing to be sorry for. How do you feel about Bake off?"

"It's not a great food day. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for; I'm glad you told me. I'm proud of you. How about Too Cute instead?"

"That sounds good."

"Perfect."

Joly loads an episode called "Super Pups: Pint Sized", his hand never leaving Grantaire's. They watch quietly, the sounds of rain starting to fall outside complementing the show's bouncy soundtrack. But "Super Pups" autoplays into a kitten episode, and when it opens on a shot of the kittens piled up together, Grantaire feels the icy grip around his insides tighten. He swallows hard, then takes a deep breath and tells Joly he's going to the bathroom. He finds a discarded flannel there to muffle the tears he's been trying his best to ignore.

A few minutes later, there's a soft knock on the door.

"R? Can I help, Love?"

"I'm fine." His voice doesn't sound like his. He's made Joly get up and come find him, and he's made Joly worry again, and he's done everything wrong. This is why his friends don't like him enough to touch him.

"I... I want to help you, R, I do. Please know that. I'm sorry for holding your hand; I know you don't like to be touched. That was--"

Grantaire cuts him off by throwing the door open. Joly stumbles back in surprise, catching himself on the wall of the hallway.

"You... you think I don't like to be touched?"

"I know you don't. I'm sorry."

"Don't... no, don't be sorry. I loved that. It... it's not you holding my hand that made me cry, I promise."

"But you hate being touched. Bossuet tried to hug you once and you flinched so hard you tripped over a couch."

The memory floods in: Grantaire, freshly at college on an art scholarship and still trying to believe that no one here wanted to hurt him, clinging to his one shot at a life away from his father. Bossuet, who'd taken two gap years and was bigger than Grantaire by a sizeable amount, coming toward him after a game night in the lounge with an arm raised in a position that Grantaire only knew as one of anger. Grantaire stumbling back, cowering, falling onto one of the lounge couches, and excusing himself to go hide under a blanket in the room he shared with Joly.

"That's... that's not... I thought he was going to hit me. I... He was so big, and so much stronger than I was, and I was just starting therapy and still trying to make myself eat a full meal sometimes instead of just going hungry, and if he'd wanted to hurt me I couldn't have stopped him. You remember how tiny I was; he could have snapped me in half, and after my dad, I wasn't at a point where I trusted him not to want to. I thought everyone hated me, and that they'd all want to hurt me, and that's what was scary. It wasn't about the hug. It was never about the hug."

"So you don't hate hugs?"

"You... you don't hug me because you thought I didn't like them?"

"We told the others, too. When we first dragged you to a meeting, Chetta told the group chat you didn't like hugs so that no one would scare you off. But you don't mind?"

"Not... ot at all. I mean, it's been... it's been a long time, but I don't think I mind hugs at all."

Joly comes back across the hallway slowly, like he's approaching a wild animal, and he wraps his arms around Grantaire and squeezes. Grantaire lets out a sob as his own arms come up to hold Joly close.

"I love you. I've got you. I'm sorry," Joly says softly, letting them sink to the floor together. "I love you, and I'll give you as many hugs as you want from now until forever."

Grantaire's not sure how long they stay there, in a pile outside his bathroom while he cries and Joly promises not to let go. It's at least until the sobs stop, but that's really no measure of time at all. When he's pulled himself together a bit, Joly pulls back just a touch and reaches up to cup his face, but Grantaire pulls back on instinct. Someone's hand near his face has never been a good thing. Joly pulls his hand away and squeezes Grantaire's arm instead.

"So your face isn't a place you're comfortable with me touching. I'm sorry. I should have asked. But I... R, I'm sorry about this, but my leg doesn't like being on the floor very much. Is it okay if we move this hug to the couch?"

Grantaire nods, trying his best not to be embarrassed of his flinch. Or his tears. Or the fact that he'd just broken down completely at a simple hug from a friend. There are a lot of things for him to be embarrassed of from the last hour, ever since Joly found him staring at a blank TV.

"Is it okay if I take your hand?" Joly asks, and Grantaire nods, so Joly holds his hand and leads the way to the couch. Too Cute is paused on the image of a kitten wobbling across a blanket.

"I'm going to go make some popcorn, and then I'm going to come back and cuddle the hell out of you while you eat it for breakfast," Joly says. "If you want to, when I get back, we... we could do something called green-yellow-red that Cosette taught me. It'll help us make sure we're both comfortable while we're cuddling, so for example, today, I'm... my chest and arms are green, and so's my back and shoulders, really anything from the waist up. So go for it with hugs there. My face I'm going to say yellow, and same with my hips and my good leg, so just ask and I'll let you know in the moment. My bad leg's red, so I'd rather you didn't touch it. Oh, and the top of my head is green. Does that make sense?"

Grantaire nods, doing his best to remember. He can't mess this up. If he ruins cuddling with Joly now, he might never get a second chance.

"And it's alright if you make a mistake; I can let you know if I'm ever uncomfortable. I know you wouldn't do anything to hurt me on purpose; you'd never hurt anyone. Is it alright if I kiss the top of your head?"

"It's... it's nasty. I haven't been great at showering recently, and I went for a run."

"I don't mind, but do you?"

Grantaire thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. A few weeks ago, Cosette had taught everyone a game she used in consent workshops where they practiced saying yes or no, and she'd pushed them to make the choice in that moment however they felt. Grantaire is trying his hardest to make her proud.

Joly brings over a blanket and presses a kiss to the top of Grantaire's greasy, sweaty head before disappearing into the kitchen. As he hears popcorn start to pop, Grantaire takes stock of his body, trying to decide if it would help or hurt to have Joly cuddle the parts of it he (especially) hates. He's got some semblance of an answer by the time the popcorn's done, and he gives Joly an assessment that includes a green 'spare tire' (a phrase that makes Joly frown) and a red face. Joly repeats Grantaire's requests, asking about parts he forgot and referring to the spare tire as a stomach, which is probably the kindest thing anyone's called it since it developed. Then he hands Grantaire the popcorn and cuddles up next to him, stealing pieces from the bowl and always keeping at least one arm firmly around Grantaire.

When Bossuet gets off work, he joins them with pizza, and they play green-yellow-red again before Bossuet joins their pile. If Grantaire has the best nap he's had in years with Joly's arms around his waist and Bossuet's chin on his head, well, he tries not to envy Munchetta when he wakes up.

The next time he sees Cosette, she asks if she can hug him, beaming. He agrees, and she holds him so close and so tightly that he forgets to see his body as a disgusting mass of fat and acne for the rest of the day. She tells him he gives wonderful hugs, and he tells her that that quote will be his next tattoo. It makes her laugh, and he can't help but grin back. He and Courfeyrac add a hug to the end of their elaborate handshake, one that involves Grantaire supporting most of Courf's weight and not caring at all. His body may not be as thin as it once was, but now it can lift his friends in the air, which is clearly a good trade. At the next rally, when Joly's leg gets sore and Bossuet has already slipped twice, Grantaire pulls his friend onto his back. Joly's arms wrap around Grantaire's neck, and Grantaire becomes the hottest mobility aide at the protest.

In short, the floodgates are open. Once it's established that Grantaire enjoys hugs, he starts getting them regularly, and he eventually starts giving them, too. He starts spending evenings squished into a chair with Joly, often with the other man in his lap and occasionally with Jehan, Chetta, Bossuet, or a combination of the three leaning against him. He carries Joly when his leg gets bad or Gavroche when he's too short to see or exhausted but too proud to admit it. He hugs Eponine, something he hasn't done since puberty, and she nearly cries telling him how proud of him she is. He does cry, and that sets her off, and Gavroche finds them crying and brings them a carton of ice cream and two spoons and leaves them be.

He hugs Enjolras last. Enjolras isn't a hugger. Even after spending most of his life with Courfeyrac, he'll lean into hugs good-naturedly, but he won't initiate. Between that lack of initiation and Grantaire's overwhelming self-doubt, it's really a miracle that they hug at all. It finally happens at Courfeyrac's birthday party, and he maintains that it is the best gift he could ever get. Enjolras has just gotten into his top choice for law school, and he doesn't want to upstage Courf, but he's so excited he has to tell someone, and Grantaire is nearby. And Grantaire is thrilled, and he's so excited that hugging Enjolras feels like the most natural thing in the world. That, of course, tips their friends off to something major, which ends up stealing the moment for a bit as Grantaire and Enjolras find themselves in the middle of a giant group hug. But when Grantaire looks up to see Enjolras's grin, everything feels just right.

On AO3

Notes:

You know when you're just minding your own business, then suddenly your brain goes "hey, when was Grantaire hugged last?" and you have a mild crisis about your beautiful touch-starved son? Yeah. - To make things worse, I like to think of physical touch as one of Grantaire's main love languages, so he's just been casually not believing his friends love him for like seven years. - The consent games mentioned are ones we've done for the play I'm working on! Green-Yellow-Red is pretty explained, but for the other (yes/no), you all stand in a circle. You say someone else's name, and they say either 'yes' or 'no'. If they say 'yes', you walk to stand by them and it's their turn. If they say 'no', you ask someone else. It's super simple but I love it and think it's super important.

[ohheyiknowthatguy]

HERE’S MY REACTION TO LES MIS 2012 AKA ME WATCHING IT FOR THE SECOND TIME!!! DON’T READ IF YOU HAVEN’T SEEN IT!!

“My life was a war that could never be won, they gave me a number and they murdered valjean” poetic cinema

For someone dying of consumption fantine can belt pretty good

imagine ur dying at the hospital and the these mfs start swashbuckling in front of ur bed that’s basically what the confrontation is

jean I love you but you should NOT be kissing someone with tuberculosis

Love how Jean Valjean can pick up a heavy ass wagon without breaking a sweat but he grunts when he picks up little Cosette

Russell Crowe has such a nice voice 🥺🥺

The transition from Stars to Paris/Look Down?? legendary

How do you do? My name’s Gavroche!

Me: oh hi....

Gavroche: what the hell!

Me: omg... 🤭

Gavroche’s friends: wait!

Gavroche, fuckin cruisin on the back of a carriage: perish

HOW COURFEYRAC PICKS UP GAVROCHE AND THE TRANSITION FROM GAVROCHE SINGING TO EVERYONE SINGING??? LEGENDARY

Me, an American: omg.. Vive la France...

Enjolras is DONE WITH MARIUS he is FED UP

Marius: h-

Enjolras: no!! uh uh!! Bitch!!!

I NEVER NOTICED GRANTAIRE PROMPTS HIM ON HE’S LIKE “red!” WITH A LITTLE SMIRK OMG AND THEN EVERYONE JOINS IN And hes so CLEARLY MAKING FUN OF MARIUS BUT MARIUS IS JUST :) IM LOVE THIS MOVIE

GAVROCHE’S LITTLE FIST PUMP..

Sorry for shitty camerawork 😔

In my life time... angels

IMAGINE IF MARIUS HEARD EPONINE

Eponine: every word he says is a dagger in me

Marius, stupid: huh??? And I oop...

Eponine and Marius: share a tender little duet

Marius, moving on: a heeaaaart full of looove

Marius and Cosette: Not a dream after all!

Valjean: Cosette!

Cosette:

Uh oh one day more time

GAVROCHE’S LITTLE ‘yeah!’ WHEN MARIUS SAYS ‘my place is here, I fight with you!’ IM WEEPING

Do you hear the people sing time

ENJOLRAS RUNNING OUT AND EVERYONE ELSE LIKE “ah shit time to go!!”

THEY’RE CLIMBING OH JEEZ

Javert went 😳 >:(

OH SHIT BARRICADE TIME OH GOD PH FUCK

JAVERT HELPED COURFEYRAC UP?? WHAT

oh everyone’s throwing their furniture out to help the barricade!!!!

MARIUS TELLING GRANTAIRE TO GET OFF HIS ASS WHDJDJD

Joly’s just stealing a table!

oh javert is evil he’s plotting that’s why he helped him up

GRANTAIRE JUST KISSED A LADY, STOOD HER UP AND THEN STOLE HER CHAIR I

where did javert get the patch??

god the music here is so pretty GOD THIS PART IS SO PRETTY

Gavroche’s time to shine baby fuck u javert

LIAR

gavroche: inspector

everyone: OH SHIT

GAVROCHE HAS A GUN HE’S LIKE 10

MARIUS JUST HIT A SOLDIER IN THE FACE WITH A TORCH

Eponine’s gonna die tho that’s sad as hell

marius: hushabye, dear Eponine

Me: FUCK

Marius hits notes though

Their LAST DUET FUCK FUFKD CUCK

HIS LITTLE “grow.” FUCK MAN

GAVROCHEBIS CRUNG FUCK I HATE THIS SCENE

Gavroche is just chilling in a box I love that

Marius: gavroche, will you do something for me?

Gavroche: anything! Without you, I’d have bitten the dust!

Me: and I oop... we love foreshadowing

Valjean: stay away from there (the barricade)

Gavroche NO ONE WANTS YOU TO GET HURT STOP!!!

Valjean reading Marius’ love letter: lol wut

OH MY GOD “he’s gonna take my cosette away :,( but... he could die tonight! Lightbulb!” VALJEAN NO

Valjean: give me the spy javert let me take care of him

Gavroche: ok lol here’s a gun

Enjolras: also here’s another gun

“You are wrong and always have been wrong” BAHAHAH SUCK IT JAVERT

Enjolras: marius, rest.

My last braincell: 🥺🥺🥺

oh of course Grantaire is singing drink with me

IM SO MEAN TO HIM

but this song.... all my uwus

Gavroche joining in.... mwah

Everyone looks so disheveled I 🥺

It’s honestly such a powerful image everyone sitting there drinking together like wow... the flavor...

Everyone harmonizing in the back of Marius singing about cosette... total 180° from them making fun of him earlier... masterpiece

Valjean going from wanting to get rid of Marius to praying he makes it home ok?? The development!!

The Les Amis listening to this old man belt in Bring Him Home:

👁👄👁

Valjean: if I die, let me die!

Me, knowing it’s foreshadowing again: aw shit

Gavroche singin do you hear the people sing 🥺🥺

EVERYONE ACREAMING FOR GAVROCHE TO COME BAKC IM IN TEARS “you dirty bastard!” COURFEYRAC COMING TO GET HIM HES CRYING THIS IS HORRIBLE

The soldier singing after he shoots gavroche... nice voice for a BABY KILLER

THE GUY HUGGING COURFEYRAC 🥺🥺🥺

BRO THE NOTES ENJOLRAS HITS...

Soldier: cannons!

The Les Amis: c-c-c-cannons????

Ok but the music in the final battle... fucking SUPERB!! FANTASTIC!!

OH NO EVERYONES BANGING ON DOORS AND NO ONES LETTING THEM IN EVERYONES CARRYING THE WOUNDED THIS IS THE WORST MOVIE EVER

MARIUS GOT SHOT OH GOD

OH NO THEY WERE ALL HUDDLED AND THEN THE SOLDIERS SHOT THROUGH THE FLOOR OH GOD PH GOD

OH NO GRANTAIRE RUN RUJ MAN RUN THE MUSIC ENJOLRAS GOT SHOT HES HANGING IUT RHE WINDOW IM GONNA CRY IM FONNA CRY FUCK

ALL THE BODIES ARE LINED UP

JAVERT GAVE GAVROCHE HIS MEDAL IM GONNA SOB BRO

so basically I’m gonna die tonight from dehydration from crying

Bro Thenardier stole Marius’ ring....

“I saved you!” Headass did not

So I’d be sad but Hugh Jackman is wading through shit so...

JAVERT STANDING THERE THATS SO OMINOUS

“Look down, Javert!” BDE PURE BDE

“One more step and you die.” AND HE KEEPS WALKING

Javert: I’m tough as hell! Nothing in this world will stop me from hunting Valjean!

Valjean: shows him pity

Javert:

shall his crimes be repRIEEEEEEEEEVED

bro he sings to the tune of valjean’s soliloquy...wow

BRO STARS IS PLAYING IN THE BACK

turning is so fuckin sad I’m :,((

OH NO EMPTY CHAIRS AT EMPTY TABLES TIME

How the music slowly fades in... wow

HES CRYING OHBNO

he can hit notes though... wow... the flavor

OH MY FRIENDS MY FRIENDS DONT ASK ME WHAT YOUR SACRIFICE WAS FOR

THIS IS SO FUCKING SAD

bro dude is TRAUMATIZED he’s just starin blankly at the floor

A HEART FULL OF LOVE REPRISE TIME

THERE HE IS HES SINGIN GOOD JOB BABY

aw man instead of Eponine singin it’s valjean... poetic cinema

Marius: thank u so much!!! :))

Valjean: :/

WHO AM I REPRISE

instead of “who am I? Jean Valjean.” It’s “who am I?” “You’re Jean Valjean.” POETIC CINEMA!!!

Eddie Redmayne’s eyes are so pretty though..

suddenly reprise.. uh oh jean isn’t looking so hot

WEDDING TIME THEY LOOK SO GOOD

THEY’RE DANCING!!!

“Go away, Thenardier!” HE LIKE SPITS IT WOW SASS TIME “do you think I don’t know who you are?”

“I was there, never fear. I even found me this fine souvenir!” “I know this. This is mine!” HAKDHSJXBD

MARIUS JUST DECKED HIM BAHAHAHAH

Oh no epilogue time

bring him home reprise time..

Wow you couldn’t have even give hallucination fantine her hair back

Dam cosette can RUN in those heels

Ok this is all I can fit here for now! Thank you for reading all this if you made it to the end! Mwah I’ll fit the rest in another post!

[damnfinecupocoffee]

The Sun Will Not Rise

(So, I wrote a thing. It’s been too long since I did and I hope I did this some kind of justice, it being my first ever Les Mis thing. 1,675 words of ExR canon era angst, grantaire POV, canon death, no happy ending because We Suffer Like Men here. Read it below the cut or on AO3, tags below.) 

Enjolras.

The heavy footsteps of a dozen men moving around the Musain rattle the walls, the floors, dragging him from his slumbering stupor. Distant screams pierce through the air and all Grantaire can smell is blood and death. He has never been upon a battlefield but he knows now how it feels.

Enjolras.

He knows where he wants to be - longs to be - even as the cold colours of familiar walls around him blur together in his tired haze, all his senses overwhelmed with it, the tang of alcohol soured on his tongue, muted gunfire and death rallies echoing around him. His fingers brush against the worn surface of the billiard table as he stumbles to his feet, the absent and pointless thought crossing his mind as to how old the thing is, wondering whether it had ever seen gunfire before.

Enjolras.

He’s there, right there across the room, like a beacon in his red and gold waistcoat, blonde curls loose about his face and eyes wild; a cornered animal not willing to lay down and die without a fight. His predators surround him and yet his teeth are bared and his expression curbed in such a way that if he feels a single drop of fear, it doesn’t show. Except he’s not fighting, he’s not fighting, and that look upon his face speaks volumes greater than any Grantaire has ever read. It sees the bloodshed and the terror and the war outside in the streets and calls them victory. It sees the death and calls it history. He’s lost - Grantaire knows now that they have lost - but Enjolras knows too that they have won, because his death will mean something. He always knew it was coming, and that it would.

Grantaire’s heart stops in his chest with the revelation. He swears it never beats again.

Absently he wonders if any of their friends have escaped the gunman. They are his only sunlight, his happiness dependent on their presence, their warmth and their laughter. He has known so much despair and yet so little of it in their company, and the thought of them departing permanently from his life brings him an exquisite pain. He has lived years in their orbit now; Combeferre, surely the smartest man he’s ever know. Surely more patience for him than anyone has held in the span of his entire twenty-nine years. Courfeyrac, with all his wit and exuberance and passion. Prouvaire, whose pure and passionate existence alone he knows is enough to keep each of them fighting their battles, and even Pontmercy, with whom he’d shared the pains and promises of the rapture of love. Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bousset… no, if Enjolras is here, he knows it to be over. Their fearless leader is surely the final stand.

But he is still standing.

“Take aim!”

Grantaire can’t tell which of the guards speaks, which is the sergeant, but a dozen rifles raise in unison, their butts held firm against uniformed shoulders.

They haven’t seen him. They’re fixed on Enjolras now; a promise of death. And Enjolras is fixed upon them too. The staircase is mere metres to his left and Grantaire could easily pass behind the billiard table and escape down them, slip away unnoticed.

“Vive la Republique!” The words have left his mouth in a powerful cry before he knows it. “Count me in.”

There are eyes on him now, but he notices only the fierce gaze of Enjolras as he strides forwards towards the firing squad, away from the staircase. In a million lifetimes, he would not take it down. His eyes stay fixed on his Orestes as he passes through the enemies lines. More words exit his lips with equal ferocity, but Grantaire himself does not hear them as he falls in line beside Enjolras in front of the muskets.

You’ll see, say the echoes of his memory.

“Will you permit it?” He asks instead. He’s asking with every unspoken feeling he has ever spared for the man beside him, with a swollen heart. The pain of the loss of their friends is harrowing, even excruciating, but a life without the sunlight would be the death of its worshipper. He had been a blind man for so long, but it was fully realised in that moment: he needed Enjolras as violently as his lungs needed air. He loved him. He would rather die here.

Their eyes remain locked, turned away from the guards. Enjolras reaches blindly for his hand and grasps it in his own, something new in his expression as their fingers entwine, a smile upon his lips both resolute in its anticipation of what followed and fulfilled all at once. Grantaire thought himself stood across from a saint in that moment, or perhaps a god, a heavenly glow expressed from behind his Apollo’s golden curls.

If this was to be it, then so it would be. This was all he needed.

He hears the gunshots fire and feels Enjolras’ fingers tighten even further around his own. The pain is searing like fire within his very soul, his knees giving out beneath him, his head finding the floor of the Musain in moments, and then its over.

Until it isn’t.

Grantaire can’t say how much time has passed when he comes too, only that his once barraged senses are shaken instantaneously by the silence.

No footsteps. No screams.

No gunfire.

His arm aches where it hangs limply above his frame, supported by something he’s gripping so tightly like it's the only thing keeping him hanging on to life.

There’s no way he should be.

Enjolras.

Feebly he squeezes the hand clasped so tightly in his own, acutely aware of its limpness in response. Grantaire gasps like he’s taking his first breath as he shifts from the floor onto his elbows. His body is trembling and the pain in his chest is no less severe than it had been the moment the bullets tore through him. The dust has settled around him, coated him, and his gasping turns to choking as he reaches his knees. Blood has soaked his shirt, right through his waistcoat; three puckered holes in the fabric mock every breath he takes. He must be dead, he thinks, because there is nothing logical that explains otherwise.

But if death is feeling the pain of dying forever more, he wishes he had known. He would have tried harder to live.

He keeps his hand in Enjolras’ as he stands up, rasps his name. Squeezes again, once more to no response. In the back of his mind he already knows what this means, but it doesn’t bare thinking about.

The tears streak his dirty face as their fingers finally part, only for his to find Enjolras’ shoulders, trying to gently wake him from his slumber. He’s stood almost perfectly where he had been, a marble statue but for his head tilted down. His chest is littered with holes that match Grantaire's own.

He does not move.

Knowing he would find it makes it no less painful to bear. Grantaire grits his teeth against a desperate scream of pain and devastation. He takes Enjolras’ face in both palms, trembling as his fingers brush away those heavenly curls in a way he’d never have been permitted, and raises it to meet his eyes once more.

They are open still, but the light has gone out. The sun has gone out, Grantaire realises all at once.

The silent tears on his face turn into a sob that racks through his whole body. The motion shakes him like an earthquake, swaying Enjolras from his crucifixion against the wall and his limp body falls forwards into Grantaire’s arms. He sinks to his knees, sinks both of them down until he’s cradling Enjolras in his arms and staving off the panic rising in his chest by clutching his hands so tightly into Enjolras’ clothes that all the men in the world would not be able to rip him from him.

No logic can make sense of why and how he’s still alive, but he wishes it weren’t so, wishes their roles could be reversed so that the sun could shine on in endless day and he would sweep away the darkness as his own memory sunk into obscurity.

Even now, he knows in his heart Enjolras would never let that happen. Even for him. No death in the face of adversity deserved to go unrecognised and no lost life should go uncelebrated. Every person alive or dead was owed more than that - Grantaire feels the tethers of his earthly doubts start to loosen as he clutches that cold body to his own, as if his own warmth could revive it. He stays there for as long as there is silence in the Musain, cursing existence, cursing love, and cursing that in death, Enjolras had made Grantaire see at last. Made him believe.

Only when he finally hears movement in the streets does he move again. He makes to stand, but can’t bear to part from the body in his arms, not yet.

Sitting Enjolras back against the wall where he had been pinned, right beside the window, Grantaire holds his face one more time. Brushes perfect curls back from his delicate features, mapping small details to memory that he’d never been able to perfect in all his paintings over the years. It feels treacherous to complete the task now, but someone has to turn Enjolras into history. He cannot die merely a man.

He closes his eyes, once he’s sure he can bear too. It’s easier to look at him with them closed, if he avoids looking at his blood soaked chest; it’s almost as if he’s sleeping peacefully.

Finally, Grantaire leans forward. He’s on his knees on the floor beside him, face still held delicately and helplessly in his hands, and he closes the space between them to press one chaste, anguished kiss to Enjolras’ lips.

After a moment’s deliberation, he carefully removes Enjolras’ waistcoat and takes it with him.

[salamanderergfanfictions]

Les Mis, plague, snippets, (major char death)

A new plague swept through France and claimed the lives of many people.  A handful of the Les Amis survived, though Enjolras still harbors resentment towards Grantaire over a moment of inattentiveness that claimed the life of Courfeyrac.

Per his luck, Bossuet was the first to be struck.  He had been pale the last few days, citing a lingering cold from spring, smiling as he reassured everyone it would pass soon.  They had laughed and bemoaned his bad luck to be stuck with a summer cold, continuing as usual.

The next night he was on the floor coughing, hacking, and then vomiting blood in the middle of Marius’ declaration of love to a woman he had never met.  They had crowded around him, but could offer no relief, could do no more for him but look on in terror.  He was choking, then gurgling, then still.  It was sudden, an anomaly that was hard to come to terms with.  Joly had sat in his room with blood on his hands for days until forced to wash.

Perhaps that is why he was the next to go, found in his bed, pale and cold, with a vibrant red stain on his pillow.  Feuilly had come into direct blood contact with the sickness a couple of days after, the result of bending down to help a young girl who had fallen.  She had coughed right in his chest, speckling it with droplets and stunning Feuilly.  He had walked into the Musain in a daze, not even thinking to clean himself up.  His friends had said tearful, thoughtful goodbyes even as he sat at the table and talked with them, saying his own farewells.  They had waited two days before observing no change in Feuilly, waited two more just in case it was slow.  Feuilly gave them hope, that it was dying out, that it could be fought.

This was not the case.

By then, the public had known there was a new plague to be reckoned with, on top of the cholera, one that killed fast and violent.  Those who had not died in the first week or two and had the means, left.  They fled to the country, to other cities, and in doing so, had spread the plague further than it would have gotten on its own.  Marius among them.  He seemed to have disappeared overnight, no sign of his death, but all his belongings had either been packed up or pilfered.

Those who had not left clung tightly to a desperate hope that this would pass and their city would be theirs again.  By the summer’s end, Paris seemed like a ghost town with periods of brief, fierce activity in the streets that soon gave way to silence and another corpse lying in the street.

Enjolras traversed these streets with his head held high, as if walking fast with his nose in the air would prevent death from catching him.  He was fearless in this, not many dared being out on the streets except the scum of society that had already been there before.  Determination alone was warding off the sickness and the only worry he had now was being mugged by those barely hanging on.  He made his way down the road, stepping over puddles of blood and feces, swerving around people who were dead and those who were not quite, who were still wheezing through bloody handkerchiefs.  He walked past the Musain, now just an abandoned building since all who worked there had perished, to a small apartment not so far away.  

He knocked on the door briefly to be let in, becoming slightly worried at the stumbling noises behind it.  The door opened creakily, slowly, and Enjolras knew Grantaire was drunk again when it was forced open by a much more steady hand.  He had to force the snarl off his face as Jehan, instead of the other one, the drunken one, came into view.

“Enjolras,” Jehan greeted him with a terse smile, glancing nervously to Grantaire who had slinked off behind the door without a word. “Was there trouble getting here?  As you walked the infected streets of Paris with only your red vest to protect you, like the bright color will be a warning? I wish you would not do so, there will be one day when you do not come and we will know the worst has happened. Please reconsider staying here with us.”

“I have been perfectly frank on that matter, Jehan,” Enjolras said acutely, ignoring the other’s look of unhappiness. “The streets are dead, quite literally, and I take care in watching where I step.  It has been nothing worse than usual.  And here?”

Jehan sighed heavily and suddenly looking very tired and beaten, “It has been quiet the past few days. We are only waiting on Feuilly now, come join us in the sitting room.��

Enjolras walked in, giving his own disapproving glance at Grantaire, who had slipped down along the wall to the floor, before joining Jehan.  Grantaire flicked his gaze up to him for barely a second, not giving any word of acknowledgment nor expecting one.

“He has been like that the past two days,” Jehan whispered only a few feet from the door and man in question, “Despondent in every action and word, if he decides to move or speak.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrow and did not bother lowering his voice, “And what is novel about Grantaire being drunk and indolent?”

“He is not, though. He has not touched his wine, nor food or other drinks.  He will not speak to me and only stares at nothing, figments in the air only visible to him.  The most movement I have seen him attempt was when you knocked on the door.” Jehan paused and laid a pale hand on Enjolras’ wrist beseechingly, “I was hoping you would speak to him, you hold sway over him more than I.  It is a grand victory for him to even blink in my direction, but you are able to summon him from his stupor without even being in the room.”

Enjolras stared at Jehan’s pleading expression for a long moment then took a deep breath, “It is not my business how he chooses to atone for his sins, or punish himself for them. I owe him no words, nor do I wish to give them.”

Jehan’s eyes filled with tears, tears that he had made a vow not to shed anymore when Courfeyrac had passed, when Bahorel had gone swiftly after him, “I do not begrudge you your scorn, Enjolras, but our friends are so few now.”

We cannot lose another, went unsaid.  Enjolras heard it all the same.

“You understand that he is the reason we have so few friends now, yes?” He said harshly, his own mourning in mind.  Jehan’s pain allowed him to cry and grieve, Enjolras’ only turned his eyes and heart to stone.

“It is not all on his head, Enjolras, the sickness takes who it wants, and leaves who it does not.  You cannot blame him,” Jehan said, as he had said many times, and then hurried to finish before Enjolras could interrupt, “Not more than he blames himself.”

“I will blame him, Jehan, he is the reason one of my closest friends is dead.  The only way I would not have blamed him is if the sickness had taken him too.” Enjolras turned to Grantaire with a vicious glare and spat out, “I wish that it had, better you than Courfeyrac.  A great burden would have been lifted with one less drunk, incompetent thing in the world.”

Jehan gasped in shock, but Enjolras had left the hallway before he could say anything.

“Good morning, Jehan, Grantaire,” Feuilly greeted politely, despite having been present for the harsh words.  He was standing in the doorway, hat in hand. “Am I late?”

Jehan swallowed hard, blinking several times before realizing his eyes were not going to clear and so smiled brightly through the tears, “Good morning, Feuilly.  Your travel was safe?”

The two exchanged tepid greetings before Jehan led Feuilly into the sitting room, leaving Grantaire to his spot by the door, only to interrupt a tender moment between Enjolras and Combeferre.  The two averted their eyes politely as the other men brought their lips together for a soft kiss before completing their embrace.

“Feuilly,” Enjolras greeted him as Combeferre nodded to the man as well. “I’m glad to see you.”

“And you, Enjolras. It is good to see everyone,” Feuilly stumbled over the last word and hoped that no one would comment.  He cleared his throat harshly, and then several times more after that.  The rest of the company ignored this and continued when he was done.

“I hear there is discussion of leaving France,” Feuilly said, only a touch more hoarse than previously.

--

“It’s your fault!  You killed them!”

“If that is what will help, then blame me,” Grantaire said desperately, pleading for Enjolras’ absolution.

“I-It,” Enjolras stuttered out, his lips not wanting to form words anymore, they only seemed to want to shake and frown. “It w-will not,” He tried again before noticing the way Grantaire was looking at him.  Enjolras’ eyes were stinging, his jaw was trembling and he couldn’t bear to see the sympathetic expression on Grantaire’s face.  The way the other man’s eyes were kind as he stepped forward on a soft inhale, as if Enjolras were a child in need of consolation.  He was not a child.  He had not cried since he was one and would not be reduced to tears because of…because of…

“All our friends are dead,” He whispered, horrified, as if this was the first time he had realized it.

To Enjolras’ disgust the tears did not end and with every attempt he made to stop, they flowed faster, till he was openly sobbing.  Ugly, loud sobs that made his nose run and his face turn red, and even then, Grantaire reached for him automatically, cradling Enjolras’ head and bringing it to his chest.

“I am so sorry,” Grantaire whispered desperately as Enjolras cried, “I cannot, words cannot express how utterly, completely sorry I am.  I do not know what I can do to repent for this, if there is something to be done for it. Just tell me, please tell me.  Were there a way to trade my life for your friends’, you must know I would do it, I would not hesitate.  I will do anything, I will do anything for you.”

“I cannot,” Enjolras sobbed into Grantaire’s vest, the other trying to soothe him as one would a newborn. He let out huge, broken gasps that only came out louder the more he tried to hold them in.  “I cannot stop—”

He couldn’t stop crying, not even with Combeferre after Courfeyrac’s death did he begin to cry. There was a dam inside him, it had always been there since he was a child and it had finally broken today, in the arms of the man who had caused it to rupture.  Enjolras did not want to be held by Grantaire, but he could not bring himself to move.  He buried his face deeper in the vest, his forehead and nose catching on buttons painfully, his tears and spit and snot combining to make a sickening mess on the fabric.  But Enjolras did not move, and Grantaire would not allow him to.

“Then do not stop,” Grantaire whispered, “Do not stop, and please let me be enough for you.”

--

End

[rebecca-johnson-28]

𝕵𝖚𝖘𝖙 𝖆 𝖇𝖚𝖓𝖈𝖍 𝖔𝖋 𝖗𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖔𝖒 𝖈𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖆𝖓𝖉 𝖉𝖊𝖘𝖈𝖗𝖎𝖕𝖙𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖕𝖎𝖊𝖈𝖊𝖘 𝕴 𝖜𝖗𝖔𝖙𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝕴 𝖜𝖆𝖓𝖙 𝖙𝖔 𝖘𝖍𝖆𝖗𝖊 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖞𝖔𝖚. 𝕳𝖔𝖕𝖊 𝖞𝖔𝖚 𝖊𝖓𝖏𝖔𝖞!

The blinding lights, that illuminated above all and took away all the attention from their surroundings, shone like stars; warning the hearts of everyone, on this bland winter night. The innocence and happiness of London, masked the stars, why are they hiding everything?  The energetic buzz swarmed the streets like bees heading home. Drapped over the streets, the glow of lights were colossal and compelled its surroundings. The vigorous animals, who were finally free contaminated the street. Like a child on Christmas morning, the tourists open London only to find it vandalised. Sirens screaming, elephants pounding. The lights glitter and flicker lighting him up in all his loneliness, Illuminated by his past, walking towards his future. The flicker of innocence, polluting the night. The anomalie lies away from the sheep. Walking away from the attention, trying to move forward, but impossible if time stands still. Trying to get away, from the crowd.

Taken for granted,

Elements of the earth,

Freedom and peace,

What was life before that?

Knocking knocking on your door,

Nothing left for emotional support,

Destroy destruction,

It's all we do,

It's all we are good at,

Good things come to an end,

Non- reusable, non-renewable,

It's all that's left.

It's all around you now,

Elements colliding,

1 down, 3 to go,

Water, Air, Wind, Fire,

Life Will be gone,

Freedom will return soon.

Back to the calm before the storm

Back to peace once more.

𝕬𝖑𝖑𝖊𝖌𝖔𝖗𝖞 𝕯𝖊𝖋𝖎𝖓𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓-"𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝖞, 𝖕𝖔𝖊𝖒, 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖎𝖈𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖊 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖇𝖊 𝖎𝖓𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖙𝖊𝖉 𝖙𝖔 𝖗𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖆𝖑 𝖆 𝖍𝖎𝖉𝖉𝖊𝖓 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝖙𝖞𝖕𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖑𝖑𝖞 𝖆 𝖒𝖔𝖗𝖆𝖑 𝖔𝖗 𝖕𝖔𝖑𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖑 𝖔𝖓𝖊."

Fearful; of her;

The girl who they all knew, but never known

Painting the image in their mind.

Life goes on and time moves forward,

Chasing future, Forgetting past,

The games go on, hidden by paint,

Vines grow around, leaving her golden heart behind.

The interior is what matters, breaking boundaries, succeeding goals,

One day; she says to herself antidotes will make them see, the girl I want to be.

"Mirrors shattering", they say,

Hearts breaking and time ending,

Only the bravest survives,

And she did.

𝕭𝖆𝖘𝖊𝖉 𝖔𝖓 𝕾𝖎𝖒𝖔𝖓 𝕬𝖗𝖙𝖎𝖒𝖆𝖌𝖊���𝖘 𝕽𝖊𝖒𝖆𝖎𝖓𝖘 𝕻𝖔𝖊𝖒

Strutting together, being obedient, being one. I take back, the rest scatter, ready for the glory, I am ready for it. Repellents in my hand. Just one click away and one life gone. Innocent and guilty; the enemy will be gone... forever, I hope. Fired bullets aim and miss but only one life I want gone. Four months. I had only been in the war for four months. The wolves will be destroyed. Like submissive ants marching in unison, boots, helmets, guns, friends and bullets; the victory will be worth it.  Laughing and screams? Speeding like light, we run, the killers in our side pockets. We disintegrate behind a cold, cobbled wall. The figure. Probably armed, possibly not. Bullets fired like a siren saying "go". Fear coursed through my blood. I fired. This is what I wanted right? Every passing second was a wave of fireworks. One after the other. 12. 12 shots in that d*ckhead of an enemy soldier. The fear hit me like a missile. Why did we shoot so carelessly? Why am I like this? I have done this before so why am I guilty? I close my eyes, letting out a shaky breath I didn't know I was holding. I see him. A clear image in my mind. Why is he here in my mind? I hastily open my eyes. His dark brown eyes pierce my soul. I can't look away, but I need to. My eyes flicker upwards, no-one is there. They left me. I trudged past slowly, never breaking eye contact with his lifeless eyes. One of my officer's return and picks up his come-to-an-end heart. A good and innocent one too. He forcefully grabs me by the arm and drags me along. Me? I never broke eye contact until he was just a blur in the distance. What I heard was that the boy was younger and below us. A trainee. 15 or 16. Weeks past and I was home. Cheers filled my ears but then I was mentally imprisoned in my own mind. I can't escape him. His bloody life, in my bloody hands. Why won't it go? Can you forgive me? To stop this nightmare.

Georgina Jolie had always loved industrial Sleepford with its moaning, mute mountains. It was a place where she felt angry. She was a clever, sympathetic, beer drinker with brown toenails and blonde eyes. Her friends saw her as a quick, quickest queen. Once, she had even helped a vain old man cross the road. That's the sort of woman he was. Georgina walked over to the window and reflected on her sunny surroundings. The wind blew like singing maggots. Then she saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Andy Ramsbottom. Andy was an incredible wally with wobbly toenails and fluffy eyes. Georgina gulped. She was not prepared for Andy.As Georgina stepped outside and Andy came closer, she could see the raspy smile on his face. Andy glared with all the wrath of 8254 gentle thoughtful toads. He said, in hushed tones, "I hate you and I want some more Facebook friends." Georgina looked back, even more confident and still fingering the tiny piano. "Andy, you must think I was born yesterday," she replied. They looked at each other with sleepy feelings, like two orange, obedient owls sleeping at a very wild wedding, which had piano music playing in the background and two intelligent uncles drinking to the beat. Georgina studied Andy's wobbly toenails and fluffy eyes. Eventually, she took a deep breath. "I'm sorry," began Georgina in apologetic tones, "but I don't feel the same way, and I never will. I just don't hate you Andy." Andy looked unstable, his emotions raw like a bumpy, blue book. Georgina could actually hear Andy's emotions shatter into 5557 pieces. Then the incredible wally hurried away into the distance. Not even a drink of beer would calm Georgina's nerves tonight.

Gary Godfrey had always loved picturesque Bangkok with its wet, weary waters. It was a place where he felt sparkly. He was a considerate, bold, cocoa drinker with ginger legs and curvaceous feet. His friends saw him as a queasy, quickest queen. Once, he had even rescued a jolly baby bird from a burning building. That's the sort of man he was. Gary walked over to the window and reflected on his cosy surroundings. The wind blew like drinking donkeys. Then he saw something in the distance, or rather someone. It was the figure of Fairydust Slaughterhouse. Fairydust was a spiteful juggler with solid legs and feathery feet. Gary gulped. He was not prepared for Fairydust. As Gary stepped outside and Fairydust came closer, he could see the spluttering glint in her eye. Fairy dust gazed with the affection of 3371 intelligent cool cats. She said, in hushed tones, "I love you and I want a kiss." Gary looked back, even more concerned and still fingering the ripped teapot. "Fairydust, get out of my house," he replied. They looked at each other with worried feelings, like two obedient, orange owls laughing at a very vile snow storm, which had drum and bass music playing in the background and two arrogant uncles thinking to the beat. Gary regarded Fairydust's solid legs and feathery feet. "I feel the same way!" revealed Gary with a delighted grin. Fairydust looked jumpy, her emotions blushing like a plastic, pongy piano.Then Fairydust came inside for a nice mug of cocoa.

Veins popping and blood dripping. I hate this. External banishment. It was just last week I was married to that man, now he's gone. Probably off making his 107th child with her. It's a night I won't ever forget. "Good morning, my love" his raspy voice sings in the sunrise of the world. I slowly turned my head. There he was, in all his glory. Payton. Son of Aphrodite, soon to be King of Starton. "Good morning, my King" I reply, in my usual groggy voice. I sit up, admiring the view. Clothes scattered across the floor, unknown to the vows we exchanged, promises we made. But, the deeds were done. I arose from the silky red and gold bed and walked into the closet. I know the servants usually do that, but I think they've left us alone for a while. Slipping on my white and purple flowery dress, in stormed the devil's. All three of them flaunted over to him. They knew what I was like; and they knew he was flattered by it. So, they continued. Each girl, poking, feeling, grasping, every angle they could. My blood was boiling. I was thankful, he was dressed. Slowly, but surely they all left. I couldn't hold it in anymore, my rage got the best of me. One by one, each of my claws came spreading out. Purple wings expanded like a balloon being filled (at the quickest rate possible). I started to glow. My whole body shakes, my lungs screaming. My heart racing like a bullet. My thoughts on an endless track. "Kill them!" The demon manically laughs. My blue eyes, absorbed by the purple stone. I landed. My muscles screaming in agony. A light, solid but true, shatters my mind. Like lightning, I'm brought back to reality. Fearful brown orbs intoxicate me once more. I slowly scamper out of the room. I run. I run. My lungs heaving, screaming for me to stop. My body's on fire. 'Keep going' I thought. 'No-one can hurt you'. I HAVE to stop. I can't escape my fate. I abruptly stop. Panting, wheezing. I pace for a while. Back and forth. Back and forth. What felt like an eternity, I am stopped. A light hand pressed against my shoulder. "Are you need okay?" A soft voice asked. I shake my head. "N-N-N..." I didn't even finish. Sobs bursts from me like a waterfall, the figure pulls me into a hug. I let go. I never show weakness. Once I eventually stop, I release from the hug. I look up. My heart shatters. "Chase?" I question. Before he could even answer, I'm being pulled into another hug. I don't move. I slowly melt into his arms. "I heard what happened." "They want you gone by morning. "It was set. I was the victim. I let go. Why can't I hold it in. I was tied to the side of the castle. Beating and fresh blood. Bruising, barely starting to show.

The girl sits on a hard grey chair. Fingers moving delicately, creating magic on the page. The pale skin gripping onto her turquoise mechanical pencil, the other hand, holding the dark blue book-lined revision book in place. The soft mutters of conversations around her. Her light brown straight hair, held together by a black flowery plastic headband, is left to wander and dance as she writes. The white desks, lay neatly in rows, the 16-year-old, in front of the rest. A group of misfits, un-popular, or fangirls. The two teachers in the classroom are focused. One frantically typing on the desktop, the other rapidly writing, hoping to get all her ideas from mind to paper. The bare classroom was plain and simple, with a few displays. The vocabulary wall, "An Inspector Calls" wall, and a Shakespeare wall both explaining the basic plot of both plays. Few books, folders, and a laminate book cover photo are with a meaning wall, was all that was there. The brown-haired, hazel eye with light pale British girl sat deep in thought, writing yet another short story thriller. The school was quite normal. Newly built for over £30 million. Her previous chain of thought was interrupted by a faint knock on the heavy light grey door.

Hands shaking, voice slightly breaking. "I'm fine" she mutters hoping he won't hear her break. Thoughts racing round her head like a train on a never ending track. The thought of the colour red, and it's meaning. Fire, burning, killing, blood. Those thoughts over and over again. She walks away. The prettiest smiles will always hide the scariest and deepest thoughts. Her eyes water and flooding once she walks past him. The boy, just a figment of what her life could of been. Now, the girl sits on social media, hoping someone would say "I know your not" or an "are you ok?" But this is reality, because that will never happen. Because how can people notice the happy and smiley girl constantly breaking, desperately wanting someone to tell her it'll be okay. But then again nobody tells her "your gorgeous" cause she's just another chubby libra fangirl hoping her idol will notice her. As this is what happens when you become attached to things to quickly. The one she wants to marry, not knowing she exists. Her friend group so little and so different. But I guess this is what happens when your lost in your thoughts. Waiting for an offer of a penny.

[probably-enjolras]

Sad Courferre

@ughchillles here you go my dude. I decided to make Courfeyrac not die in canon verse ;)

The bullets only grazed him. The initial pain sent his body into shock, pushing Courfeyrac onto the ground. His eyes closed for what he thought would be the last time. When he felt pain shooting through him, he knew it was a different story. He felt himself being dragged across the floor by his arm, and he aggressively started to shake. Whoever was carrying him let him go, but didn’t bother to help him.

Courfeyrac opened his eyes, trying to adjust to the world around him. He put pressure on the bullet wound. While it hurt, he had listened to Joly talk enough to know that he really just needed to bandage it. It would have been a fatal wound if he had been left bleed out. Be quickly ripped his shirt and tied it around the wound. After a few tries, he managed to secure it in a way that it wouldn’t fall off.

Courfeyrac tried to steady himself as he stood up. He leaned against the wall and took in his surroundings. He was still on the top floor of the Musain. He looked to see where everyone else was. He took in a deep breath as he noticed Grantaire collapsed by the window, his hand draped next to him, looking like it had just been let go. Courfeyrac swallowed the tears of knowing one of his closest friends was dead.

The realization dawned on him that it was more than likely all his friends were dead. He hobbled to the window, leaning against the wall, and looked at Enjolras’ lifeless body. He was still clutching his flag, but not in the way any person who was alive could. It seemed to have snagged onto some part of his body and the wall of the Musain. His other arm was dangling by itself, looking like it had been pushed away from something more violently than the other arm. Courfeyrac smiled sadly, connecting the dots between the two bodies he had seen. At least in their last moments, Grantaire and Enjolras were together.

Courfeyrac turned, looking to see if he wasn’t the only one who survived. Combeferre. The man had been beside him when he had been shot. If he survived, maybe there was the possibility that Combeferre had too. He tried to run, only to find that his wound made it so he couldn’t. He fell to his knees, clutching his side. He desperately tried to grasp the railing of the stairs to help him stand again. He made his way down the stairs, trying not to let the pain get the better of him. What mattered now was to find Combeferre.

He felt tears flow as he saw the bodies. All his friends lay side by side, the guards must have moved them there. Their faces were all at peace now, no more fear or sadness. He walked against the wall, scanning the faces for Combeferre. Finally, he found him. Courfeyrac collapsed next to the body and began to shake it. “Wake up!” He cried, clinging to his friend. “You can’t go! Please! I woke up, why aren’t you?” Courfeyrac was sobbing, his tears dropping onto Combeferre’s face. He felt a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t touch me!” He yelled. “If you want to touch someone, touch him! Help close his wounds! He can’t just be gone!” He screamed at the unknown person. He felt a pair of arms wrap around him, trying to pull him away. “NO!” He shouted thrashing violently, feeling his wound open again. He cried out in pain, going limp in the person’s arms. “I’m sorry,” they whispered, and he felt tears fall alongside his. Courfeyrac opened his eyes, looking into the person holding him. Marius. “Marius?” he whispered. Marius nodded, tears streaming down his face. He was covered in filth and he looked like he had just been through hell. His arm was bent in a way that it shouldn’t have been and his normally happy aura had turned dark.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again. “Why couldn’t he have survived?” Courfeyrac sobbed into Marius’ shirt. Part of him was angry that Marius has survived. Marius, the man who liked Napoleon. Marius, who had almost chose Cosette over the revolution. Marius, who wasn’t Combeferre. “I don’t know. If I could trade his life for mine, I would. Please, we need to get going. You need a doctor.” Marius put his arm around Courfeyrac’s waist and helped him stand. The two supported each other, until a taller man and a woman ran to help them. The woman, who Courfeyrac assumed was Cosette, helped Marius as the man lifted Courfeyrac up. Courfeyrac closed his eyes and cried. He cried for his friends. He cried for the revolution. He cried for their families. And most of all, he cried for Combeferre.

[cherryjuicegf]

The Redemption Song

(Note: So that’s my first fanfic, made especially for the Barricade Day. Forgive me for any writing mistakes, i’m greek and the translation was a bit difficult. Please send me a message when you read it, i’d love to know what you think)

All hope was lost now. He knew that. They all knew that. They were going to die and the revolution was going to die with them. It was obvious. You could see the fear in their eyes. The fear of the schoolboys who had never held a gun. The fear of death. The people had left them, their passion, their enthusiasm wasn’t enough to keep them all until the end. And the end could have been different if they were willing to fight for this common dream among les Amis, the dream of a better future, of equality. The dream of freedom. The few revolutionaries left were entering the café in an attempt to survive. They were deceiving themselves with fake hopes. It’s not easy to accept failure and death. But this was their fate. Enjolras was standing outside the door, waiting for everyone to get in before he did the same thing too. He was still alive, he tried to. But the wound on his shoulder wasn’t helping him. He was shot when he tried to save another man, a brother of his. He ignored it. There were more important things to do than paying attention to a wound. He was bleeding. He didn’t care. Some of les Amis were still out, and then a gunshot along with a scream covered all the other noises. «Jehan!!!» Combeferre hit the guardsman who had shoot Jehan with the cane of his carbine and run towards his dying friend. He fell on his knees, taking Jehan’s head on his hands. But it was too late. The bullet had found him on the chest. Jehan looked at him, his hands trembling. He was drowning in his own blood. «Long live the future Combeferre», he whispered weakly. «Long live the future…». He passed away with a smile of hope remaining on his lips, the hope of the poet. Combeferre sobbed and looked up to heavens, breathing heavily. Was this what he was fighting for? «Combeferre». He turned his head at the cracking voice calling him. Enjolras was still standing out of the door waiting for him. He barely held his tears. Combeferre stood up and unwillingly left his friend’s dead body to get in the café with Enjolras who closed the door behind him. It was the only thing he managed to do before the guardsmen started trying to break it. The two of them were the first to go up on the second floor. The door broke, the guardsmen got in. But their lives didn’t matter to them as much as the desperate cries they heard from downstairs. The gunshots didn’t let them last for long. Silence fell. On the second floor there was now Enjolras, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Joly. They were the only ones left. The last ones. And they were dead. Although they hadn’t been shot yet, they were dead. The guardsmen didn’t get upstairs. They put their carbines on the ceiling. Enjolras couldn’t recognize his friends. Combeferre, once serious and calm, with great humor when it needed, was standing beside him, his agony and fear painted in his face. Joly, always smiling and having fun, without hesitating to show his brave soul at times, was now trembling. And Courfeyrac. The kind and happy Courfeyrac, willing to support his friends, to share their passion, was breathing heavily. They were his friends. And he had led them to death. Oh, he had definitely failed. Joly sighed. Courfeyrac looked at his friends crying. «It was my honor to be with you in this fight messieurs», he said. The others smiled nodding. And then the gunshots erased their smiles and the three of four were now lying on the floor, the blood gushing out of their wounds. Combeferre looked up. His voice came out soft but weak, as the voice of a dying young man. «Enjolras…» His friend’s eyes, who was still standing on his feet, met his. And then he saw it. He was crying. Enjolras, the chief, the brave young man, the marble lover of liberty, he was actually crying. His lips were moving but no words could come out of his mouth. His breath was cut. «Forgive me», he finally managed to say, but he didn’t even heard his voice. And he waited for Combeferre to speak, to forgive him for being responsible for all those lost lives. Forgiveness could give him a little more courage, so he could at least die in peace, without the guilt of loss haunting him even after his death. It was his redemption. Combeferre said nothing. He only moved his lips, staring at him with confidence and love. But he said nothing. He wouldn’t say anything ever again. He remained still and his eyes were not filled with emotions anymore. They were empty. Just like Enjolras’s soul. Empty. Then it was when sorrow overwhelmed him. And he felt the death of his friends hurt way more than his wound, the feelings of guilt were devouring him. He couldn’t stand the pain. He was strong, stronger than he could ever imagine. He did everything for Patria. For Frace. But he hadn’t considered it all. Not as much as he should have. He couldn’t help it, not this time. He made a few steps but didn’t feel his legs anymore. He sobbed, then fainted in the middle of the room and remained there, surrounded by the blood of his friends, those young revolutionaries who were killed by their own dreams. The guardsmen went up and saw the bodies lying on the floor. They supposed everyone was dead. And, for good or bad, they didn’t see anything else in the whole room to draw their attention. They left. The sun was slowly rising, spreading the light through the sky. The light that dozens of young men didn’t long to see, the light of tomorrow. Their souls were now climbing in heaven, singing the song that couldn’t be heard anymore. The streets were deserted, no one dared to get out. The silence was mourning instead of them. A ray of light caressed Enjolras’s cheek, who was unconscious for about two hours. He opened his eyes and felt incapable of moving for a couple of seconds. His whole body was aching. He took a deep breath and tried to get on his feet. He made a few steps staggering. His wounded arm had almost paralyzed. He stared at the dead bodies on the floor and then the memories hit him like a thunderstorm and the same feelings as two hours ago overwhelmed him. But he didn’t faint this time. He was doomed to suffer all those deaths, knowing that it was his fault. He went downstairs and got out of the café. The sight caused him shivers everywhere. Dead bodies all over the place, bodies of his friends. He spotted Jehan a few meters away from him. He was still smiling. He was resting in peace now. He was lucky. Everyone around him was lucky, luckier than he was. Why couldn’t he be one of them? He turned his head up to the sky, his eyes red and filled with tears. He swallowed. «Forgive me», he whispered. «Please». He got no response. He clenched his fists in an attempt to stay calm. «Will you forgive me?», he repeated louder with a trembling voice. The dead silence was killing him inside. He was sinking in the sea of his own desperation and he was hearing the voices in his head repeating the same four words: “It’s your fault”. He was breathing heavily. «Why aren’t you answering?», he shouted one last time, waiting in vain for a response and then his voice cracked. He left an agonizing cry, enough to express his despair and make the situation more depressing, and he threw away a broken chair. He was trembling, he hated himself and no one could help him. He would die, but it would be a harrowing death. He was alone. The crackling of the wooden stairs and the sound of footsteps on the floor broke the silence. Enjolras heard nothing, lost in his thoughts and slowly falling in depression. He sat on the wrecks of the barricade and hid his face in his hands. Someone appeared at the door and stood still. His breath was suddenly cut and few seconds later he called the name of the man he was hoping to see. «Enjolras…». At the sound of his name Enjolras turned slowly his head, his heart missing a beat. Someone had survive. He thought that was impossible. The guardsmen killed them all. And yet, there he was, standing at the doorstep and smiling at him hopefully. The man he never actually trusted, but considered a friend of his. He stood still, and his once angelic figure was now miserable and covered in blood. «Grantaire…», he mumbled, waiting for the man to look at him with hate and disappointment. He deserved that. He deserved to be hated. He ruined everything. «You are alive!», Grantaire exclaimed and made a few steps towards him, but Enjolras stood up and fended off, as like he was scared. And he was. He was scared of Grantaire’s compassion and love, he was persuaded he didn’t deserve them after what he had done. He couldn’t consider himself to be still loved. Grantaire understood. He wasn’t an expert at people’s feelings, but this time he understood. And sighed, waiting for Enjolras to speak. His friend’s expression changed from scared to serious and regretfull. He showed around with his hand. «Look what I have done, Grantaire…», he cried. «That’s all my fault!». Grantaire shook his head negatively and approached him. He saw a different Enjolras, a man he had never seen. A man drowning into misery, blaming himself for this situation. He wanted to help. «Enjolras», he said softly and touched his friend’s arm, taking a deep breath. «You know as well as I and all our dearest friends up there who are now looking at you that… That’s not actually your fault.» His words, spoken with determination, hit Enjolras like bullets. But this time the wounds didn’t hurt. It felt like they were the bullets of forgiveness which could finally erase his guilt. He looked at Grantaire with tears coming down his face. For a moment he thought he saw an angel, who was bringing this message from all his friends to release him from the fetters of despair. His eyes met Grantaire’s, eyes filled with confidence, the eyes of an angel. This man who had never shown him anything else but cynicism and irony, had helped him see the truth and he was now the only one he had. And he thanked God for that. He sighed without saying anything. Grantaire waited anxiously, he wanted Enjolras to speak or at least to do something. And he did. He burst into a redemptive cry like a little child. Grantaire smiled. He smiled and hugged him tightly, happy that his friend could finally show his feelings. He knew it was unusual for Enjolras, not to say unthinkable. He seemed always cold like a marble statue. But he was not one. «I miss them Grantaire», he said sobbing. Grantaire nodded. «Me too», he said. «I didn’t even told them a proper goodbye», and deep inside he was feeling guilty for that, but he kept it for himself. His shirt was wet from Enjolras’s tears. The sun was now up in the sky. Suddenly he took a look around and a thought crossed his mind. «Enjolras…», he continued, «I’ve seen all the dead bodies and I’ve counted them all…», he snorted. Enjolras looked at him with a confused expression. «And?» «I just noticed something…» Enjolras waited. Grantaire crossed his arms on his chest and chuckled. «Where is Marius?»