#which is basically all of them here apart marius/courfeyrac

[dolphin1812]

We’re back to the Gorbeau House!

Although we had some idea of exactly how wealthy Marius was, this chapter provides another contrast that shows the chasm between his income now and what he lived on with Gillenormand. His room there is 30 francs annually, less than half what he paid for the apartment he was in before (and he wasn’t paying for a year’s worth of rent!). French society must have been extremely unequal for that gap to exist, especially since Marius now isn’t the poorest (even relative to himself, as his situation in the last chapter was much worse). Even though Marius loans Courfeyrac some money here, the gap is still visible in how much he lends: 60 francs. Marius might not have any immediate expenses that come close to that price, as he may have bought his clothes and linens gradually (and even if not, the linens – at 50 francs – are less than those 60). We don’t know what Courfeyrac spent those francs on, but he’s likely spending a lot more than Marius because he has more to spend.

That Marius is still poor is evident from how h counts all of his sous (we learn the price of all his meals here). However, he has enough financial stability to endure small price variations (meaning, a rise in rent would hurt him, but if an egg is 4 sous instead of 2, he’ll still have an egg for breakfast) and to afford some enjoyments, like dessert after dinner and a suit. He still lacks for many things that seem pretty necessary (like a fireplace for cold winters), but he has enough flexibility to prioritize his purchases, which he couldn’t do before. I think the lack of a fireplace reveals how low this standard is, though – no one in a country that gets cold in winter should have to go without a fireplace, just as no one should be made to deprive themself of all joys just to survive.

Food was so expensive! More than half of Marius’ income went to that. It could be worse because he’s not cooking for himself, but it’s still a pretty large sum of money. I’m very happy that he has food, though, as he went hungry for many years.

Unfortunately, Marius’ improved economic situation doesn’t mean he’s left behind his worst impulses and ideas. He still idolizes certain figures, and unfortunately, Thénardier is one of them. To be fair, neither Pontmercy knew that Thénardier was horrible and dishonest, and it makes sense for Marius to go with his father’s judgment here. Still, reading praise of Thénardier was a terrible experience, and if Marius could allow for a little more nuance in his views of people, perhaps it would be less scary for us as readers to see his idea of this person. Thénardier is actually on the opposite end of the spectrum of what Marius thinks – he’s basically completely bad, and is one of the few characters we’re never expected to feel sympathy for – but if he could see his father as a good person who could also err, perhaps his thoughts on Thénardier would be less stressful. He could, perhaps, realize that his father was wrong about him and let go of that debt, but at the moment, his twin problems of idolization and honor just make his desire to find this person concerning.

[fremedon]

YES YES ALL THIS. Other details--

--Those three francs a day Feuilly earns, while much less than some of the students are living on, is still significantly more than Marius is earning by his translation work in these years. (Marius is earning 700 fr/year, Feuilly would be getting about 900. Bahorel, by contrast, has somehow acquired a pension of 3000 francs.)

--Feuilly is part of the group getting ready for Lamarque's funeral procession at Courfeyrac's apartment, along with Enjolras and Combeferre; to the extent that there's an inner leadership circle, he seems to be part of it.

--His introduction basically says that he is notable for infodumping on his hyperfixations even by Amis de l'ABC standards: "His specialty was Greece, Poland, Hungary, Romania, and Italy. He spoke these names incessantly, to the point and beside the point, with the tenacity of the just cause."

--The focus on nationalism reads really weirdly in a modern political context, but basically-- Europe was ruled by 4-6 Great Powers at any one time, and every region outside the immediate provinces of their capitals was a game piece that could be traded away to one of the others via a treaty or an imperial marriage; or could be carved up and portioned out among multiple imperial powers, as happened to Poland multiple times. Most people in Europe either were, or had in living memory been, ruled by some foreign power, from a court a very long way away speaking a foreign language. In these circumstances, forming a nation independent of any of these imperial powers was the first step to any kind of political self-determination, and nationalist movements and democratic ones were seen as natural allies. (Does Hugo get into any of the ways in which France colonized itself during the Revolution and imposed this same kind of rule on its various minority languages and cultures? No, no he does not.)

--Feuilly's bitter outburst at the barricade about the allies that deserted them is worth quoting in its entirety because it is, sadly, the only dialog he has:

"Does anybody understand these men," exclaimed Feuilly bitterly (and he cited the names, well-known names, famous even, some of the old [=Revolutionary] army), "who promised to join us, and took an oath to help us, and were bound to it in honor, and who are our generals, and who abandon us!" And Combeferre simply answered with a grave smile, "There are people who observe the rules of honor as we observe the stars, from far off."*

This is in one of the last moments before the barricade is overwhelmed. They're staring down their imminent deaths here. And Feuilly is the one who is still holding their allies to account--who still has expectations to disappoint.

*Also, completely irrelevant to Feuilly, but Combeferre's line is almost certainly him being salty at Francois Arago, with whom he canonically studied optics and could have studied astronomy, and who was one of those republican leaders who didn't show up.

LES MISERABLES FANDOM I NEED YOUR HELP

Okay so. I recently got cast in a production of Les Mis (exciting) as Feuilly. So I need all the information I can get it. This is basically me asking for people to infodump about Feuilly, or any of the other Amis for that matter. All headcanons and ships, literally anything is accepted.

[somuchbetterthanthat]

“How much bored are you, Elodie” “why, bored enough to write about all the rarepairs of les miserables, including most I don’t ship at all, in three sentences or less (or more), starting right now, apparently”

PART I (N°12 to 17)

N°12 - Enjolras/Éponine

“it’s not that I don’t like him,” said Éponine, glancing vaguely at Enjolras, who was reading in a corner and ignoring them completely. “It’s just that I don’t trust pretty boys like that. Barely looks human, your friend.”

“Well,” started Courfeyrac, ready to concede the fact, and then stopped and frowned. “Wait. Does that mean you don’t think Marius and I are pretty?”

Éponine stared at him, and then decided that since she was to be a proper lady now, she ought to delicately stay silent on the matter, while Cosette hided a laugh in her embroidery. 

N°13 - Enjolras/Combeferre 

“I brought you some soup, orders from Joly,” said Enjolras, a gentle but firm hand on Combeferre’s shoulder to stop him from trying to get up again. 

Combeferre, surprised, forgot to struggle, squinting at him instead: “Did you make it?” 

“No,” Enjolras snorted. “Madame Fran, your neighbor, offered to make some for you. She also said I should tell you she’s very happy you found a nice man like me, and she won’t report anything to the police, you can trust her, ‘cause her Raymond is just like us, and she’s not one to judge.”

“Ah,” said Combeferre, cheeks darkening slightly. “How nice of her?”

N°14 - Courfeyrac/Marius Pontmercy

“Look at you,” said Courfeyrac, probably much too fondly, as he pushed Marius’s hands away to take over the tedious task of tying his cravat properly. “A lesser friend than I would refuse to appear with you in public, I hope you appreciate how grand my affection for you is.”

Marius, who’d been awfully quiet for the past hour, stared at him for a few seconds before he frowned determinedly, and nodded - Courfeyrac assumed it was for himself and whatever decision he had just came to. He smiled, ready to tease, and was completely taken by surprise when Marius bent down, put his hand on Courfeyrac’s cheek, and kissed him firmly on the lips.

“What-” 

“I do appreciate it,” said Marius, bit stiffly, taking a step back, his neck reddening quickly. “More than you think.”

N°15 - Combeferre/Grantaire

“Ha!” exclaimed Grantaire, grinning delightedly at Combeferre. “You have walked into this room without knowing who you were going after, Goliath! Let everybody see this: I put of course no glory in my victory, I expect no songs of worship or admiration, though we must admit my name does invite for some lovely rhythms, if there are poets here -” (he gave a pointed look at Prouvaire) “but to think, they thought of you of a giant! Look, tyran, you were brought down from your throne of ivory; and I! who among you all have no desire to fight, stand proud winner at the end of the battle! Why but soon I’ll be one of you all completely! One king down, bring me all the others! Let’s never hear of blond and terrible angels anymore, I will lead you exactly where we need to be! Ha! Vive la république, citizen Combeferre. You are dead.”

Combeferre, lips twitching, offered his king to Grantaire. 

“A beautiful game,” he said. “You have mastered the art of battle, citizen Grantaire. Only next time, please do remember that in chess, contrary to real life fighting, cheating is usually frown upon.”

N°16 Montparnasse/Jehan

“To confront death like this is quite unexpected,” sighed the young man. “I always thought fear would grip my stomach before true peace; where is the young lady, pale and no more touchable than thin air, that must help me sing my last song and chase the fear away? You are not, I’m afraid, a very good servant of death; I would expect them to look grayer, and more somber. Your outfit, in any case, pains me.”

Montparnasse, taken aback for a moment, decided his future victim was insulting him. He pushed the blade deeper against his hip, ready to be done with it, and did not see the tall man stepping out of the shadow before it was too late; he was hit hard, and fell on the ground violently. 

“Come now, Jehan,” said another voice. “Your new friends’s outfit is literally the only thing that I would concede as a saving grace.” Montparnasse whimpered as he tried to get up, and saw his young victim giving him a pitying glance, as the other man kept talking: “Last year’s fashion, if you look at his hat. Better than your fashion sense, that’s for sure. Now come on, Prouvaire. We had business. Let the kid rethink his life’s choices in peace.”

N°17 Marius/Éponine 

“Before, I’d always thought you’d knew how to dance,” said Éponine, frowning, while moving as gracefully as she could in the heavy dress she was wearing. “Didn’t you have lessons? I thought all rich boys like you did.”

“I was very bad at them,” said Marius, who was frowning too, staring at their feet. “We’re not doing bad right now though, are we?”

“How should I know?” asked Éponine. “Never went to fancy balls before; I’m sure you’re supposed to hold me closer though,” she said lightly, and grinned when Marius blushed, satisfied to know of the little effects she could have on him. 

[bahorell]

Les Amis (& co.) and the stuff they have on their walls

Enjolras: Pictures of his friends. I loved this idea so much I had to expand on it so it’s the shortest paragraph here but he’ll have his own post in a couple days I PROMISE

Combeferre: He has framed bugs!!! They are mostly moths but he also has some really rare expensive beetles that he’s gotten for Christmas. One winter break when he really had nothing going on he did a bunch of research on what all of the bugs were and has little hand-written pieces of paper taped to the wall underneath the bugs with all the info like a little MUSEUM OMG it’s literally the cutest thing. And if you’ve never been to his place before he makes you pick which one if your favorite.

Courfeyrac: Has a bunch of plants all over the walls. They’re so big that he has nails in the walls and any vining plants he’ll hang the vines on the walls so they look like they’re crawling up the walls. He also strategically places big plants like any trees he has or Monsteras in corners or next to dressers. He really doesn’t like putting too much stuff on his walls because he thinks it’s a lot of commitment. He doesn’t really have a lot of printed pictures of his friends and he doesn’t really have enough art to fill a wall space without making it look awkward. 

Joly: Joly is one of those really really cool guys that glues and frames all of the puzzles he finishes. Every time he goes somewhere he’s never been before he’ll go into a little tourist shop and buy the biggest puzzle he can find (the more pieces the better). There’s a separate table in the living room that he sits at and works on his puzzle at while he watches Grey’s Anatomy. He’s always rearranging things because he likes everything to have a you know that feng shui so his walls have a bunch of nail holes in them. He’s also quickly running out of wall space because now his friends have started gifting him puzzles as well. 

Jehan: Jehan LOVES to collect calendars! But not just like… monthly calendars. They have moon phase calendars, lunisolar calendars, a really really cool mayan calendar replica, a roman calendar, seasonal calendar for things like when to plant and harvest fruits and veggies!, a crystal calendar, a japanese calendar… They really like to look at how different things look from different perspectives. The months look different on a seasonal calendar than they do on a “standard” calendar. It reminds them that they have more control over their time than they think they do. Bousset: Movie posters!!!! He has posters of all his favorite movies but he really is a sucker for the movie posters that are in a retro style. He tries to make sure to buy frames for all of the posters he has because he doesn’t want them to get ruined. He’s scared not only because he has bad luck but because all of his friends are slobs and if they come over you know someone is going to somehow get beer or lasagna on the wall and some of the posters were like limited edition and he CANNOT have them ruined. He also dusts them p regularly.

Feuilly: Feuilly collects but also makes a bunch of wood art that he is very proud of. Usually when he makes something he’ll keep the first draft of it since it isn’t polished enough for him to feel like he can try to sell it. It’s not very often he can find Purple Heart stuff but when he does he really struggles to say no if it’s out of his budget. Also he has a few pieces of moss art that he ADORES

Bahorel: Collects a bunch of small random things that he finds. Pretty much he thinks if he CAN hang it on a wall that he SHOULD hang it on a wall. There’s art pieces, cards he’s gotten from people, business cards that have a cute design on them, he has a shit ton of command strips that hang things like lanyards, his go-to jackets for easy access, his towel when he doesn’t feel like walking back to the bathroom to hang it up after he’s showered. He also has like 5 sets of mini battery powered string lights that he leaves on whenever he’s not sleeping (he spends a lot of money on batteries) 

Grantaire: His walls kinda work as his sketchbook when he’s home. He’s found that sometimes working on a vertical surface instead of a horizontal surface helps get the gears turning in his head. It makes him a little frustrated sometimes because he’ll have a whole piece that’s done on one of his walls and then he basically has to repeat yet and put it back on paper but it doesn’t feel the same. Since his walls are pretty much a free-for-all, all of the amis have painted something on them at some point. He tries not to paint over those spots but sometimes he has to. 

Marius: Marius has a bunch of shadow boxes of stuff. Most of them are antique items like he has a shadow box that has about 50 unused boxes of matches that are from all over the world, he has a shadow box of antique flies for fly fishing. He’s never fly fished before but seeing the colors on the flies makes him want to try it at least once. He makes most of them himself also! He has one that has a bunch of wine corks in it that he had been collecting for awhile. And he has one that has one item from each Ami that he asked them to contribute to. His favorite tho is the shadow box that is filled with metal caps from soda bottles. It was the first one he made and a lot of the caps he got one summer he spent with his dad when he was a kid trying to find the best brand of soda for each flavor.

Eponine: Eponine doesn’t have a lot of stuff on her walls, she never really has but ever since she got her apartment and moved out of her parents place she got a few art pieces. They aren’t framed or anything, she always thinks that if something happens and she has to move out of her place that big framed art pieces will just be one more thing she has to worry about. It never happens and she’s accumulated enough pieces that eventually she saves up some money and gets most of them framed. 

Cosette: When she was a kid her dad bought her a really beautiful wall quilt that she never took off her wall even if she was cold. They’re pretty expensive and she’s managed to collect a few other larger quilts but she also has signed up for classes at a local quilt shop and has a couple small little baby quilts she’s done as practice that she hung up. They make her so proud and she’s loved looking at how her skills have improved since she started!

Musichetta: Musichetta doesn’t have too much stuff on her walls. She has a couple pieces that are really pretty that she has framed, but one of her walls she doesn’t ever hang stuff on because a couple years ago she bought some super cool bright wallpaper that has a bunch of citrus fruits on it. It really adds a bunch of color to her apartment and even in the winter helps makes the place feel warm and bright. 

Gavroche: Gav has two of his walls covered in chalkboard paint! He does his homework on them sometimes but mostly he uses them to draw little doodles. One of the walls he hasn’t touched in months because Feuilly and Grantaire worked together on a super big mural for it that took them like 3 days. Gav won’t ever erase it but he has bumped into it enough times that it’s getting pretty smudged. Plus he figures if he erases it they can just do another one. But because he has chalkboard walls he doesn’t really have anything else on his walls. He maybe has one or two pictures on the last wall that isn’t being taken up by chalkboard or closet doors. 

[kjack89]

Personal Gain (Chapter 4/?)

This chapter got long, so I decided to split it. This may have one or two more parts after this, depending on how writing the rest of it goes.

My personal appeal is that if you are an American reader, please make sure you vote if you are able. Seven days to go!

Modern magic AU, developing E/R and Courferre. Read Chapter 1 here, Chapter 2 here and Chapter 3 here (or catch up on AO3).

Courfeyrac waved his apartment’s warding spell off with a distracted hand, barely noticing that Combeferre had apparently been in his apartment at some point. He had spent the entire meeting wracking his brain for things to try next, and he was drawing a blank.

He didn’t like drawing a blank.

He flopped down on the couch, barely glancing up when he felt the warding spell tingle as Combeferre came in. “Come to gloat some more?” Courfeyrac asked sourly, staring up at the ceiling.

“As much as I may love gloating, no,” Combeferre said, hanging his coat on a hook and heading over to the couch, lifting Courfeyrac’s feet and settling them on his lap like he had a thousand time before. “I come bearing inspiration.”

“Oh?” Courfeyrac said mildly, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Combeferre nodded and pulled a bottle from his bag, setting it down on the coffee table with a clunk. “Yep, inspiration in the form of a bottle of Jägermeister.”

“Jäger?” Courfeyrac asked, wrinkling his nose. “The only thing Jäger ever inspired was bad life choices.”

“Yeah, but Grantaire gave it to me forever ago, and besides, it was between that or a bottle of absinthe, and seeing as how we’re not characters in a nineteenth century French novel—”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Fair point.” He held his hand out and Combeferre pressed the bottle into it. 

“Do you want a glass? Or a mixer, or—”

He broke off as Courfeyrac screwed the cap off and took a gulp straight from the bottle. “Oh, God,” he rasped. “Tastes like freshman year.”

Combeferre grabbed the bottle and took a swig, making a face. “Tastes like a frat party,” he said, handing the bottle back to Courfeyrac, who sat up, looking intrigued.

“When did you ever go to a frat party?”

“Despite what you may think, I didn’t spend my entire college career in the library,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac snorted and took another sip of Jäger. “So you say,” he muttered.

Combeferre rolled his eyes but didn’t push it, instead leaning forward to grab the Book of Shadows off the coffee table. “So what are you thinking?” he asked, flipping idly through the pages. “What’s your next grand plan?”

Courfeyrac sighed somewhat mournfully and cast a baleful look at the grimoire. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t have one?”

Combeferre hesitated. “Would you be mad if I said I wasn’t surprised at all?”

Courfeyrac groaned and took a gulp of Jäger before passing the bottle back to Combeferre. “Just shut up and drink,” he sighed. “And let’s hope the inspiration hits us soon.”

Combeferre wisely chose not to say anything to that, just raising the bottle to his lips and taking a sip.

----------

“What about lightning?” Combeferre asked vaguely, the now almost-empty bottle of Jäger sitting between him and Courfeyrac, who had swung his legs up over the back of the couch and was resting his head on Combeferre’s stomach. 

“Lightning?” Courfeyrac repeated.

Combeferre waved a hand. “Yeah, you know, like the, uh, coup de foudre.”

Courfeyrac turned his head to look up at him, looking amused. “I don’t think an actual lightning strike will help with that,” he said, with a slight hiccup. “Besides, I thought the point of the Jäger over absinthe was so that we wouldn’t get our inspiration from French fairytales.”

“Nineteenth century French novels,” Combeferre corrected, before sitting up, almost knocking Courfeyrac off the couch in the process. “Wait a second – fairytales.”

“Ow,” Courfeyrac complained, sitting up as well. “What about fairytales?”

Combeferre ignored him, flipping through the Book of Shadows, before landing decisively on a page and pointing excitedly at it. “Here,” he announced, shoving, the book at Courfeyrac. “Like a fairytale!”

Courfeyrac blinked down at the page, finding it difficult to focus enough to read. “Draught of Living Death,” he read outloud, before looking at Combeferre incredulously. “You want me to kill them? I don’t think we’re that desperate.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “No, don’t you see?” he said excitedly. “Give one of ‘em that, and then the other can wake him up with True Love’s Kiss! Like a fairytale!”

Courfeyrac started at Combeferre for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Ferre, True Love’s Kiss is not a real thing,” he said, reaching out to pat Combeferre’s head patronizingly. “That is a fairytale. So the only thing I’d be doing is putting one of them in basically a coma. Which I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t thought about. Especially Enjolras.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Combeferre muttered.

“But that magical coma can’t be broken by Grantaire kissing him. Not to mention you were the one all concerned about consent.”

Combeferre sighed, looking crestfallen. “Well, I thought it was a good idea,” he said, slumping against the couch cushions and grabbing the bottle of Jäger. 

“Better than anything I’ve come up with,” Courfeyrac sighed. “Since all I can think of is locking ‘em in a room together.”

“And casting a spell on them?” Combeferre asked interestedly.

Courfeyrac sighed. “No. Just making them stay in there until they either confessed or...I dunno. Something.”

Both men fell silent, Combeferre staring at the Book of Shadows as if it might somehow reveal something to him, while Courfeyrac played absently with the crystal he wore on a chain around his neck, feeling the gentle flare of the spells his father had placed on it, spells of charisma and luck and strength and…

“Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “Lock ‘em in a room together.”

“You said that already,” Combeferre sighed.

“Right, but not put a spell on them.”

“You said that too.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “No, but I can put a spell on the room.”

Combeferre glanced over at him. “Like your worthless warding spell?”

“It’s not worthless,” Courfeyrac said impatiently. “But yes, kind of like that. I’ve trying to cast the spell on them directly, and that hasn’t worked. So maybe I need to try spelling a location they would both go.”

“Like the Musain?” Combeferre asked doubtfully.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “No, that gets too much traffic from outside parties, it’d be impossible to limit the spell effects.” He fell silent, wracking his slightly drunk brain for an alternative before brightening. “Enjolras’s apartment!”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “That would probably work,” he said. “But, uh, what spell would you use?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “The exact same spell I was gonna use from the beginning – the attraction spell that I used for Marius.”

Combeferre didn’t look convinced. “Ok, but Grantaire already hangs out at Enjolras’s apartment all the time, frequently without Enjolras, because it’s closer to the Musain and his work and because he claims Enjolras’s couch is more comfortable than his bed—”

“Having seen Grantaire’s bed, I believe him.”

Combeferre was undeterred. “Right, but my point is that Grantaire is there all the time anyway, which brings us to the same problem we had when you originally suggested this idea.”

“Exactly,” Courfeyrac said. “Which is why the attraction spell won’t be focused on Grantaire. It’ll be focused on Enjolras.”

Combeferre blinked. “You want to attract Enjolras to his own apartment?”

“Yep,” Courfeyrac said with a confidence only alcohol could provide. “Because that man barely spends any time there. This way, he’ll want to spend all of his time there. With Grantaire and away from Les Amis or anything else to distract them.”

He was so confident in this idea that he was actually taken aback when Combeferre asked, still sounding doubtful, “Ok, so we get him to spend time with Grantaire at his apartment, and then what? What if that’s not enough?”

Courfeyrac frowned slightly. “Well, if they’re spending that time there without any distractions, maybe it’ll just...happen?” he suggested, wincing at how weak it was.

Combeferre gave him a look. “They’ve been spending time together for years. That’s the whole reason why we’re doing this.”

Courfeyrac sagged back against the couch. “Damn, I really thought we had something there,” he said mournfully, leaning over to rest his head against Combeferre’s shoulder.

Combeferre sighed. “Well, we can always go back to my idea.”

Courfeyrac made a face. “Draught of Living Death?”

“No, not interfering.”

“That ship has long since sailed,” Courfeyrac reminded him, glaring up at him. “Besides, you’ve done enough interfering already that you should probably let that idea go.”

Combeferre half-smiled. “Fair.”

“You know, that reminds me,” Courfeyrac said, lifting his head off of Combeferre’s shoulder. “I know why I’m doing this, but why are you? You’ve been against this from the beginning, but you keep coming back.”

“Well, someone’s got to stop you from making a complete fool of yourself,” Combeferre said lightly.

“Ha ha,” Courfeyrac said dryly. “C’mon, I mean it – why’re you helping me?”

Combeferre glanced over at him, something unreadable in his expression. “You really want to know?” Courfeyrac nodded, and Combeferre took a deep breath. “Well, honestly—”

“Wait, that’s it!” Courfeyrac burst, realization hitting.

“What’s it?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “An honesty spell. I can cast an honesty spell on Enjolras’s apartment along with the attraction spell.”

“You can do that?” Combeferre asked.

“Oh, sure, you can layer all kinds of spells to work in tandem.”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “Ok, so you do a truth spell, and—”

“An honesty spell,” Courfeyrac corrected. “Truth spells tend to backfire and make people confess all kinds of deep dark secrets, and I don’t think sending Grantaire down that path will lead to the kind of confession we’re hoping for.”

“Grantaire?” Combeferre snorted. “I’d be more worried about Enjolras confessing his plans to violently overthrow the government.” 

Courfeyrac considered it. “Fair point,” he allowed. “But in any case, I’m taking chances this time, so no truth spell, just a mild honesty spell so that they can’t lie to each other. That’s as far as my magic can go. The rest’ll be up to them.”

Combeferre was silent for a long moment before he nodded again. “You know, this just might actually work.”

“What was that?” Courfeyrac asked distractedly as he grabbed the Book of Shadows.

“I said, this might actually work,” Combeferre repeated, slightly louder.

Courfeyrac looked up from the grimoire, grinning at him. “Oh, I heard you the first time,” he said smugly. “I just wanted to make you say it again.”

Combeferre scowled and punched Courfeyrac lightly on the arm. “Well, I’m certainly not going to say it a third time,” he said, slightly petulantly. “Not until it actually works, at least.”

“Trust me, this time, it will,” Courfeyrac said, his confidence less fueled by Jäger this time and more by sheer determination. “It has to.”

>>Read chapter 5 here>>

[percyjacksonwriter]

Enjolras writes a letter to Combeferre, on the one year anniversary of Combeferre's death. A short companion piece to my fic, "He Really Loved Us".

Hi, Combeferre. 

It's been a year now, since you died.  It doesn't feel like a year. Courf and I still miss you a lot. Everyone else does, too. But we're okay, Ferre. You don't need to worry. 

Courf and I have kept in touch with your parents, because they're basically our family, too, and because you would want us to. We spent Christmas with them, which was hard. Everyone cried a bit. But it was good, too. They're coping, Ferre, but I don't think they'll ever fully get over losing you. It was such a shock, for all of us. 

Let me tell you what everyone's been up to. 

Courf got a new hobby, and that's learning to cook. And, really, he's not half bad. He's only set the fire alarm off once, so far. 

Joly is doing extremely well in his studies. He'll make a wonderful doctor someday. You'd be proud.  Bossuet's luck is as bad as ever. Right now, he's got a broken ankle. He and Joly rescued a cat a few months back. Joly found him in the parking lot of their apartment, and he's the cutest thing you've ever seen. 

Feuilly got promoted at the craft store. He likes his new position a lot, and he doesn't have to worry about money so much now. 

Jehan got one of his poems published in a magazine. Its really something special. At least, I think so. 

Grantaire still gets on my nerves sometimes, but we get along a lot better than we used to. We're trying to understand each other. He's cut back on the drinking, too, I've noticed. I'm proud of him. 

Bahorel is much the same as usual, though he laughs a little less. Right after you died, he was angry. I'd never seen him so angry. But that all faded after a few weeks. 

Marius is engaged. He finally got up the courage to ask Cosette to marry him. The wedding will be in the spring, and Courfeyrac will be the best man, which he's absolutely thrilled about.  

Our group is doing well. I think we're really making a difference. We're going to make you proud, Ferre. 

And I can almost hear your voice in my head. "What about you?" You'd say. "You tell me how everyone else is doing, but what about you?" And the truth is, I don't really know the answer to that question. I'm okay. I'm keeping busy. Sometimes, I'm happy. But you were my brother and my guide Combeferre, and I feel lost without you. I don't know if that feeling will ever go away. I think, maybe a part of me died with you. Sometimes, I feel so overwhelmed by the unfairness of it, that you had to die so young. But I know that life's not fair. 

I love you. I hope you know that. And I'm so grateful for all you did for me. I'm sorry I didn't tell you often enough when you were alive. 

I'll see you again, someday. Not anytime soon, don't worry. But, someday.  I have to change the world first, and I'm sorry that you're not here to do it with me. 

Your brother, Enjolras. 

[kcrabb88]

As with so many others on my dash, I’ve been ruminating on that truly horrible 4th episode, and I’ve been reading everyone’s posts, taking in the really good points being made and I think one of the things that bothers me MOST (and there’s a lot), is the fact that Andrew Davies just manages to undermine every single loving relationship in the book, which like. The relationships are the foundation of the novel! It’s one of the major points. LOVE IS THE BASIC POINT AND HE MISSED IT. 

Valjean and Cosette? Nope, they spend most of their time fighting. Valjean is shouty and emotionally manipulative. Cosette is...not the Cosette from the brick, she seems very stuck up and weird. The Valjean from the book literally goes off to DIE rather than upset Cosette, and here he’s dragging her by the wrist through the streets of Paris. 

Marius and his dad? Nope, because Davies changes the timeline and sucks all the breath out of Georges death. 

Marius and Cosette? I don’t feel anything coming from these two yet! Just...that weird handkerchief thing. 

The Amis? Nope. We don’t see how Marius met Courfeyrac, and the brief bits the very cut down Amis get had no sense of love or familiarity. There was no “family by force of friendship” it was just Some Macho Bearded Dude Masquerading As Enjolras who was just ANGRY the whole time, and Courfeyrac and Grantaire taking Marius to a brothel, I guess. Even Enjolras and his passionate love for France doesn’t make an appearance. Him shouting about revolution and making a snarky Napoleon reference don’t sound like the man who loves his country enough to die for it. The man who stands in front of a fire and sees his friends in the sparks and thinks about how much he loves them. There’s no Courfeyrac taking Marius into his apartment to give him somewhere to stay, because that’s just the kind of guy Courfeyrac is. 

Fantine and Cosette got an okay moment near the very start of the series, but then when Cosette asked about her mother, Valjean just made it all about him! Not “your mother literally killed herself for love of you” just “I fucked up and threw her out onto the street!” So, that’s great. And Fantine is treated as naive for falling for Tholomyes, too, in a way that I really didn’t like. How dare she fall in love? Terrible, how dumb of her. 

One of the reasons Javert’s character is so fucking tragic in the brick is because he loves no one, and no one loves him. It’s AWFUL. But in this adaptation, that barely stands out because I don’t feel ANYONE loving anyone else, here. So much of what I appreciate about the book is in the relationships we see: a lonely convict adopting a girl who isn’t his own and loving her as his child, a mother risking everything to keep her daughter alive, a group of passionate young men who love each other and their country enough to die to change the world, a father who loves his son unconditionally even as he’s kept from him, Valjean taking the love and kindness he learned from the bishop and giving it back to the people in Montreuil. Instead, Andrew Davies makes weird sex dreams and seems to think that’s love, or something. Or that’s more relatable? Who knows, but I’m mad about it.  

So much of Les Mis is this deep lesson on how we need kindness and love on not just a personal level, but on a political and social one. There’s suffering on the pages, but there’s also people shown doing their best, in different ways, to COMBAT THAT. But instead in his version, we get a Valjean telling Cosette that the world is terrible, and there’s nothing she can do about it. 

That is just. The opposite of the point. 

[teavious]

dissolving like the setting sun

fandom: les miserables

pairing: enjolras/grantaire ; bahorel/feuilly ; courfeyrac/combeferre ; marius/cosette ; joly/bossuet/musichetta ; jehan/eponine

summary: They’ve been trying to decorate their apartment for what feels like too long for him, trying to find the perfect balance between Marius’ need for perfection and Cosette’s need for kitsch. The only thing that Courfeyrac requested, between mouthfuls of Jehan’s first batch of biscuits was fairy lights. It’s only fair to throw a fit over it now, right? OR: Les Amis have a Christmas party. Like all their parties, it's a bit diastruous, they make it too obvious they're just idiots in love, but at least they have food. Modern AU. commission written for @rthemis ! thank you so much for giving me the reason to write my fav nerds being nerds! merry christmas & happy holidays everyone! (also on AO3) (donate to my ko-fi page, request a fic and i will write it for you!)

Enjolras tests the quality of the sweater between his fingers, frowning at the two Christmas colours on display next to each other. He supposes if Courfeyrac would be here, a commentary about the universe somehow wanting to bring him and his boyfriend closer together sooner would be made, but as thing are right now, he has to bear Bahorel’s knowing glances, and his pointing at various hideous things.

“You should get it,” Feuilly smiles from his right, leaning to look closer at the piece of clothing that Enjolras started calling Grantaire’s present in his head. His friend needs no clarification, and Enjolras himself doesn’t feel enthusiastic enough to defend the way he makes puppy eyes at everything remotely green, remotely indecent.

Once the decision is made, it’s easier to enjoy the faces Feuilly makes every time Bahorel holds up another eye-hurting colourful shirt: lovesick, but equally terrified. The two end up settling for a rainbow striped shirt, Feuilly’s size so that he can stop wearing Bahorel’s identical one, and instead be together a matching pair of loving idiots. Enjolras applauds the easiness with which Feuilly makes his boyfriend bend to his suggestions, the immense trust Bahorel puts in the one he cares about the most.

Something in his chest tightens, and he goes on ahead, turns his head away from the image of Bahorel pressing his lips to Feuilly’s cheek, however sweet he would have found it at other times. He wishes he would have Grantaire’s awed and hooting laugh ringing in his ears, his hand between his fingers: then it would feel natural, the sight of other two in love wouldn’t feel so offending.

He sighs into his scarf, accepts Bahorel’s weight over him when he comes full force into a half-hug, and laughs at Feuilly impulse buying a new pair of socks, simply because the dogs printed on them reminds him of his own; bitterness be damned.

***

Bahorel tries to ignore the warm mouth set on licking his fingers, to stifle the laughter about to erupt – and he turns on his other side in bed, shifts closer to Feuilly’s sleeping body in hope that he can trick the dog into joining them in bed, rather than demanding a walk in the park at 5am on Christmas Eve. Frodo refuses to give up, and Bahorel swears as he starts tugging at the blankets. He scoops closer to Feuilly, arm over his waist, freezing legs against his much warmer ones. Feuilly murmurs at the contact, but that’s the only reaction, as he settles into the new position, having to share the one blanket left on the bed with a too big of a guy.

The dog paces around the room for a bit, whimpers at the head of the bed in hope of waking his owners – and seeing no reaction, he barks for good, his pacing exchanged for actual running. Bahorel sighs, rolls around in the bed, and speaks towards the ceiling:

“He’s your dog.”

Feuilly, eyes still closed, voice half muffled in the pillow, is making attempts at taking the blanket back:

“And you’re my fiancé. He’s your dog now, too.”

Bahorel rises, spends good seconds stretching, and although he already feels the cold biting at his toes, the hope that Feuilly might be staring at his ass is stronger. He whistles, Frodo coming running at his command, and before turning towards the wardrobe to get changed, he makes sure Feuilly is warm under at least two blankets.

Next time Feuilly is aware of his surrounding, Bahorel sits on the edge of the bed, dressed already, with his ridiculous winter hat on. He can faintly sense his fingers playing through his hair, and it makes concentrating on what he’s saying even harder:

“Would you like anything, my love?” He nods no into his pillows, tries to blow a kiss to Bahorel’s retreating frame, though he isn’t quite sure if he managed to.

By the time his boyfriend is back, the coffee machine is running in the background, as he hums along to Christmas carols in various foreign languages. He goes to greet the return of his two roommates, and the sight he’s welcomed with is a surprise: Bahorel, snowed in, holding a bouquet of half-freezing flowers for Feuilly’s taking, blush rising to his cheeks.

***

“You can’t have Christmas without Christmas lights. That’s why they’re called Christmas lights”, Courfeyrac repeat, slower this time, like he has to dig his idea into Marius’ head through the tone of his voice as well, besides the desperate arm gestures and invincible argument.

“The cat won’t like it,” Marius says, pointing towards the two glowing eyes from under the couch, the creature’s favourite (and only, from what Courfeyrac has seen while home) spot since Marius brought it home, scratched all over.

“The cat won’t care,” Courfeyrac shots back, this time turning towards Combeferre and Cosette for help in the matter, the two who up till this point decided to play the role of Switzerland in the debate. Courfeyrac really hates Switzerland.

They’ve been trying to decorate their apartment for what feels like too long for him, trying to find the perfect balance between Marius’ need for perfection and Cosette’s need for kitsch. The only thing that Courfeyrac requested, between mouthfuls of Jehan’s first batch of biscuits was fairy lights. It’s only fair to throw a fit over it now, right?

“We can ask everyone when they get here?” Ferre suggests, barely raising his head from his laptop, where he tries to put together a playlist to properly illustrate this mess of a year in their group. He tries to keep the love songs to a minimum, though it’s getting harder the more they go through the night and Courf loses an article of clothing with each passing hour.

“Fine,” he pouts, before dramatically falling into an armchair, trying to hide his growing smile that comes with Marius’ sigh of relief from the other end of the room, the husky meowing of that damn cat. Combeferre decides he can leave aside the more detailed parts of this party – after all, Eponine is sure to destroy every attempt at keeping it normal sounding – and he leaves his spot for shoving his body next to his boyfriend on a too small armchair for both of them. Courfeyrac’s grin is now humongous, and Ferre drags him into a kiss, if only not to let him think he won this time around.

****

Jehan knocks at the door, and shoves his face further into his scarf, trying to ignore the way in which the damn hallway of this building seems colder than the weather outside. There are a few seconds, during which he thinks he won’t receive any answer, then there’s a crash from the other side of the door, a shout – and out comes his girlfriend, frowning through her bangs, as she tries to put on a jacket that’s too huge on her frame, but that has all his favourite patches on.

He doesn’t say anything at first; he knows she’s better left alone for a while, so he simply follows her, humming a tune he can’t quite place. Then:

“I made cookies for the party.”

“Cosette wants to braid your hair.”

“Grantaire is certainly going to wear more decorations than the tree.”

“Enjolras will wear something… red.”

“You’ll probably going to drunkenly arm-wrestle Bahorel and win.”

The last two statements do it. Eponine erupts into laughter: loud and ugly, but Jehan’s face lights up like he just received the best present, and he catches up with her so he can hold her hand. Neither of them wears gloves, and the warmth is welcomed and comforting. Eponine sighs and stops to rest her head on Jehan’s shoulder, half hug, half awkwardly hiding her face.

“Hey,” he tries, squeezing her hand, sloppily kissing the top of her head. “You know you can stay the night? Well, nights, really. And even half of your friends will take you in without complaining, while the other half complains only because that’s who they are as a person.”

Eponine snorts, raises her head, leans to kiss Jehan. When they part, she’s smiling, though it lasts only for a moment, immediately exchanged for her usual frowning face. Jehan hums even louder, pleased now.

“I’m going to eat all your cookies,” Eponine says, before playfully shoving him and starting to run in the direction of Courfeyrac and Marius’ apartment. He counts to two before going after her.

***

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the way you do this,” Joly whispers, leaning his head onto Musichetta’s shoulder, reading the instructions in Bossuet’s neatly-kept recipes notebook.

“Well, I don’t know the correct way to do this!” Musichetta complains, passing a flour-covered hand through her hair. Joly tries to pat it away, pulling curls and blowing so close to her ear that he ends up making her giggle. Their meat pie is still in the very incipient state of creation, with the party ready to start in short of a couple of hours, but Musichetta isn’t sure she cares, taking in consideration she spent more time in Joly’s kitchen this day than she did the past few months since university started again. Plus, her boyfriend is especially cute when pouting, and even cuter is his after kissing face.

So it can be said that Bossuet’s attempt at teaching her basic cooking skills ended up with her trying to steal as many kisses from Joly as possible. It doesn’t help that her other boyfriend isn’t present to balance out things, or make them end faster.

“Musi?” She’s cut out by Joly’s voice, and she has to remind herself that she’s still very much dressed. “Don’t you want to get ready? We should be leaving soon.”

Yep. Right. “Yep. Right.” She adds out loud, lamely. She can feel Joly’s amused smirk, and if she ends up swatting at his chest with her dirty hand, just to leave a stain, at least he gets to know it too. She tries to tidy up, leave no proof of her failed experiment, and Joly is quick to help her out. There’s the faintest of music heard from the neighbours downstairs, and they finish cleaning in time with the dying words of Santa Baby.

And yet, Musichetta still hovers, eyes moving from the watch to Joly and back. He sighs under her stare, bids her closer with a hand movement. She’s already beaming by the time he snakes his arms around her waist, to give her one small, soft kiss.

“Happy?” he asks. She shakes her head no, tries to put on her most innocent face, slightly pucker her lips. He almost gives in to kissing her again, when the entrance door slams to the wall, making them jump apart. Joly’s the first to regain his composure, goes to welcome Bossuet, helps him in shaking off all the snow piled on top of his head.

“Bossuet!” Musi pouts, half because he interrupted her wooing attempts, half because it took him so long to come back in the first place. She joins the two in the hallway, dragging them into a group hug.

“Someone’s excited,” Bossuet laughs, but refusing to let go of his two lovers, squeezing them closer to his chest. It makes for quite a funny image, considering that both of them are so short, by comparison, and he’s glad that when not studying, Joly doesn’t wear his glasses, because knowing his luck, he would have accidentally smashed them through loving too much.

“And dirty,” he adds, sighing, once he takes a good look at his two lovers. He throws his coat and scarf on the hanger, shoos Musi and Joly towards the bathroom, for a thorough wash. Musichetta pauses for a second, turns to wink at him.

“Care to join us?”

He blows a kiss in her direction, but remains in the kitchen, sleeves rolled, to prepare the food casseroles for the party.

“Be good, babe.” He warns, smiling in a way that promises her better things if she does as told.

She nods slowly, catches up with Joly to ask for his help in combing away foreign stuff out of her hair. She manages to keep her hands mainly to herself, shampoos Joly’s hair while he helps wash her back. In the kitchen, Bossuet drops things only once or twice, and by the time they’re all in crisp shirts and nice dress, things have fallen into place. Bossuet and Musichetta make sure Joly is properly wrapped in several layers of clothes, wearing the one very ugly and very large sweater they bought him, and they leave, holding hands with him in the middle.

***

Enjolras doesn’t want to be here. Well, it’s not that he has any complaints about the place, the food, the music and least of all the company, but the feeling still persists, and it makes the whole place incredibly… incomplete. With the cat sleeping in his lap and a glass of red wine in his hand, he tries to comfort himself. He doesn’t think much of Courfeyrac’s shameless grins, or Cosette’s sudden leaves to answer and give phone calls. Combeferre’s place at his side is natural, and Bahorel hovering close became usual enough. He thinks Marius’ attempts to stuff his face with Jehan’s cookies are just host’s friendliness, and not even Eponine playing his favourite band doesn’t seem that much out of place. It is Christmas after all.

It starts getting suspicious the moment there’s no background chatter, no music. Courfeyrac runs towards the door before the doorbell sound even materializes, and Enjolras is a bit surprised to see Valjean on the other side – because, after all, the party is one of their parties, and it’s bound to end in disaster. Musichetta has already taken over the mistletoe, sharing kisses with everyone who makes eye contact with her (he’s been desperately avoiding that, all while Bossuet seemed but happy to comply to never watch anything else but her) and Eponine is probably on her 4th drink and still keeping perfect straight posture.

Then, Valjean moves a bit to the left, and Enjolras spots the dark curls, the sight of too green of a jacket. He’s up on his feet the next moment, Grantaire shoving his way through his welcoming committee so that he can welcome his boyfriend’s hug. No one else but Enjolras can feel the wet tears on his shoulder, and he stays there, patting his back, tightening his hold, for as long as Grantaire needs him to. They’re weary to disentangle from the embrace, but their eyes meet, and a new fascination is born, as they rediscover all the interior changes they’ve spent nights on skype talking about. Then, finally, Grantaire goes on his tiptoes, Enjolras leans his head down a bit: and they kiss. From somewhere, he can hear Bahorel hoot and Courfeyrac whistle.

“I’m home,” Grantaire says, his voice still raw, still chocked, his nose violently red from both the cold and the silent crying.

“Welcome home,” Enjolras whispers, helping him get out of his winter get-up, making unnecessary but very much needed contact along the way. The others keep their distance, friendly greetings and shoulder touches, but Grantaire still remains, basically, all his. It’s wildly fascinating to see all the familiar motions happen again in front of his eyes, after his boyfriend has been away for months at university. Any small trace of awkwardness is broken the moment Grantaire takes him by the hand, occupying the couch, half sitting in Enjolras’ lap, their legs tangled.

The others give them an hour: then, one by one, they form a circle around them, demanding stories told as just Grantaire knows how to tell them. Eponine is first, offering him a bottle of beer and pulling at his hair a bit too hard, maybe to make him taste how much she missed him. Bahorel screams his name from across the room, closes in so they can do a very complex but dorky hand shake. Courfeyrac joins in just to laugh at that. Joly’s warm eyes and kind offering of food make him break out in actual tears of gratitude: and then everyone takes their turn, hugging their small, finally home disaster of a man.

***

Marius almost falls asleep at the table, trying to pick the empty glasses to leave them in the sink for the morning. Cosette silently makes her way through the rooms, carrying so many blankets that the pink top of her head is barely visible, trying to make sure everyone is comfortable and warm, and will remain so throughout the night. Courfeyrac waves at them from the doorframe of his bedroom, and they nod in acknowledgement, keeping it down for the sake of the people asleep on the floor and on the couch in the kitchen.

Cosette, careful not to step on Bossuet’s hand, makes her way towards Marius. She gently shoves his shoulder with her hip, and when he almost falls over, she hurries to catch him. He snorts a bit, his sight lost in her hair, his senses in her perfume. He lets a hand touch her cheek, his voice softening beyond recognition when calling her by the nickname he picked for her ever since they started dating:

“Brilliance.”

Cosette huffs, nudges him to get up. “Worm, let’s get you to bed.”

“Will you sleep with me?”

She laughs, allows him a few moments to figure out why that phrasing was so wrong, given the context, and allows herself the enjoyment that comes with having made him blush, obvious even in the dark. She has learnt not to take his missteps too seriously, has learnt to figure out when he actually desires the physical contact. It helps that, when extremely tired, he seems to mind it less than usual.

The room is empty, their friends opting for the closer options as a sleeping place, and they both collapse on the bed with a grateful, tired sigh. She curls closer to his chest, his hand caressing her cheek.

“So? How was the first party you organized?” she asks, feeling herself growing sleepier by the second.

“This is the best part,” he answers, already half-asleep, and Cosette laughs; gets closer only to plant a kiss on his nose.

[themanofonebook]

—Okay here is that promised Enjolras and Javert meta that I was talking about. @pontificalandwarlike and I were having this discussion a while ago and I don’t remember what she said but I can guess based on the context and below the cut is the response which I sent to her and also an added bit from myself with more on the subject read at will I do this because I love it. There’s some stuff in there about Hugo and Christianity and blah blah it’s long because I’m dumb.

“Oh I can tell you why people laud Enjolras and decry Javert very simply, though it says a bit about how we, as humans, think of ourselves and our souls — and also just a bit about Hugo and Christianity, which was basically his purpose in writing the book if we’re going to be totally honest.

Yes Javert and Enjolras are basically the same character, it’s true; they are both “terrible”, they are both obsessively devoted to their cause with the supposed exclusion of all else (though Enjolras has his friends and Javert has his snuff and flair for the dramatic), they both value their own perception of justice above everything else in the known world; in their minds, “the right” is the most important thing and anything you offer up pales in comparison to their idea of a perfect world, Enjolras’s being a democracy bordering on Marxist ideas which would not be born for quite some time, Javert’s being a country where all criminality is stamped out and the bourgeois are petted and protected because they are born good and have the smallest chance of falling to evil.

Their character arcs parallel — introduction in which they are, in reality, a powerful, marble backdrop for the main characters at the time; Enjolras is the lover of liberty whom we compare Marius and Les Amis to, Javert is the staunch supporter of the law and Valjean’s twin and contrast. They go through their own personal development, delved into with a touch of detail, but their greatest moments are their deaths; the very ends of the developmental stages and their subsequent demises are what changes perception of their places in the story, Enjolras being an angel and stand-in for Saint Michael, Javert being closer to the musical’s “Lucifer” and falling from the grace that is his own righteousness because he cannot comprehend goodness — and there’s the point.

Enjolras, while beginning as a bit of a pigheaded arse, if I might be so bold, has the benefits of Combeferre, Feuilly, Courfeyrac, etc., and Marius on the barricade. Being there, fighting, killing others, brings out in him that shred of humanity, but his focus, his Justice, can allow for the deaths of others for the greater good. Then there is his death, and this is important in regards to what I said about this entire novel being Hugo’s prompt to return to religion (Christianity, the Christian God) and seek goodness there. Up until this point, Enjolras has killed, derided; he’s floated on his own cloud of aloof angelic righteousness, which is why he is Saint Michael; but Grantaire, lowly, non-believing Grantaire, extends his hand to him; Enjolras, touched by Combeferre’s humanity, touched by the deaths of his friends, touched by the pure goodness and all-too poignant mortal sorrow of those going to die on the barricades, takes this offering and raises Grantaire to his level (in a way, maybe not entirely), and dies with him. He is redeemed enough, as a human being, to stand with someone “lesser” than himself, to accept and to love them, and to die with them; he now relates to the very people whom he was fighting to aid with his revolution. It’s this admission of humanity which reinforces one of the most basic beliefs of Christianity. And all of this religious spew that I’m doing right now is coming from a non-Christian so there’s that, haha. Enjolras, in the end, embraced Grantaire, embraced Heaven, embraced human love, perhaps even embraced Jesus, and that, in and of itself, earns him his redemption and shifts him from “marble bastard of unfeeling harsh murderous justice and rebellion” to “sympathetic golden symbol of a new dawn”.

Javert, though he goes through a lot of development as a person, does not do so as a symbol. He becomes looser, we see that he is snarky, etc. etc., but he is still the same supporter of the law and the corrupt system as always, up until the moment of his death — in fact, his death itself is a reflection of how deeply Javert is rooted in his beliefs concerning the French justice system. Valjean, poor, suffering Valjean who has made something good of himself, who has learnt love as well as kindness and therefore raised himself up just as Enjolras did, lowers — yes, lowers — his hand to Javert, who has never grown past this point because who in France would spare an inspector, who would extend kindness their way? He offers Javert his life, and then offers himself; in conceding to go with Javert to the station and then to prison, he lowers himself to Javert’s level; it is a clear stepping down, and even Javert recognizes this, therefore he recognizes himself as low; low, in his mind, does not register as “loveless”, or lacking in morality, because he has no sense of either of these things; in Javert’s perfectly flawed world, “low” means “criminal”. Valjean is stepping down to him, bowing to his demands; Valjean had and gave up the high ground to him. Whom has Valjean served in such a way in the past? The poor. He lowers himself to them, to the destitute, to those who have nothing, to those outside of society,but not to policemen, not to Javert. Javert knew that he was not a member of society, but there was always that line; he was of the law, therefore he was right, if not good; now, Valjean extends a hand to him, bows to him, offers himself, and Javert has no choice but to consider himself a criminal… and to see Valjean as a superior once more, a vicious slap in the face giving the events of M.sur.M and what that must have done to him mentally. Javert does not take it well.

He doesn’t accept the offered hand as Enjolras did, he doesn’t lower himself to lift himself up, he hardly recognizes the change in himself — rather, he knows that something is different, but does not know what that something is, and is afraid; the system is capable of change, for Javert represents the system, but the system is required to fall to change, and Javert is only a human. He is a person. He cannot process goodness within himself, refuses to be on par with Valjean, though he concedes, in the end, to let him go, because he cannot bear to see that man die. He knows that it would be wrong. He knows! Already, his perception of right and wrong is changing! He has a chance.

…and he does not take it. He kills himself, with one foot out and one foot in, still trapped by the law which consumed his life; he must apologize, for not returning this man to jail, even though he couldn’t, for the sake of love — not romantic love, but basic, moral goodness. He couldn’t do it. And he couldn’t handle the change which Valjean prompted in him. And he fell.

A lot of people say that Javert’s death shocked them, and I don’t think it’s just because a strong man like that died so quickly; it’s because he was given the option to change, the transformation was initiated, and we as readers were so used to these being successful (Valjean, Marius, Enjolras), that when Javert cannot take it and derails before his shift is complete, it shocks us. It’s Hugo’s last jab at the system which Javert did and did not represent; it’s a snatching away of hope — hope for Javert, hope for change. Hugo wanted to see that system go down so badly that Javert died. At the same time, Javert’s death is clearly made out to be an apology to God; this is the only way he knows, now, having failed in his duties as a human being beneath Heaven, inspector aside; the last time he apologized (to Madeleine), he resigned. The only way to resign to God is… well. But Hugo leaves it semi-ambiguous as to whether or not Javert was ultimately forgiven for his sins in lacking goodness and kindness. We don’t know. That ambiguity is the only hope for the system. By taking apart what we have, can we really make it better? There’s a chance, and we have to try.

But to us mere mortals, to know that Enjolras had his chance at redemption and seized Grantaire’s hand and held tight, and that Javert was given the same chance and instead made to apologize by dying, we opt for the more hopeful, and praise Enjolras for being so good and abhor Javert for failing and falling, because we should all like to be like Enjolras, and have the hope of redemption that Enjolras has and Javert ultimately denied in dying — yes, he may have had redemption after death (I mean look at ghostverse that’s what I’m sayin’), but what can we, as living humans, do with that? We don’t want to die! We want to rise up and change and be good and loving and loved, and that is what Enjolras’s death is, and Javert’s is not.

And an addition here with a tiny note:

I think it’s important that we judge Enjolras on the same scale as we do Javert, or we’re being just as unfair as the system of law which the book was so against and so for altering. Enjolras willingly takes his friends out into the streets, builds a barricade which he must know is going to fall, fights with the army of France (made up of French citizens; note how Enjolras seems willing enough to exclude them from the people he wants to save, and, while admittedly some of them were rich and also reaping the benefits of having work and such that’s still a dick move and his redeeming point comes with the whole “he is my brother tear down the marble cheek” bit which I love), and ultimately ends up dying with his compatriots and accomplishing nothing he missed becoming historic men like Enjolras who are willing to have this brilliant moving moral suicide are not the future lovers like Marius Pontmercy who acknowledge the corruption in society and accept different points of view (see “my mother is the republic” Combeferre singing about Caesar on his way out the door his willingness to take in his father’s beliefs about Napoleon but also to go to the barricade and fight against the monarchy with his friends because that is what he truly believes to be wrong that is his opinion which he has formed after listening to others) are the future they will see the future while people like Enjolras and Courfeyrac and Combeferre will not bless them they burn out so fast.

If we’re going to judge Javert on the basis that the ends do not justify the means and that his letter to the Préfecture and his suicide do not excuse his actions then we must also judge Enjolras in the same way instead of raising him up onto this unrealistic pedestal which has been created for him he is not Apollo he is not a god he is not even marble he is a man just as flawed as any other man in this book.

[kjack89]

What You and I Have Makes Me Free

So I finally caught up on the most recent season of Shameless, and as it turns out, I’m still Gallavich trash through and through which means this basically wrote itself.

Nominally a Shameless AU, but only insofar as I stole the idea from episodes 10 and 11 of this past season. In other words, if you’ve never seen Shameless, don’t worry. If you have seen Shameless and aren’t caught up, obviously spoiler alert.

ExR, Modern AU, established relationship.

“Are you Grantaire?”

Grantaire sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing fervently that the police had waited to knock on his door until after his second cup of coffee. “Javert, you’ve arrested me at least three times, you know damn well that I am,” he said, crossing his arms across his chest and frowning at the police inspector. “What do you want?”

A flicker of irritation crossed Javert’s face. “Fine, are you familiar with this man?” he asked, pulling out a photograph from the inside pocket of his coat and showing it to Grantaire, whose expression didn’t change. “Name of Enjolras, convicted of assaulting a police office and disrupting the peace. Oh, and also, if sources are to be believed, your boyfriend.”

“Ex,” Grantaire corrected automatically, his eyes still lingering on the mugshot of Enjolras, who stared defiantly ahead. “Not that it’s any of your business.” He managed to tear his gaze away to frown at Javert. “Besides, Enjolras has been locked up in jail for the past three years, so I don’t see why you’re asking me any of this.”

Javert returned the photo to his pocket. “He escaped from jail last night,” he said curtly.

Grantaire could feel his heartbeat accelerate, though he forced his expression to remain neutral. “So why are you here?” he asked. “Do you think I had something to do with helping him escape?”

“Did you?” Javert asked bluntly. When Grantaire merely scowled in response Javert huffed an impatient sigh. “Do you think he’d try to contact you?”

Grantaire shrugged. “I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care.” His voice sounded oddly hollow, even to him. “I’m not getting involved with this.”

Javert looked at him evenly. “You visited him awfully frequently for someone who doesn’t care.”

“When he first got arrested, sure, but check your visitor logs. I haven’t been back in over a year.”

Grantaire’s tone was flat and dismissive, and Javert seemed to take the hint. “Fine,” Javert said, digging in his pocket and extracting a business card. “If he does contact you, here’s my card.”

Though Grantaire took the proffered card, he didn’t even glance at it before crumpling it up and throwing it toward the garbage can. “He won’t,” Grantaire said confidently, shutting the door as Javert scowled at him. Once the door was closed, Grantaire’s shoulders slumped, and he leaned against the door, his expression blank. “He won’t.”

Grantaire turned the volume all the way up on his iPod and jammed his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down as he made his way through the crowd on the sidewalk downtown. He wasn’t paying much attention, and wasn’t heading anywhere in general, so was perhaps unsurprised when he bumped into someone. “Sorry,” Grantaire grunted, reaching out to make sure the guy was ok, but whoever he had run into had already disappeared. “Asshole,” Grantaire muttered.

A phone rang, and Grantaire flinched at the ringtone. La Marseillaise -- Enjolras’s old ringtone. Grantaire glanced around for the source, and it took him a moment to realize the ring seemed to be coming from his hoodie pocket. He reached in and pulled out a burner phone, the kind used by drug dealers -- and fugitives.

Grantaire swiveled around, trying to see where the guy who had run into him had gone, but with all the people milling around, he didn’t see any trace of him. For a moment, he considered just tossing the phone on the ground and walking away, but the last cruel vestiges of hope forced him to open the flip phone and put it up to his ear. “Hello?” he asked.

“Miss me?”

The voice was as smooth and rich as Grantaire remembered it, and Grantaire’s knuckles turned white from how hard he was clutching the phone. “Enjolras,” Grantaire said, closing his eyes. “Where are you?”

“Meet me at the Musain in an hour,” Enjolras commanded, clearly not willing to answer any of Grantaire’s questions. “Drop the phone in the sewer.”

The call went dead, and Grantaire lowered this phone, his hand shaking. There were so many questions he had, and so many conflicting urges and desires.

But there was also only one thing he could do.

Grantaire closed the phone and turned on heel to hurry with renewed purpose in the opposite direction he had been heading, pausing only to drop the phone in between the slats of a sewer grate.

When Les Amis de l’ABC, Enjolras’s student activist/anarchist group, had met at the Musain, the building housed a few run down apartments above the grimy 24/7 diner/café. Since Les Amis’ disbanding following Enjolras’s arrest, the Musain had clearly fallen into disrepair, and Grantaire almost walked right past it, not recognizing the graffitied and boarded up building.

But once he did recognize it, he remembered that there used to be an old door around the back of the building, and sure enough, the door was barely boarded shut and took almost no effort to break open. Of course, the ease of breaking in barely mattered when Grantaire had a Bossuet-esque moment and promptly tripped and almost fell once he got inside.

When Grantaire finally made it back to his feet, cursing under his breath, he froze when he saw the blond man waiting for him.

He was three years older, his face was thinner, almost wan, and his blond curls were long and dull in the dim light. But Enjolras could have covered in mud and Grantaire’s heart still would have leapt just as high as it did at seeing him standing there, a small smile hovering on his face.

Wordlessly, Enjolras jerked his head towards the stairs, and Grantaire followed him up, almost tripping over a loose floorboard. “I’d ask if this building is safe, but I never really was safe with you,” Grantaire remarked, stopping awkwardly at the top of the stairs.

Enjolras snorted and took a seat in a creaky folding chair. “Fuck you,” he said genially, and shrugged. “Safe or not, it’s our spot.”

Grantaire remained standing, his arms crossed tightly in front of him, his shoulders tense. “You look good,” he offered.

Enjolras shrugged again. “Not a whole lot to do in prison besides work and keep your head down.”

“What, no prison riots to incite?”

Enjolras grinned, the smile making him look almost identical to three years prior, and Grantaire’s breath caught in his throat. “Well, that too.”

But Grantaire didn’t smile, the muscle in his jaw twitching. “So what now?” he asked, a little curt.

“Laying low,” Enjolras told him, reaching up to run a hand through his curls. “Wait for the heat to lie down.” He looked carefully at Grantaire, his expression neutral. “Did the cops come talk to you?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire said casually with a shrug. “Javert wants me to let him know if you try to contact me.”

Enjolras was silent for a long moment, his expression inscrutable. “And?” he said finally.

“You think I’d snitch?” Grantaire asked, smiling slightly for the first time. “Fuck you.”

Enjolras laughed lightly, though his smile rapidly faded. “Listen,” he said, leaning forward in the chair, his tone turning urgent. “I’m getting some cash and a new ID and heading across the border until things cool off here. I might try to find Combeferre and Courfeyrac, make some plans with them.” He hesitated, for the first time looking almost a little nervous. “You should come.”

Grantaire stared at him. “Flee the country with you?” he asked, letting out a laugh that had no humor in it. “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Enjolras didn’t smile, instead standing, his expression turning earnest. “I thought a lot about you inside,” he said honestly, closing the space between them and resting a hand against Grantaire’s cheek. It took everything in Grantaire to not lean into his touch, and he only just managed it, though he couldn’t tear his eyes away from Enjolras. “And I don’t know what else to do but bring you with me.”

Shaking his head, Grantaire tried to come up with an answer for that, but before he could think of one, Enjolras’s phone rang. He dug his phone out of his pocket and checked the screen before sighing and looking back at Grantaire, rubbing his thumb lightly across Grantaire’s cheekbone. “Think about it.”

He dropped his hand and turned to head back downstairs, only pausing when Grantaire called after him, “How will I find you?”

Wordlessly, Enjolras tossed his phone up at him before disappearing downstairs. Grantaire stayed rooted to the spot for a long time afterward, turning the phone over in his hands, completely and utterly torn on what he should do next.

“Oh,” Marius said, holding the door open for Grantaire. “It’s you.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow at him. “You don’t sound surprised.”

Marius smiled slightly and stepped back, gesturing for Grantaire to come inside. “The cops came to see me as well,” he told Grantaire, leading him into the living room and hovering awkwardly. “I had just made a pot of tea. Would you like a cup?”

Grantaire laughed and ran a hand over his face. “I’d prefer whiskey, but I’ll settle for tea.” He watched as Marius bustled around in the kitchen. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m surprised the cops bothered with you.”

“Now, why would I take that the wrong way?” Marius asked, smiling, and he handed a cup of tea to Grantaire, who cautiously sipped it. “But seriously, once you’re a known associate with a felon, they tend to keep a record of you.”

Shrugging, Grantaire leaned back in his seat. “I just mean, I never would have considered you one of Enjolras’s associates.”

Marius peered over the rim of his tea cup at Grantaire. “I didn’t mean Enjolras” he said calmly. “I meant Courfeyrac. And also my father-in-law, technically.”

Grantaire smiled slightly. “You ever hear from him?”

“From my father-in-law? Well, yeah,” Marius said, grinning, and when Grantaire didn’t smile, he sighed. “No, I haven’t heard from Courfeyrac. But he wouldn’t risk it if he thought it’d put me in danger.”

Grantaire nodded slowly and took another sip of tea. “Do you ever think about what would have happened if you had gone with him when he left?”

Marius looked taken aback by the question, and he frowned, tracing an almost nervous finger along the rim of his cup. “If I had gone with Courf…” He shrugged. “My life would have been a non-stop thrill ride, I suppose -- and not necessarily the good kind.” He shrugged again and drained his tea, looking at it as if he too had wished it was something stronger. “But a life on the run is no life at all.”

“What if nothing ever gives you that same thrill again?” Grantaire asked, leaning forward and searching Marius’s expression for the answers he couldn’t seem to give himself. “Is a life without that kind of a passion any life either?”

“First and foremost, I resent the implication that Cosette and I don’t have that kind of passion,” Marius said, a little sharply. “But to answer your question -- yes. I think it can be.” He shook his head and leaned forward as well, his brow furrowed. “What is this about?”

Grantaire just shook his head and stood. “Nothing,” he muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“Why did you?” Marius asked, a little bluntly, and when Grantaire merely stared at him, he blushed slightly and elaborated, “I mean, why didn’t you go talk to Joly and Bossuet, or Prouvaire, or anyone else? Why come to me?”

“Because I thought you might be the only one who understands,” Grantaire said. “And I’m trying to stop myself from doing something stupid.”

Marius blinked at him. “And no one else would be able to talk you out of it?”

Grantaire smiled grimly. “No, I’m afraid they’d probably talk me into it.”

A look of understanding crossed Marius’s face and he reached out to grab Grantaire’s arm and stop him from leaving. “You turned your life around,” he told Grantaire, his voice quiet. “You’ve got a career, an actual decent, non-shithole apartment. You’ve made something of yourself. And Enjolras…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I love him and I miss him just as much as the rest of us. But he would set a match to everything you’ve built.”

The phone in Grantaire’s pocket rang and he pulled his arm out of Marius’s grip so he could dig it out of his pocket and glanced down at the screen. “I have to go,” he muttered.

“Grantaire--” Marius started, trying to stop Grantaire, but Grantaire just smiled a little sadly at him.

“Haven’t you heard, Marius?” he asked. “Some men just want to watch the world burn.”

Grantaire took a final drag on his cigarette before stabbing it out against the concrete pylon of the bridge he was lingering under. He checked the time on his phone and huffed a sigh, leaning back against the concrete. Enjolras was late.

Then again, being a fugitive on the run, timeliness was probably not his biggest concern.

He wasn’t entirely sure that he was doing the right thing, meeting Enjolras again, trying to keep alive what by all accounts had died some two years past. What Marius had said had made a lot of sense -- a fact Grantaire honestly had never thought would cross his mind -- and Grantaire knew he was potentially throwing everything he had worked on away.

But then he saw Enjolras striding towards him, and the sight drove all thoughts besides the painful beating of his heart away.

“I knew you’d come,” Enjolras told him, crossing to him and kissing him fiercely.

It was everything Grantaire had dreamed of for the past three years, and for a moment, he allowed himself the pure, simple pleasure of kissing Enjolras again. But then he shoved him away. “What?” Enjolras asked, confused.

“Do you think my life hasn’t moved on since you were locked up?” Grantaire demanded, angrier than he should be, angrier than he probably had any right to be. And he honestly didn’t know if he was angrier with Enjolras or with himself. “Do you think I’m going to just jump back in bed with you?”

Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “You know why I did what I did,” he told Grantaire calmly. “You supported me then, so forgive me for assuming you’d support me now. And forgive for assuming you’d be happy to see me.”

Grantaire shook his head. “You think I’m not happy to see you? I’d be fucking ecstatic -- if it weren’t for the fact that you have one foot out the door. You’re leaving again, and I’m going to be left here trying to pick up the pieces just like last time. Only there’s no conjugal visits to non-extradition countries.”

“Stop,” Enjolras commanded, closing the space between them and kissing Grantaire again, softer and sweeter this time, but Grantaire still pushed him away.

“I finally have my life together again! And I’m not going to just let you destroy it!”

Enjolras gestured around him, frustration clear. “Then what are you doing here?” he challenged.

They stared at each other for a long moment, three years of frustration and separation hanging heavily between them. Then, when the tension seemed like it was going to reach a boiling point, it was Grantaire who closed the space between them, kissing Enjolras hungrily and pushing him back against the concrete.

Enjolras panted a laugh as Grantaire fumbled at his pants. “Hell of a goodbye,” he managed, and for a moment, Grantaire froze. But then Enjolras kissed him again, and Grantaire kissed him back, all thoughts fleeing somewhere southward.

When Grantaire woke up the next day, he instinctively reached for Enjolras next to him, but remembering that Enjolras was not there, and probably never again would be jolted Grantaire awake better than any amount of caffeine could.

After showering, Grantaire decided that, counterintuitively, it was time to follow Pontmercy’s advice and talk to someone else. Joly and Bossuet’s place was closest, so he headed in that direction.

He had gotten only half a block when a nondescript silver car pulled up next to him, the passenger side window rolling down and the driver leaning over to smirk at Grantaire. It was Enjolras, but Enjolras as Grantaire had rarely seen him, especially not recently: hair cut and cleaned up. “You left without saying goodbye,” Enjolras told him.

“I don’t think I can say goodbye again,” Grantaire replied, pausing in his step and not looking over at Enjolras. “I honest to God don’t think my heart can take it.”

Enjolras tapped restlessly on the steering wheel. “Then you should know this is it,” he said. “I’m leaving. Now. And I won’t say goodbye if it’ll hurt you, but--”

Wordlessly, Grantaire turned to the car, grabbed the car door and yanked it open to slide inside. “Just shut up and drive,” he told Enjolras.

Enjolras grinned. “Absolutely.”

“What are you looking at?” Enjolras asked with a grin as they drove down a country lane. It looked identical to the past twenty odd miles or so of the middle of nowhere they were currently driving through. But even the dull scenery couldn’t dampen either man’s spirits.

“You still haven’t told me your plan,” Grantaire told him. “Or where exactly we’re going.”

Enjolras’s grin widened. “Leave the plan to me.”

Grantaire rolled his eyes and was about to retort when he spotted a police car driving towards them. “Shit,” he swore under his breath, and Enjolras’s expression tightened. He quickly propped his elbow on the open window, resting his chin against his hand and casually concealing most of his face. The police car passed without incident, and both men exhaled in unison before laughing uneasily.

“As to where we’re going,” Enjolras continued, as if they had never been interrupted, “we’re going to spend a little time on an island to start with, once we get across the border and find ourselves a ship.” He shot a glance at Grantaire. “You ever been to the beach?”

“I literally cannot imagine you on a beach,” Grantaire said, grinning. “Relaxing, not thinking about the Cause…”

Enjolras’s smile faded slightly. “I can help the Cause better from a beach than from prison,” he said quietly. “Besides, it’s what got me through jail, picturing that beach -- and us.”

Without warning, he reached over and punched Grantaire in the arm, hard. “What the fuck was that for?” Grantaire asked, half-groaning and half-laughing.

“You stopped visiting me,” Enjolras said accusingly, and Grantaire’s laughter stopped.

“It was hard seeing you in there,” he said after a long moment. “Caged up like that, when all you ever wanted was--”

“To be free,” Enjolras finished softly. They sat in silence for a long moment, but it was a comfortable silence, broken only by Enjolras asking quietly, “So it wasn’t because you stopped loving me?”

Grantaire shook his head. “I honestly don’t know if there’s anything in this world that could do that.” Enjolras smiled, though his expression quickly became serious, and Grantaire glanced over at him. “Are you having second thoughts?”

“About what?” Enjolras asked, surprised. “Leaving? Why would I? Who am I leaving behind -- my family?” He snorted. “Fuck my parents. They didn’t come see once when I was in jail. All I got from them was a letter from their lawyer telling me I was officially removed from their will.” He half-smiled. “You may have never stopped loving me, but I don’t think they needed much of an excuse.”

Grantaire reached over and laced his fingers with Enjolras’s. “I’m sorry,” he said.

Enjolras just shrugged and forced a laugh. “Their loss,” he said, with more bravado than he probably felt. After a moment, he asked, “Did you ever think this is where we’d wind up some day?”

“You being pursued by the police and fleeing the country?” Grantaire asked dryly. “Yeah, I could’ve predicted that.”

Enjolras elbowed Grantaire in the ribs and they both laughed before Enjolras asked abruptly, “Did you ever think about me when I was in jail.”

Grantaire looked over at him, honestly surprised that he hadn’t figured it out yet. “All the fucking time,” he told him.

Enjolras smiled and lifted their clasped hands to his lips, kissing Grantaire’s knuckles. “God, I missed you,” he said simply, and Grantaire just smiled and didn’t say anything at all.

He didn’t need to.

Grantaire leaned against the side of the car at the final gas station before the border. The sun was just beginning to set and cast Enjolras in a fiery glow as he walked out of the gas station and towards him, rubbing his newly-dyed hair ruefully. In addition to the hair color change, he was wearing a suit and tie and altogether looked practically nothing like his mugshot, which was sure to be posted at the border crossing. “What do you think?” he asked, spinning around and grinning.

Grantaire half-smiled. “Almost dashing.”

“Just remember, call me Áaron, not Enjolras. And if anyone asks, we’re going on vacation.” Enjolras’s grin widened. “That’s not too far off from the truth anyway.” He started to pull Grantaire in for a kiss, but Grantaire hesitated. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t.”

They were the hardest two words that Grantaire had ever said, and his heart broke more than he ever thought was possible just uttering them.

Enjolras stared at him. “What do you mean, you can’t?” he asked. “Grantaire, we’re one step from the finish line here.”

Grantaire just shook his head and pulled out a wad of cash he had just gotten from the ATM. “Here--” he started, but Enjolras jerked back, hurt clear on his face.

“I don’t want your money, I want--” His voice broke. “I want you to come with me.” Grantaire closed his eyes as if that would somehow hide the pain clear in Enjolras’s voice and on his face. “Don’t do this,” Enjolras whispered.

“I love you,” Grantaire told him.

“Then get in the fucking car.”

Grantaire shook his head again, trying to put into words what he had felt press against him with every mile they drove. “This -- us -- this isn’t me anymore,” he said finally. “This isn’t my finish line. It’s yours.”

“Why?” Enjolras asked, biting off the word like it physically pained him to ask it.

“When you went to jail, I was broken,” Grantaire told him. “And it took me a long, long time to figure out how to put myself back together again. But I did. I rebuilt myself and I rebuilt my life and -- and I did it without you. I made a life for myself without you, which is something that I honest to God never thought would be possible. And losing you--” His voice broke. “Losing you was unbearable. But giving up everything that I’ve become in the last three years -- it’s impossible.”

Enjolras was silent, tears dripping down his face, and Grantaire reached out for him, though he was unsurprised when Enjolras jerked away. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“So that’s it,” Enjolras said softly.

“I think it has to be.”

Enjolras just looked at him for a long moment, and Grantaire forced himself to maintain eye contact, to not turn away or try to hide himself from the pain radiating between them. Resignation settled across Enjolras’s face, and wordlessly, he closed the space between them, grabbing Grantaire by the front of his shirt and kissing him as he had never kissed him before.

Then he pushed Grantaire back, his expression growing steely. “I love you, too,” he said, followed almost immediately by, “and fuck you.”

Grantaire smiled slightly and stepped back, knowing a goodbye from Enjolras when he heard one. “Tell Combeferre and Courfeyrac I say hi,” he said.

Enjolras jerked his head in a nod and got into the car. For a moment, Enjolras and Grantaire both just stared at each other, and then Enjolras lifted his hand in a silent wave and the car pulled away. Grantaire watched until the car was out of sight, well aware of the tears coursing down in his face but making no effort to stem them.

When he finally couldn’t see Enjolras any more, he turned away, fumbling in his pocket for his phone and dialing the first number he could find. “Hey, Marius,” he said, taking a deep, shaky breath. “I need a favor. I, uh, I need someone to come pick me up.”

“Where am I?” he repeated, glancing around the gas station. “Well, it’s kind of a long story. I’ll text you the address.” His expression turned serious at Marius’s next question. “Am I ok?” he repeated, mulling the question over as if asking himself the exact same thing.

After a moment, he managed a small smile. “I think I just might be.”