riddelly

[riddelly]

-hiatus.-

i'm going to take a break from this account.

while i certainly haven't stopped writing, i am spending less time on fanfiction. and, more than that, i've remade my primary blog on a different account; it's very tedious to switch between them and post here. 

you can still find me on ff.net here and on ao3 here. if you're interested in following my primary account (mostly a les mis blog), please send me a private message. (i won't say no to anyone.)

goodbye, friends!

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (13/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; marius/cosette, enjolras/grantaire, montparnasse/éponine (more will come later!) words; 2855 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory.

That was absolutely horrible. The entire duration of the opening ceremony, Gavroche couldn’t help but feel absolutely trapped, the leering faces of the Capitol citizens bearing down on him with their strange neon colors flashing out and around, a whirl of excited cackles and faces.

The entire lot of them—it was their fault he was here in the first place. He was here for their entertainment, their sick enjoyment of seeing kids fight each other to the death. The styling was already too much, really, with their poking and stabbing, tearing off layers of hair and dressing into something he wasn’t. Someone back at his district claimed he and his sister had a chance—that they were survivors. Gavroche can’t see how he will even get past the entire ordeal in the Capitol. Of course, maybe he doesn’t want to—maybe it would just be easier to get killed off by everything here instead of in the blood of the actual arena. No, but he’s not willing to go down without a fight. They all want a show, right? Just they wait until they see that the smallest tribute of them all has the ability to survive this game. Little Gavroche doesn’t want to be killing the other tributes who are here with just as much burden as he; no, instead he wants to rebel against those who put him here. Down with the ruling force! Unfortunately, he doesn’t see how he can do such a thing as that in his current situation. If he were to rebel in this wasps’ nest, he’ll surely get stung, and that would do nothing but place them one tribute short. No, he needs something far better if he wants to make any sort of difference. He just wishes that Éponine wasn’t stuck with him, his older sister who doesn’t deserve to be tossed into this pit of assassins. Of course, neither of them do, but having her here, someone who he cares about—that just makes everything much harder. He rode beside her in the carriage during the ceremony, and she walks beside him now. They are both rather small—him shorter, of course—starved by their living situation back at the districts. Yet they are also strong from their time there, used to living in a situation where they were often on the brink of survival. And that is exactly what they are about to be thrown into. Alas, neither of them look like much right now, two shrimpy children with baskets on their heads full of fruit. They weigh heavily, but neither Gavroche nor Éponine pay much heed to it, having felt its presence a lot more under the weight of the crowd.

The two of them walk back to their rooms now, stumbling amongst their weariness, their shoulders slumped in the same direction. Their crew follows them, leading them to the rooms that they’ll share here while at the Capitol. This consists of the woman who chooses the slips during the reaping and Montparnasse, who stands beside the two of them in their silent walking. Gavroche knows Montparnasse from back in the district; now and then the two of them would run into each other, and were rather friendly to one another. Apparently, the young man had known Gavroche’s father, wherever and whoever the hell he was, to have left both Gavroche and Éponine on the streets of that poor district. However, the woman stays oblivious to the children’s needs for quiet and kept chattering on in her high Capitol accent, going on about the days that are coming and how much they will like the rooms they’ll stay in. Really, no one is listening, probably not even Montparnasse. No, it’s likely that he’s the one who’s paying the least amount of attention to her. Gavroche can only hear so many words in that accent that’s found by all these over privileged, clueless Capitol citizens, before he can’t actually listen to them anymore—it’s just too irritating and downright painful to the ear.

Together the group enters the elevator, fitting snugly into the large amount of space provided. Montparnasse hits the golden numbering 11, which sends them up to nearly the top of the tower that the tributes stay at. After getting out of the elevator, they end up in the entranceway of their new living space. This leads to the dining room, with a shining silver table and eight blue chairs that are clustered around the surface. There’s also a living space with couches that look more like strange statues in their green shapes. At the end of the dining room there’s a hallway that leads down to where it ends in doors that they can assume are where they’ll be sleeping at.

“Here we are!” the reaping woman announces, her high heels sharp with every step that she makes. She gestures her arms out broadly, welcoming them into the new space. “Your new home away from home! May just be for a little while, but I have no doubt it’s better than what you live in at home.”

Gavroche can’t help but think that whether something’s ‘better’ is a complete matter of opinion. He remembers back to where he could be safely tucked at home. With the thought of such a place, Gavroche feels the yearning to return there, to his relatively peaceful life amongst the orchards. It isn’t the lack of violence that bothers him—there is violence nearly everywhere anyone goes if they look hard enough—it is the ability to go where he pleases. Give him arenas where he’s being hunted down for sport! But to capture him within the cages of a city is another whole matter that he could not bear. He and Éponine exchange their tired glances—it is clear to him that his sister feels the same way.

“Depends on your definition of ‘better’,” Gavroche speaks up, irritated with containing his mind. He doesn’t care what is proper or his place—he isn’t anyone’s money to jump through hoops. “Much prefer where I slept before, though I suppose this will do.”

“I beg your pardon?” she responds, gasping at the little child, her lips pursed into what look like frog’s lips—this is emphasized by her bright green lipstick.

Gavroche feels no need to respond, therefore doesn’t bother doing so. Instead, he walks forward and sits down in one of the chairs, followed by a more tentative Éponine.

“Make yourselves at home as much as you can,” Montparnasse speaks silkily, going to stand behind one of the chairs at the table, but not bothering to sit down yet. “I know it’s not really easy to eat after the surprises of today, but if you can fill your stomachs, you’ll need the extra food later during the Games.” Neither child needs to be told this, since they know it from experience back at home, but neither of them mention this fact. They know that whether the information is known by them or not, everything their mentor says will probably be invaluable come the arena; it’s best just to listen.

At these words, Éponine forces herself to slide into her own chair, next to Gavroche, where she’s otherwise been standing. She sets her ridiculous fruit basket hat to the side of her dishes, freeing up her head from the tremendous weight.

“I bet this is the best food you’ll ever have tasted,” the women trills, and as she does Gavroche tries to remember her name and yet fails again. It’s a name that everyone seems to know, yet he has never bothered to remember. Really, it’s not necessary, but useful nonetheless. “Steaming, several-course meals for your enjoyment.” Gavroche really isn’t very hungry, as he’s still reeling from the discomfort of this foreign city, but he keeps Montparnasse’s advice in mind and ignores his body’s messages, knowing that he’ll need the food later if he can’t use it properly now. The fanciness of the platters that are served by Avoxes just adds to the bitter homesickness that’s plaguing his thoughts. Heaps of food are served onto the tables while everyone gathers around into their own spots if they hadn’t already done so. Puddings and soups are what this meal contains, and Gavroche forces his hand forward to serve heaps onto his plate, looking over to make sure that Éponine is doing the same onto hers.

For a while, there is nothing to be heard but the clinking of silverware against bowls as everyone eats. Gavroche finds that the delicious food slips down his throat into his stomach with slight problem because really he isn’t very hungry. However, he does continue to force himself to eat, knowing that he will need this food later. He glances around, noting that Éponine and Montparnasse are holding each other’s stare while eating. The woman who selected them at the tribute is taking dainty sips of her soup, looking on the verge of saying something through the silence but not quite knowing what. Trinka? Is that her name? Gavroche thinks that might be the case, even though he isn’t quite sure.

“So, tomorrow we have more fun to be had!” Trinka announces, patting her mouth delicately with the napkin at the side of her plate. “You’ll be group training beside the other tributes.”

“Sugar coating things is generally not the thing to do,” Montparnasse murmurs, slight irritation tainting his words. He has not yet taken a bite of his own food that he’s set out in front of himself. His gaze lingers around the two tributes, and Gavroche notes that his eyes stay upon Éponine most of all. Gavroche can’t understand it really, but he feels protective of her, and puts one of his hands against her arm, which causes Éponine to glance in her brother’s direction, before they both turn their attention back to their mentor. “Everything you do here will be preparing you for what you come across in the arena. Even the opening ceremony was to give sponsors a first look into who you are all. You’re going to need sponsors to survive in the arena, as they will be the ones to give money that can go towards food, medicine, or whatever you may find yourself needing while in the arena. Therefore, you need to make an impression upon the sponsors, so that they remember you in a large way, and are willing to give up that money. More than even in the arena, now is when you have to play the game, jump through the hoops to cause sponsors to root for you.

“Tomorrow you will be put into a large room to train in. There will be judges there to see how well you can handle yourself with these different items. Don’t go for whatever you feel strong in; the judges might not be concentrating on you since there will be everyone in that area, and it’s best not to show others what you’re good at. You should save that for the later individual judgments that will come about in a few days, when you’ll be judged upon your skills with a number between one and twelve, which both the other tributes and the sponsors will look upon. What are your skill sets?”

There is a silence that follows his words, one of contemplation and unsureness. What are Gavroche’s skill sets? He knows that he’s quick, small enough to get around places, outwitting those around him. But he doesn’t really know how to voice that—or how useful it’ll even be, come the game, so he sits in silence alongside his sister.

“From in our district it seemed you were very prepared to survive without help; I doubt either of you are skill-less,” Montparnasse allows, his words leaving his lips without a tone of worry. He almost seems more relaxed and in his element here—not at the Capitol, but amongst the trials of the Games. Gavroche might go so far as to say that Montparnasse enjoys the tense atmosphere that the Hunger Games provide. “You’re rather skilled with identifying what is edible, I should think. Best to also acquaint yourself with a weapon you might find yourself proficient with. You’ll need to have something to defend yourself with. If you can keep your distance, it’s good to have something ranged; it will give you less reason to get injured. You can train with different weapons in the group training, but if there is anything you know your way around with, don’t reveal these abilities.”

“I can manage a gun,” Gavroche allows, through a mouthful of soup. Trinka scoffs at his manners, shaking her head in disdain, but keeps herself from commenting on it.

Montparnasse doesn’t question how the little boy would get a hold of such skills in a district as strict as theirs, and instead nods, a smile upon his lips at these words. “Good, just don’t let others know of this except for during your individual training sessions.”

“Alright,” Gavroche responds, nodding along before taking another spoonful of soup.

“We’re going to have a very full schedule in these days before the games began,” Trinka starts up after a small silence has followed Gavroche’s agreement. “We’ll have to stay on our toes. Tomorrow we have a day full of group training, along with a day that follows exactly the same. Then we must prepare you both for the interviews that will be staged that third night. The next day—and the last one here—you will have to do your individual training sessions. Then the Games began!” She says the last words with glee, and it so obviously disgusts every other member at the table that Gavroche can’t see how she’s so able to ignore these clear facts. Instead, she keeps that wide grin on her face, that’s rimmed with the poisonous green that sickens him almost as much as her accent. Again, Gavroche is reminded just how much he hates it here—hates this whole damn game, and wishes that there was some way to stop it, to show these naive Capitol people up, showing them how awful and disgusting this entire thing is. He still can’t figure out how to do such a thing yet, but he’s perhaps even more focused on finding out how to show this than he is on actually winning the Games. Gavroche sees how he can survive the Games, but doesn’t see how he could win them—he still holds too much concern for the other tributes, and has no wish to kill them. This entire system is what he wants to destroy in cold blood.

“Another thing to keep in mind is making allies for once you enter the arena,” Montparnasse continues advising, these words being something that spurs both of their interest. “It’s good to know if there’s someone you can trust. You will want to keep in mind that all alliances are things that are completely temporary if you all survive long enough for the number of people to dwindle. It’s best to turn on them before they turn on you, if you can help it. Another thing to note is whether you both want to train together. I know that the sponsors will find your sibling bond interesting and piteous, so the more we can play that up, the more... desirable the two of you will appear.”

“It would be best if we could train together,” Éponine agrees, some of the first words she has said all dinner.

Gavroche nods in agreement.

“Then it’s settled,” Montparnasse announces, taking a sip from his own bowl. “If you both are finished eating, it is best if you could get some rest. You’ll need as much energy as you can get.”

“Yes, that would be good,” Gavroche replies, yawning as he speaks. It’s been a very, very long day for all of them, and the bed sounds very inviting. He slips back from his spot at the table, and heads down the hallway, calling out behind him. “Which room is mine?”

“The far one on the right,” Trinka responds. “Éponine’s is to the left on the far side.”

“Right,” Éponine murmurs, following her brother down the hall.

Gavroche pauses before entering his room, turning to watch Éponine join him at her own pace. When she does arrive, he wraps his arms around her in a hug, which she responds with her own embrace.

“G’night, ’Ponine,” Gavroche murmurs, his voice only just above a whisper. “We’ll make it, alright?”

“Definitely,” Éponine agrees, holding her little brother to her side. Both of them ignore that these things are well-known lies, for there can only be one victor in this game; it doesn’t matter that they’re related. But it’s nice to pretend that, if only for one night, that they can both get out of this alive, and go back to their own district in peace. “We’ll stick together. Goodnight, Gavroche.” Without another word, the two separate themselves and go into their respective rooms, where they sleep on the usually comfortable beds with their nightmarish reality plaguing their heads.

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (12/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; marius/cosette, enjolras/grantaire, montparnasse/éponine (more will come later!) words; 3065 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory.

The burn of alcohol has long since left Grantaire’s systems, partially with the help of his incredibly nosy prep team, who, upon discovering its lingering effect, chose to stop short of nothing but actually “cleansing” him, a process which involved bitter liquid and a wide bucket.

It was as repulsive as everything else about the Capitol, though perhaps in a blunter way, but they treated it as methodical, only shaking their heads slightly at the fact that a sixteen-year-old boy was rich with wine in the first place. It was only one of the many things that they had scraped him free of, as well—at this point, he feels rubbed absolutely raw, reduced to nothing beyond a thin layer of skin over his muscle.

Quite literally nothing beyond that skin, as well—his stylist, as it was, had a most unique idea for the appearance of him and his blonde partner, set into mind even before the two of them actually were reaped. They’ll love this! he had chirped, his neon-nailed hands wringing with delight as he displayed the outfit he had composed—or, rather, the lack of an outfit.

In recognition of District 12’s coal mining work, he and his partner, whom he heard referred to as Camilla, have been stripped completely, bared of all clothing and dusted from head to toe in sparkling black powder. It isn’t real coal dust, as the stylist was sure to emphasize, as if that was the most important point in play—rather, it’s a sort of specially designed body glitter, customized to perfectly catch the lights that will move over them during their carriage’s run. Still, genuine coal or not, they are undoubtedly the ones receiving the most attention from the eleven other tribute sets, and though Grantaire has never particularly been one for modesty, this is unnerving in a very personal way indeed.

His sole saving grace is that, though many others are gawking towards his bareness, Enjolras is not among them. And the District 1 tribute is the only thing that’s truly holding his attention as he and Camilla are shuffled into position at the back of the procession. He stands with his eyes fixated directly ahead, arms at his side and chin high as ever, not looking down upon any of the rest of them. He is even more remarkable in person, and, unlike Grantaire’s stylist, his seems to have found the perfect attire for him. Golden curls are swept away from his eyes in a wreath of silver-wrought leaves, lending emphasis to his carven profile, and his lean figure is swept up in a cream-colored toga, golden-belted at the waist, alight with softly metallic embroidery that catches the low lights in a shimmering whirl. He appears godlike, and Grantaire figures that such was probably the intention—especially next to his partner, who is lovely but not nearly as remarkable, he is by far the most striking of those gathered.

District 2 is respectable enough, as well—though their costumes aren’t as aesthetically pleasing, they still strike imposing figures, laden as they are in classical metal plate armor that makes them look like characters out of an ancient fantasy tale. District 3’s attire is spun of leather and cogs, a fascinating blend between rustic and mechanical that can’t help but draw the eyes. And yet the artistic of the merit seems to decrease as the line goes on; Districts 4 and 5’s tributes are both done up in glittery, bright-colored swathes of fabric that are barely distinguishable from one another, and the getups then decay to crude portrayals of plants and animals as the farming districts are reached, interspersed with the occasional mess of fabric and various intricacies, before the line finally concludes with Grantaire and Camilla in their coatings of dust.

The rest, surely, are evaluating each other, judging how they’ll work as opponents in the Games themselves, perhaps even using their outfits as means of measurement. In any case, they will surely be struck through with admiration and perhaps even fear of Enjolras, whereas Grantaire is an absolute laughingstock at this point. Perhaps it’s good, he thinks vaguely—maybe he owes his stylist one, for surely, by rendering him so absurd, he’ll be considered one of the weakest tributes, and therefore be among those slaughtered initially, before the Careers’ idea of fun even bothers to begin. That, he thinks with his eyes cast upwards, would be a blessing in its plainest sense. He has no desire to live long enough to feel the hunger pangs. A quick dagger or arrow, he thinks—nothing that will leave a potentially festering wound, but instead something quick, a hasty departure that he won’t have time to regret. That will be the way for him to go, if he has any say in it. Perhaps he’ll even find a way to off himself over the course of the Games.

His eyes drift towards Enjolras once more, and suddenly, in locking with the gold-and-ivory image of the proud-standing boy eleven chariots before him, a new thought comes to mind. That this is who he wants to win. Certainly not himself, and not really the other representative of the district that he’s meant to be loyal to. No. He wants a victory for District 1, a victory for Enjolras. Not because he values his life, but instead due to the fact that the same emotion from before—the amber fire, the shaking glow that he’s learned to call hope—rests on the unknowing shoulders of the golden-haired boy. To imagine this angelic being dead is to imagine Grantaire’s own tentative longing crushed like the fragile being that it is, reduced to poor ashes by the power of the Capitol and all those it controls. If there is no future for himself, then there must be for Enjolras. And, keeping that in mind, he slowly allows it to overcome him, to burn through his veins until it triumphs over even the humiliation ignited by the bizarre costuming that his stylist forced upon him.

Keep Enjolras alive. Help Enjolras win. Be his ally—probably his unknowing ally, since the Career almost certainly won’t want the help of a weak District 12 tribute who’s never shown even a trace of promise, but his ally all the same. Whether he lasts only long enough to take a stray arrow in Enjolras’s place, or up to the point that it’s the two of them alone and no others, he will keep working towards this goal. Goal. It’s a strange, foreign thing to his mind, which is so often absorbed in nothingness, too disorganized to even imagine having something to work towards. It’s new and fascinating, this concept of a future—however brief—and he decides that he rather likes it. It gives him purpose, meaning. And that’s surely worth something.

His musings, in any case, are cut off by the noisy exclamation of the Capitol’s precious announcer, the same ginger man that he’d noticed on the television before the recorded reapings, and one who introduces himself now as Antistes Decurionus, a name that Grantaire can’t help but scowl at the unnecessary exuberance of. After a brief and shallow introduction, Decurionus whisks into his introduction of the tributes of District 1, naming Enjolras and his partner. The golden-haired boy shoots a quick, lazy glance at those behind him, and Grantaire feels a brief shiver course through his insides as the pale blue eyes drift thoughtlessly over him. Then the metallic chariot starts forward, and Enjolras turns back to the crowd that dissolves into cheers for him and his partner as they burst forth onto the track.

Grantaire exhales. It will take, he knows, a couple of minutes at most for the individual chariot to complete its loop, and then the second will begin its course, followed by the third and fourth, ticking down the line until his own number will eventually be called. Anxiety is distant; he’s not entirely lacking in it, but it seems unimportant. He is quite literally stripped, so completely that modesty is really a joke at this point. There is no escape from this humiliation, and his only saving grace is that he’ll at least die before he has to face those who have seen him so devastated.

It is in neither a slow nor fast manner that the others surge forwards, but rather a steady, measured pace, steadily ticking towards Grantaire’s chariot’s movement. Camilla, beside him, is stoic in her expression, but her body betrays her. It’s almost pitiable—couldn’t be clearer that she despises how exposed she is, and Grantaire nearly feels sorry for her. She seems as if she’d be much more at home in the arena already, cutting down her opponents rather than watching them revel in the bizarre outfits that their stylists have equipped them with.

“It’ll be over soon,” he mumbles under his breath. Her dark eyes, previously fixated directly ahead, snap over to his with such hostility that he quickly silences himself, his own stare falling away. “Sorry—sorry.”

“...No. It’s fine.” She glances up and takes a deep breath that runs visibly through her black-streaked shoulders, and he’s suddenly aware of how small she is, how thin—and, in time, how she will have to die in order to achieve victory for Enjolras. Suddenly, Grantaire feels a slight surge of guilt for what he’s determined to do, especially upon realizing that he himself could be responsible for Camilla’s death, if everything plays out properly. He doesn’t want to kill her—doesn’t want her to die at all, and the absolute unfairness of it all clutches at him, causing a ripple of disgust to twist his insides at the fact that any of this is happening at all, that these demented Games must take place and that he has no way to flee them through his usual dark red escape.

Such is his mindset, and so, when Decurionus exclaims District 12’s entrance, it is misery rather than glory that sings through every fiber of his body, and he knows that it’s visible—in fact, he can see his own downcast face reflected on the countless wide screens raised high above the track that their chariot leaps forward onto. The cheers of the mindless Capitol people, while still present, lose a hint of their enthusiasm, and he can’t bring himself to care—it’s well-deserved, in fact, if their energy dissipates in the face of reality. The disgusting people deserve to see the mess that’s being created due to their constant demand.

This is your entertainment. He tries to convey it in every way he can, anger beginning to thrum under his dark-stained skin while a few half-horrified, half-delighted exclamations arrive from the crowd as they process the fact that he and Camilla are entirely bare. All this is done for you, you disgusting human beings. How can you think this is right? How?

And so, as he and Camilla surge forth, he is his own haunted imitation of Enjolras’s glory. Though his position could not be further from the pride that the other had radiated, he is equally defiant, carries in his posture a matching reminder of how repulsive their situation is.

He can barely see ahead of himself, blinded as he is by the waves of color, light, and sound that press in on him from every angle, and the warm air rushing around him in an unwelcome breeze only works to further disorient him. He is far from magnificent as they go on, and can feel Camilla shaking beside him, probably equally pathetic. It is in a shaking rush of a blur that the time scampers by, and then the chariot pulls itself into position beside the eleven others, and he can see Enjolras again, looking straight ahead as he did before. Twenty-one other tributes, decked out in all manner of bizarre costume, stand between them, and varying degrees of anxiety possess each of their expressions. The two nearest to Grantaire, a skinny brunette girl and a tiny boy with a shock of blonde hair, are topped by what look like decorative baskets, gold wooden strips woven into their intentionally tangled locks and rising above in wide crests that frame a collection of plump, colorful peppers. Their emaciated frames are draped in shimmering, dark green velvet, patterned with stripes reminiscent of crop fields. The overall result is fairly laughable, though Grantaire is sure that he’s much worse off.

Rising before them is the magnificence of President Bonaparte’s mansion, all white curves and gleaming windows, echoing richness in each of its subtle contours. Grantaire feels very small before it, and is sure that many of the others share a similar sentiment, though they don’t do much to show it. The young woman to his left, the dark-haired one with the pepper basket atop her head, is wide-eyed, her chest heaving like a trapped animal, and it strikes him that that must be very nearly what she is. District 11 is agriculture, he recalls with the assistance of her strange outfit, and this girl must be used to fields and orchards, to the point where being trapped amidst roaring crowds in a colorful, technology-filled city is absolutely terrifying. He feels a surge of sympathy for her in the same way that he did for Camilla, and his guilt, having been momentarily dispelled by his anxiety at the chariot’s release, begins to return, gnawing at him once more. As much as he inexplicably desires a victory for Enjolras, he also doesn’t want any of the rest of them to be harmed in the process. It’s really an impossible paradox—how can a game be won when triumph requires the defeat of people whom one wants to protect?—but he doesn’t receive the opportunity to dwell on it before the doors on the mansion’s front balcony spring open and the president emerges.

President Bonaparte is a man that somehow manages to appear friendly and formidable both at once, with a round face and a long nose set between wide, steady brown eyes. His receding dark hair is thin over his forehead, and everything about him is the opposite of the glittering falsity seen in most of the other Capitol people. Instead, he appears nearly natural, his humanity countered only by the extravagant outfit in which he is decked out. It’s all rich fabrics and gold embroidery, with a translucent silver cloth tied at his neck and a number of multi-colored and many-textured sashes hung over his wide chest. A dark green, faintly spangled cloak brings the extravagance together, wrapped around his shoulders and framing his neck, and it’s this cloak that now extends like the wings of a tropical birds as he flings out his arms in an express greeting of welcome.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Panem!” he begins, his already strong voice layered with some hidden amplifier, so that it echoes through every edge of the City Circle and far beyond, leaking from the screens of every television across the country, even those back in District 12, where Grantaire’s sister is sure to be beside herself at the sight of her clearly devastated sibling. As Bonaparte starts in on his customary speech, Grantaire finds his attention wandering rather than rapt, eyes drifting towards the screens positioned high around them. The footage cuts through each of the tributes, lingering particularly, he notices, on Enjolras, who is still by far the grandest of them all in both appearance and attitude. Unlike Grantaire, he seems to be holding onto Bonaparte’s every rehearsed word, though the expression chilling his features is almost contemptuous, as though he despises the phrases that he’s tracing so carefully. It’s a bizarre look, especially in juxtaposition with the still-nervous gazes of the others; only a few stand out—the boy from District 4, his superior age shown in the sideburns forming on his still-youthful cheeks, dons a similar expression, and that from 2 appears almost incredulous.

Impatience begins to burn through Grantaire as the time winds on and the sky above them, dark navy from the start of the procession, grows darker and darker, merging into a deep black through which the stars are invisible. Light still paints the City Circle, vibrant and colorful in contrast to the golden glow that Grantaire always knew back in District 12. He knows that the celebration has only just begun, and that it will grow more enthusiastic as time winds on, probably beginning to catapult towards its crescendo only once Bonaparte’s speech draws to a close and the tributes enter the Training Center.

After a few more dredging minutes, Bonaparte completes his words with a final flourish, and a cheer rises from the neon crowd around them, pressing in on Grantaire’s ears as invisible speakers pump with the Capitol anthem. The chariot jolts underneath him as those to his left begin to peel away one at a time, drifting into a final cycle, and Camilla, apparently just as startled as he is by the sudden movement, reaches out instinctively, her hand finding his. He glances toward her in surprise, and she grits her teeth, beginning to pull away with a shameful blush visible even below her coating of coal dust, but he elects instead to tighten the grip suddenly shared between them. Perhaps it’s foolish to demonstrate familiarity with a person whom he’ll only end up instigating or otherwise supporting the death of, but they both know that. There’s no illusion of friendship between them, and that’s what makes it easy to act as if there is.

He clutches Camilla’s fingers tightly as they move forward in their last loop, and keeps his eyes on Enjolras all the while. The sight of the golden young man burns deep within him, reminds him of his new intentions, and he can suddenly breathe—the hope returns just as unexpectedly as it vanished, and as the Capitol anthem swells, he feels determination twist within him in an arc mirroring that of the music.

He will go down, and soon. There is no escape from that. But, he thinks grimly as he lifts his chin for the first time and gazes upon the crowd below him in an expression of what’s almost pride, he might as well die fighting for the one thing that he is sure he believes in.

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (11/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; marius/cosette, enjolras/grantaire, montparnasse/éponine (more will come later!) words; 2385 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory.

His Grandfather has simply written him off, not even contemplating the possibility that he might not die in these Games. To him, Marius is already dead, just an empty carcass to scream his distress at. That would be bad enough without the added pressure of hearing that his father is dead. Marius has never known his father, not in person, and has been taught that he abandoned Marius after his wife’s death, leaving the child with his grandfather. However, the news is still striking, and sitting here on the train, Marius has to wonder what the potential would have been if the father and son knew each other. This, of course, isn’t the only thing on the young man’s mind.

He’s sitting in the trolley, in a chair that’s positioned beside Cosette, across from their mentor Mabeuf. There’s food stationed around them, but everyone is too nervous to actually eat anything. Instead, Mabeuf is giving the two of them instructions on what is going to take place later.

“When we get into the Capitol, your main job is going to be making an impression on the rest of the world,” Mabeuf is saying, leaning forward as he says all of this. “You must look formidable to the tributes, lovable towards the people of the Capitol, and challenging to the Gamemakers. I’d highly suggest finding yourself some allies with people, but knowing that eventually, if you both survive, it may come down between the two of few of you.”

“Still sounds like an important thing to do,” Cosette murmurs, her feet tucked up underneath her. She still seems rather stunned from what just happened, not allowing herself to fully realize the weight of what has just occurred. Somehow, she seems to be able to just completely block out her emotions concerning this, pushing them aside as she focuses at the task ahead. It’s remarkable, really, and Marius doesn’t know how she looks only slightly rattled on the outside. Only she knows how she’s doing inwardly, but she certainly looks the way that Mabeuf is informing them to be like.

“Would it be wise to become allies with each other?” Marius asks, falling upon the question rather awkwardly. He looks down at the floor, abashed.

“That depends upon you,” Mabeuf replies, shifting his eyes between the two of them. “If you work well together, balance each other out, it would be a good idea. It would be easier to train together, certainly, since we will have a little bit of time to prepare.”

“Seems like a smart route to take.” She’s looking at Marius know, finally actually looking, curiosity apparent in her eyes.

Her gaze causes Marius to fluster even further, but he does hold her gaze. Even he doesn’t really know how he manages, but he does so anyway. “Yes, it does,” he finally replies.

“That will be good to work with,” Mabeuf notes, nodding. “Alright, here we come into the Capitol. Now, remember, your job now is to present yourself to the Capitol. Make it look like you want to be here, that you’re fully confident in what is coming up.” Both Marius and Cosette know it’s a little late for that, as both of them have been trembling so ferociously. Mabeuf probably knows that, as well, but for now he’s completely ignoring this fact.

Marius strains to look out of the window and sees, through the quickly passing train, that the actual Capitol is in sight, looming closer and closer until it’s upon them. The buildings gleam and glisten, the people frolicking about in all their artificial coloring. It would be beautiful, perhaps, but Marius can’t help but feel like it’s all a bit artificial, like a play put on—all the clothing is so eye-catching and similar, the buildings not looking like they’re actually possible to live in. Marius has seen how the rich live; he’s even experienced such living situations, and this is not how these Capitol people live. They don’t even live like royalty. Instead, they live as the king’s pets, all fluffed up and forced into bright, plastic, outfits. But, even more so, they’re like ants, scurrying about and on top of each other in a mindless mass of movement. To Marius, these people don’t seem human. And yet, despite the sickening grind that’s wearing away at his stomach, he forces himself to wave, to paste on a shaky smile as he gazes on upon the mindless citizens. Soon, however, they’re brought out of the crowd, and even led off of the train themselves.

“Now you will be styled into what they consider is presentable—this is just to gain more interest in you at the opening ceremony,” Mabeuf explains, leading them to the entrance of two rooms. “Just let them have their ways, and it will go fine.” He gestured to one room and opened the door it for Cosette, before doing the same for me and the second room.

Entering, the room is very plain, so, immediately, the place that Marius’s eyes go to is the small collection of people standing by a bed at the edge of a room. It isn’t near the amount of strangers that were outside the train as it pulled in, just four individuals. And yet, at the same time, they are all just as vividly neon, their hair dressed up in unnaturally bright colors, looking more plastic than people. As soon as Marius enters, they flock around him, their colors flying about him in a confused array of movement.

“Let’s get you all ready and patched into decency!” one of them twitters, its long eyelashes extending a foot from its head in large, pink, spikes as it person drags him by the hand over to the bed they had been at before.

“Out of those drags from your district!” another of them chimes, pulling off his shirt.

“No, I’d prefer not—” Marius starts, trying to yank his sleeve back on. He doesn’t feel comfortable with this, and really, who would? However, this person from the Capitol does not stop, and completely pulls his shirt off before putting it aside onto a small table he hadn’t noticed before.

“Nonsense!” the person laughs a high giggle, one that grates upon Marius’s ears. Its large hair is twisted a few feet above their head in an explosion of blue. “No need to be shy; you’ll have new, better clothing soon. We need to get you all ready for your stylist to make you beautiful for the audience.”

For the sponsors, Marius reflects, recalling his mentor’s words, and allows himself to relax enough for them to undress him and hose him down. They pluck his eyebrows into thin lines, ripping every hair off of his body so that only his head remains untouched. Looking over into a mirror that sits at the edge of the room, he sees that his entire body is bright pink from the entire ordeal. He can hardly keep track of the people above him, their bright colors distracting him so as they continue to buzz around his head, pulling at his body this way and that. He hears them murmur, too, whisper amongst themselves about what to do. Suddenly, he thinks he hears the single word Thénardier,’ and his mind springs to attention. Thénardier, the name that the letter from his father spoke of, the man he has inherited a debt to.

“What did you say?” Marius asks, craning his neck off of the bed to look at the person with the bright blue hair, who said the words in the first place.

“You are ready for the Thénardiers to see you,” the person responds, through lips bright with green lipstick. Without another word, the four of them exit the room, but Marius hardly notices. His mind is reeling. Thénardier? Here? Would his father really know a man from the Capitol? Why would he be seeing Marius? And they said ‘Thénardiers,’ so that points to the possibility of there being more than one, which doesn’t make any sense in the slightest. Maybe he’s wrong, maybe these are different Thénardiers than his father wrote about. And yet Marius can’t help but think that one of them has to be the man that his father spoke of.

Suddenly, the door opens, revealing the man behind. He’s a small one, and contains the distinct skinniness that seems to be considered actually fashionable in this world. His black hair puffs out around his facial features into frantic curls that look even darker than black as it sits directly next to his face, which has been painted white, a smile creeping across the delicate features of his bright red lips and cheeks. He wears a bright, striped suit of the colors of green and pink, a large white collar puffing out between the coat. His pants are the same green that his suit is, just as incredibly and annoyingly bright. Is this Thénardier?

“Marius Pontmercy,” he says, hissing the words out in a trill voice that may be high, but not enough for Marius to identify it as a Capital accent. In fact, it sounds a lot like a voice he might hear in his own District, which is strange, really. “Tribute from District 8; the quaking boy who couldn’t get a volunteer.” He walks forward slowly, moving this way and that, his legs almost wobbling slightly. Before him, Marius knows he is encountering a man that can’t be trusted with anything. The worst part about it is that, very possibly, this is the man he owes such a debt too. “Time to dress you up for your fall.”

“You don’t sound like you’re from the Capitol,” Marius mutters thickly, staring at the man in disgust.

A large grin spreads across the man’s face, one of a man who knew he has done well for himself. He winks, but otherwise doesn’t say a word referencing this fact. There is such a strange feel to this man that is so uncommon in the Capitol, and Marius just manages to put his finger on it; he has the sort of look of one of the men who sulked about in the poorer areas of his home district. Which, of course, makes no sense at all! Here he is in the Capitol, dressed up in all his fancifulness.

“You will be dressed to represent your district, which is a rather easy thing to do, since your district makes clothing,” Thénardier explains, advancing with clothing in hand. He doesn’t bother explaining what he has brought, and Marius finds this fact slightly unnerving. Although, perhaps that’s not what was getting him down. Maybe it is the actual man himself who agitates Marius. The man Marius assumes to be Thénardier helps him into the strange layers of fabric that are supposed to give him so many sponsors. It’s a one-piece that he lifts over Marius’s shoulders, pinning together in the very back. Ruffles of fabric billow off of it, shimmering pieces of cloth that are such an array of different colors, jumping from reds to yellows to purples, some of them glittering with sequence, while other times it is just fine fabric. After placing on the outfit, Thénardier isn’t finished, as there is still a bundle held underneath his arm. It glints dangerously, fine flashes of silvery light flying across its surface. Thénardier unfurls it between his hands, lifting up a gigantic mass of glittering needles, thrown together into a mask and a crown of sharp objects that reach up towards the ceiling. Marius feels trapped, unable to escape his sure doom of getting this thing placed upon his head, having the points dig into his scalp to make an impression he is certain is going to turn out ridiculous. Really, in his mind, this is some form of torture that this man is attempting to place upon him. But there is nothing Marius can do to stop Thénardier as he comes towards the young man, placing the glittering mass upon his head, laying down the edges onto Marius’s face. Truth be told, it isn’t as painful as he imagined it to be. The tips don’t pierce his features, as they are what is facing away from him; instead, it’s the stubs, which still bear down on him with an invigorating weight that he’d do better without, but it doesn’t cause his face to run with blood as he previously expected.

“There, now, all ready to show off your lack of a face,” Thénardier purrs, leading him by the hand into another room. Marius can’t see very well from behind his needles, but what he does see while being steered to the carriage is Cosette. She is also wearing a similar attire, waves of fabric flowing over her body as she stands there uncomfortably. Perhaps to others she looks just as awkward as he does, the tufts of colors sticking up everywhere in a frightening manner, but to Marius, she looks stunning, as though she’s somehow wearing the rainbow upon her skin, scattering down her body in a waterfall of beauty. She doesn’t wear the mask that Marius does; instead, the needles fall from her head instead of upwards, the shimmering tools poking threaded inside her hair, in a leveled arrangement that her golden hair pools from at the tip. A woman is standing beside Cosette, wearing similar attire to Thénardier, right down to the face that is painted perfectly white. She walks over to stand beside Marius’s stylist, discussing matters together in low voices that Marius can’t make out. He stumbles forwards towards Cosette, smiling nervously. Cosette, however, doesn’t bother to smile, but is grimacing, feeling the pain of the needles stab into her neck and upper back, knowing that this sort of fashion isn’t likely to attract that much attention. And they need attention, desperately—the other tributes have had some stunning performances that must already have the audience talking.

“Ready?” Cosette murmurs, one of the first words she’s spoken to him. She gestures towards a large carriage that the two will ride out into the opening ceremony on.

Marius gulps and then nods. It’s time for the opening ceremony to begin.

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (10/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; marius/cosette, enjolras/grantaire, montparnasse/éponine (more will come later!) words; 3004 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory.

She has grown up with freedom in the loosest sense, traversing the dirtied streets of District 11 unhindered by the parents whom she never knew. The Hunger Games has only been a lingering sort of threat, pressing in on her like distant storm clouds, heavy with menace but surely never to strike her. Her sole drive has always been her younger brother—making sure that he has enough to eat and a place to sleep out of the summer rains; it’s all she knows. Putting him before her, and living for the next day, the next session in the orchards and the next chance at a scrap of food that she can keep for herself, rather than offering to Gavroche or giving up to the Capitol for which they harvested. Her life has made it difficult enough to keep afloat and in line—the thought of a cordoned-off arena, reserved for the torturous but speedy slaughter of herself and a number of others, has always seemed, as a distant concept, practically blissful.

And yet she is here now. She is here, and so is Gavroche, and the emotion spiking through her is pure, raw terror.

Her first instinct is to protect him. She knows they can’t both make it out, but her prime thought is that she can help to keep him alive, remain his ally through the end of the Games and then find some way to off herself, before the Gamemakers dare to try and bring him down. He’ll be able to manage, back in their district—would probably be able to even without the victors’ provisions, but they’ll be a reassuring surplus, in any case. And that will be that. Easy. She probably knows more about survival than near every other tribute in the arena, and coupled with him, the path to the disgusting mockery of a victory will be straightforward.

Nonetheless, she can’t breathe for her fear.

She’s expecting a forest, or a jungle—somehow has fixed that in her mind as the sole obstacle ahead of them, threw it over the whole of her perception the instant her name was called. And yet her surroundings now are the stark opposite: unnatural shades of already neon colors burn against her eyes, and the noise surrounding her is perhaps some imitation of music, though the thought that it could be considered such is really quite revolting. Everything about the city that now sprawls around her in expansive glittering glory is gag-worthy, and she does feel a physical nausea in her stomach, increased by the absence of Gavroche, whom they took away the second they reached the tall building where the tributes will be staying for the three days of training that precede the Games themselves. Being inside the towering complex is far from a break, since the sounds and lights and here are just as vivid, the shapes just as bizarre—of the objects, the rooms, even the people who swarm and dart about like poisonous insects.

Currently, three of these people are buzzing around her, one with eyes that cast a tangerine glow over the unnaturally sharp planes of his face, one with transparent eyebrows curved to a disconcertingly wide arch, and one whose skin is drenched in some sort of ink that gives it the appearance of green and red stripes, from the root of her golden hair to the confines of her skimpy blouse and nearly nonexistent skirt.

“Now, now, darling, we’re only going to take a look at you, make sure your body’s in its proper state for your stylist!” the orange-eyed man trills, as his fingernails, so long that a slight curl tilts their ends, reach for the collar of the dirty corset and skirt she wore to the reaping.

“Don’t touch me!” she snarls back, her hands balled into fists as she steps away. She’s sure there are cameras on her, but also can’t bring herself to care. It’s only a matter of time until her death, now, and the agony contained in her last few days can’t count for much. Logic, in any case, is hushed by the fury that rages behind her eyes and under her tongue, a metallic burning sensation ignited by the pressing insistence of this plastic trio. They’re all she can see, terrifying in their bright colors and unnatural contortions, and genuine fear sets her heart hammering like a rabbit’s.

She doesn’t belong here. It’s too bright, and it smells wrong, and she needs her brother back—they’re blurring before her, until she no longer sees people at all, only monsters, feathery and vivid with acid color. A muted scream tears itself from her lips, and she lashes out, striking furtively at them, shaking with the completeness of her primitive panic.

Her blow, imbalanced as it is by the blurring of her eyesight, falls short of its target, and the alarmed expression twisting the painted features of the light-browed man, the one she had aimed for, only casts his face into a yet more unnatural appearance. Stifling a sob, she stumbles a bit further back—her head is humming, now, and she can barely hear her own breath, is aware only of the fact that she is violently overheated and can’t stop trembling—“Don’t touch me,” she repeats, half a cry and half a shriek, but they are relentless. They’re going to hurt her, they’re going to destroy her, by the time they’re done with her she won’t be able to lift a finger to save Gavroche when he’s thrown into the mess of the Games—

She barely registers the click of the door sliding open behind her, and thus is frightened nearly into a raging oblivion when she feels cool hands on her shoulder and under her elbow, holding her in place with an exquisite gentleness that couldn’t be further from the prods that her prep team is exhibiting.

“Now, now, now,” a velvet murmur ghosts against her ear, “what seems to be the problem?”

She immediately recognizes the voice of her mentor, and stiffens in alarm, struggling furtively to pull away from him. She can’t glance up, can’t look him in the eye—bleak horror is beginning to fall away all at once to reveal a vat of shameful embarrassment underneath, and she takes a deep breath, struggling to calm her heart as it insistently pumps dosage after dosage of hot blood through her already stinging veins.

“Your tribute is intolerable!” the stripe-skinned woman exclaims, looking highly affronted. The two men encourage her with their own cries of repulsion. “She’s mad! I would expect better from your district, Montparnasse!”

“Perhaps a bit anxious,” he agrees in a light, amiable way that still echoes with some resonance of sleek darkness. “But that’s only to be expected. She was just reaped, and alongside her brother, as well… a little fright is perfectly natural.” He loosens his grip on her, and she stumbles away, a heated breath catching in her throat as she half-falls into the corner of the room and glares up at him from underneath a frenzied tangle of brown hair.

Montparnasse is a proud young man, impeccable even after the surprise that doubtless came with Éponine’s backwards assault. His skin is pale in contrast to the inky curls that spill over his clear forehead, and his features are thin but strong, eyes wide and a green so vivid that she half-believes it to be Capitol-conjured. Rather than decking himself out in any variant of the central city’s alarming styles, however, he keeps himself to a fine but visually modest suit, its cut delicately emphasizing a narrow but leanly muscled frame and a posture that makes him look like the most thoughtful of gentlemen.

“This isn’t a little fright!” the woman objects, her lips curling into a positively mask-like scowl. “She won’t let us touch her!”

“Then perhaps you aren’t being gentle enough.” As if cuing himself with those very words, Montparnasse moves swiftly closer to Éponine, his boots soundless on the light carpet. Her own feet are bare, her battered shoes being the only item of clothing that the prep team managed to properly remove before the panic set in, and she curls her toes into the softness, unsureness rearing inside of her as he approaches.

“You have to understand,” he murmurs, locking eyes with her even as he continues to speak to the confused-looking Capitol trio, “that she is not like you. She isn’t used to any of this, are you, Éponine?”

“Leave me alone,” she gets out through gritted teeth. She doesn’t know what gives him the right to be here, whether he’s meant to be involved with any stage of the styling process, anyways. And she can’t tell whether she wants him here or not. It was certainly a relief for the insistent prep team to be warded off, and yet he is a bit intrusive, himself, what with those large dark eyes and that steady loping walk that makes her feel like a doe in the shadow of a tiger.

Her words don’t seem to reach his ears. Rather than reestablishing the distance previously harbored between them, he reaches out, his thin, pale fingers moving as if to caress her cheek. She snaps, her own hand flashing up to whack against his, and he catches her wrist in his grip, the reflex so quick and strong that she finds her breath frozen for a bare instant. With her pulse dashing under his fingers, she can see, for the first moment, how this man might have won his own Hunger Games—he is swift if anything, and the posh air hovering about him like a cloud of rose oil is capable of being extinguished in a bare snap.

She swallows. Somehow, this clear capableness is the opposite of scary. His strength is a reassurance, and her hand goes slack in his, no longer fighting its powerful grasp. He rewards her trust by slipping his fingers through her own, shifting from a death grip to a mellow hand-hold.

“There,” he chuckles, this time speaking only to her. He blinks, and it strikes her for the first time how dark and thick the lashes around his blazing emerald eyes are. “You’ve allowed me to touch you, now why not give them a chance?”

Somehow, she can’t find it within her to protest. And so she keeps her mouth shut and her head down as he turns, leads her back to the table that the prep team has set out for her. The three of them are watching in a way that’s almost enraptured, looking for all the world as if they’ve experienced the taming of some wild animal, and she fights to keep her thorny words shoved deep in her throat, to let Montparnasse guide her back. She does have to control herself. She’s remembering that now, even as he releases her hand and steps back, as the other three flock in with only a hint more hesitancy than before, as eager as ever to strip her down and take her apart.

Montparnasse won his Games. And she has to win hers, in turn—or nearly win them. Get close enough to kill herself, so that Gavroche can escape. That is what matters. If Montparnasse is the only one who can teach her properly, then she has to be able to show him, to prove to him that she’s worthy of his most careful instruction. She must maintain the faith that he seems to have in her now, and if that means keeping her mouth shut and her stare down as these birdlike beings strip her away of all the bitter protection she’s managed to retain, then so be it. It’s not as if there are any other options.

He exits the room after a few more brief words with the striped woman, and then Éponine is left alone in their company, counting her breaths to make sure she doesn’t break again. It’s a painful process, but she manages to stay perfectly still and silent as they rip away her clothing and then set about scrubbing her body to raw cleanliness, stripping away all matter of hair and what feels like several layers of skin in the process, until she’s sure that her very blood is running under only a minuscule layer of protection, ready to spurt free and stain them all at the slightest lazy touch. Her hair is cleaned and trimmed out of the knotted mess that she’s grown used to, and even her eyebrows are plucked, arched into delicate curves that feel uncomfortably unlike her. It’s sickening, really, the way that these people prepare her for her death like a prize turkey. Though, of course, she is nothing else—a meal, and the arena is the stove.

It takes an hour at least until they’re satisfied with their work. Once that much is done, they step back, mouths awash in oohs and ahs as they survey what they consider to be beautiful work. Éponine cannot stop shivering. Their eyes probe her like needles, and she wraps her arms around her breasts, shoulders hunched and chin pressed into her collarbone so that she can see only her own skin, pretend that they’re not here. It doesn’t work, of course—instants later they’re tittering about, rearranging her posture into something they deem more acceptable, and she has to swallow fiercely to hold down tears from the pure overwhelming pressure of it all. She wants to be back in the orchards of District 11, back in her dirtied but at least somewhat private life. Nobody there ever interfered with her. They all kept to their own business and allowed her to go about her doings like any other person. And yet now her name is being broadcast across the nation—in mere hours’ time, she’ll be out on the chariots as the opening ceremonies rage through the mind of every Panem resident. She has no idea what her stylist will choose to deck her out in, doesn’t even know what to expect of her stylist at all, aside from the fact that they will certainly be no better than the bubbly mess of the prep team.

Stylist, prep team, trainers—they are all identical, no matter how hard they strive to set themselves apart with grotesque surgery and ugly makeup. Every one of them is false, and not a single one gives her reassurance—save, of course, the obvious. Montparnasse is different. He’s not truly from the Capitol, here only for her benefit, and he’s probably the only person here other than Gavroche whom she’s beginning to believe she can trust.

It’s nothing definite, of course. He must have killed people, at some point, and his blasé attitude does imply that he won’t be incredibly concerned once she dies, either. Such is the way of the mentors, the victors. They’ve trained themselves into distantness—just like Gavroche will have to. The thought twists her stomach, though nowhere near so much as that of him dying. She loves him, loves him more dearly than anything else on the planet, and, for the briefest of moments, can think only that she is glad—glad that she will be dead before she has the chance to see him transformed into a monster by the sting of victory. She doesn’t want to have to think about that, for surely it will only cause her to question her decision, wonder whether what she’s doing in saving him at the cost of herself is really worth it, whether it wouldn’t be better for she herself to die.

Luckily, any such dangerous musings are cut off by the click of the door opening once again. She turns, half-expecting Montparnasse, but is rewarded instead by the sight of a Capitol woman far more extravagant than any of the prep team. Her eyelashes are bubble-gum pink and nearly an inch long, her teeth bracingly white and permanently affixed in a wide grin, and oddly green-tinted blush stains cheeks that are otherwise a nearly orange-tan. Most remarkable of her whole appearance, however, can be nothing but her hair—it extends in massive spikes like the crude rays of a lavender sun around her heart-shaped face, so stiff that Éponine cannot help but imagine that, upon touching the tip of one of the bristly locks, she might end up cutting herself.

“Would you look at that!” the stylist screes, hands flying to her cheeks in an exaggerated expression of excitement as her wide eyes, backed by violet shadow but seemingly their natural shade of hazel, stretch even further. “What a pretty, pretty little girl—or at least she will be by the time I’ve had a go at her, won’t she?” A minute twitch stirs the air around her lips as she hacks with high-pitched laughter, and Éponine realizes with a dull shock that the woman has cat whiskers, extending several centimeters from under her nose. The sight imbues her with a physical nausea, but she tames it, remembering again Montparnasse’s calmness, clinging to thoughts of her brother and how he must be handling this. Gavroche, surely, is far less anxious about it all than she is. He’s smart, and he’ll be keeping to himself, biding his time and evaluating his surroundings—won’t, of course, have broken down like she did.

Montparnasse, Gavroche. They, she knows, are human. They’re sane and reasonable, just like she has to stay. The woman approaching her now doesn’t matter, and neither does whatever absurd and humiliating outfit she’s going to end up in. Nothing at all matters except for her getting through the Games. Fundamentally, this is not about fashion or gaudiness or willing disfigurement, though the prep team and the stylist seem keen on thinking otherwise.

No, this is about survival.

And if there’s one thing that Éponine Thénardier has taught herself in all her years on her own, that is how to survive. 

[riddelly]

roseate (10/10)

fandom; les misérables ships; bahorel/jehan, enjolras/grantaire words; 3603 previous; x

"I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don’t need to say so, not that… not that you can hear. But, just… do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? You don’t have to stay with me till the end, of course. I just… shit. Okay. Just try. That’s it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over." modern au // cancer fic

He reaches home aflame, choking in the back of Courfeyrac’s car, curling into the seat and trying to make himself as small as he possibly can, to shrink away from this reality and force himself through the fabric of existence, tear into another place, somewhere where Jehan is waiting for him, where he won’t open his door to silence, where he won’t sleep alone tonight. The tears scorch his throat, burning, burning, and he’s shaking, acting like a child—he knows, he knows he’s foolish, but he can’t stop, he can’t control himself, he can’t—he can’t do anything but sit and shake and try to suppress the screams that claw at his insides. Miraculously, he manages to force his trembling lips together, clench his jaws into something that mocks steadiness, and he’s blind, blind, blind until the car pulls beside what he realizes is his apartment.

It won’t leave his mind. Golden hair, limp. Delicate lips, frozen. Thin shoulders, still. Lilac eyes, closed, erased, hidden, ceased, eluding, gone, gone, gone—

Needs to get out. His hand is on the car door, he’s opening it, feet are on the sidewalk before a hand on his shoulders drags him down, and he bites into his tongue, draws blood, has to escape, can’t stand it—“Let me go.”

“You can’t. You’re a danger to yourself like this, you need to—”

“Let me go. Now. Don’t touch me.”

“I can’t let you.” Courfeyrac’s eyes, sharp aqua, are all he sees. Vivid. Almost flinty. They belong on a jaguar, not a man. “I can’t let you, Bahorel, I’m not going to let you hurt yourself.”

“I’m not a fucking idiot. I won’t hurt myself.”

“I don’t just mean—I don’t just mean physically, alright? Every second you’re alone—”

“I thought you hated me. Why should you care?”

“God damn it, you think I hate you?” Hands on his shoulders, too strong, too hot. He’s shaking when he should normally hold his stance, and thinks he might even be clutching Courf’s wrists in return—he hopes he’s not, hopes that maybe there’s some sort of strength left beneath the tears that have painted his face entirely in some gruesome watercolor. “You think I hate you, you poor—”

The pavement dips, and he must have been clutching him along, because now Courfeyrac is all he’s holding onto, his fingers straining in a sharp flame of pain. “Shit—” Arms around his shoulders, forcibly supporting him, a snarled curse into his ear.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Spitting the word out until he doesn’t know what it means anymore, holding on, holding on, terrified of what might happen if he lets go. Maybe he can do this—just keep clinging to Courf, not letting go to him, because surely reality can’t reach him when he’s drowning himself in another—he won’t realize, this way, that there’s another person he wishes he could suffocate himself with instead. “Oh, fuck.” He can’t even go to Grantaire, because Grantaire’s not enough, and it’s easy enough for the twisted cynic to call him by Enjolras’s name, but for him—the man he’s in love with couldn’t be farther from the one who’s somehow become his closest and only friend, and even if there was an identical copy, another Jehan that could provide everything he’s already aching in the absence of, it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t be him. And he needs him, shit, he needs him, he needs him; “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”

“Get inside. Come on, we’re getting inside.”

He doesn’t know if they do move inside, because he’s blind again, and the ache of his own desperate clutch on Courfeyrac is all he’s aware of, other than the stabbing whiteness ripping him apart from within. He can’t do this. He’s never felt this. This isn’t like reality, this can’t possibly be reality—is he supposed to live after this?; because he can’t imagine it—in attempting to distance himself from the most valuable thing in his life, he has inadvertently done the opposite, and now he realizes that without Jehan, there is nothing left.

“Why am I still here? Why am I? Tell me, Courfeyrac, you know, you have to know, someone has to know, there needs to be a reason, tell me...”

“I don’t. I should, I know I should, but I don’t, Bahorel, I’m sorry—” His voice cracks. It should be inconsequential, but it’s not—it’s not, because this is Courfeyrac, and for all his jubilancy, he is untouchable. Solemnity, perhaps, may be attainable, but he does not shed a tear, never has. He’s strong. He’s constant. He’s one of the bravest of them all in the fact that he can’t be touched, can’t be moved, but he is also Jehan’s best friend, and now his voice is breaking and Bahorel is breaking with it, somehow sinking down yet more. His fingers are numb, laced somewhere in Courf’s T-shirt, and his face is against what feels like denim, perhaps the thigh, cold kitchen tile under his knees. He’s gale-stricken. Shaking. Long fingers are tangling in his hair, holding him close, running through and offering murmurs of apology when the voice is no longer capable of as much.

“Don’t cry. Don’t you dare fucking cry. You can’t. You can’t.”

“I know, I know...”

But he does anyways, because neither of them are strong enough for anything else, not when it gets down to this. So they stay there in his kitchen, Courfeyrac standing and Bahorel in a kneeling crouch, holding onto each other and hating each other because the man between them is gone, and now they’re left with nothing but themselves.

“I loved him. I really loved him. After all this, I was in love with him the whole damn time, and there must have been something, I know there was something I could have done differently, I fucked it up, it’s my fault, it really is my fault... god, it’s my fault.” Realization opens like a chasm, and his gasps fall hollowly into it, his fingers clawing once more as a whole new streak of shivers seizes him. The permanence is suddenly quite deafening in his mind, the fact that he cannot get Jehan back, that he’s gone—and, at the exact same time, there is the blazing knowledge that it didn’t have to go this way. Courfeyrac’s own words come back to him, static-hissed on the answering machine: But if he dies over you—god damn it, Bahorel, if he dies over you... “...You said you wouldn’t—forgive me, you said that—you can’t now, that’s not fair to him, you have to hate me—”

“What, like he’d want me to?”

“What he wants doesn’t matter anymore.”

The fingers in his hair still, then tighten, pulling almost to the point of pain. Yet the sharp stabs in his scalp are a relief, and he welcomes them, heaves in the material discomfort in some emotion parallel to joy. “It’ll always matter. To me, anyways. Maybe—maybe you’re different. I don’t know. I have to go.”

“You said you wouldn’t leave.”

“I can’t stay.”

“Good.”

“I’m sorry.”

Weight pulling away from him, slipping so that his hands are on the cold floor, as well, nothing holding him up anymore but himself. Courfeyrac’s footsteps are deafening, crashes in the stillness.

“I—I am sorry, but I can’t do this, I—do you want me to call Grantaire? I can—”

“None of them want this. Just go.”

“I’m going.”

He hears the door open but not shut; can’t quite tell if he’s missed it or if Courfeyrac really is lingering. He finds himself wishing for both simultaneously, with equal and opposite drives of desperation. Don’t leave me alone. I can’t stand for you to be here.

There’s a mechanical snarl, heater or air conditioner. It’s the time of spring where he can never remember which should be on. Spring. His favorite season.

Fuck, it’s still spring. Twentieth. June twentieth. The number burns into him with a thousand times the intensity of the damned 2:46, and the solstice is tomorrow, that’s one of the few dates that he ever did bother to remember—the solstice is tomorrow, which means he’s gone a day too early, he didn’t even get to finish his stupid final spring.

It hurts until it’s ripping at him, literally feels as though an iron claw has descended into his throat and is now tearing out the flesh, strip by strip, and he can only try to keep up with his retching breaths—out of nowhere, the floor is far too cold, and everything rocks in a thousand directions as he stands, blinking, swaying, moving—out of here, away, into the bedroom—he can hide in the bedroom; there, he’s there, on the sheets, under them, with a pillow wound in his arms, and it smells just like him, and he can remember the last night, the shower, the shy smile, his thin weight—he clutches into the pillow so tightly that the muscles of his arms rage, and he bites it, grinding his teeth together, jaws straining and aching—if he pushes hard enough, there won’t be enough room for the tears to get out, or for his body to tremble in that awful weak shake—

For he can’t be weak. It’s the worst, the absolute worst thing that he could ever find himself called, but it’s true—he knows it is. It’s finally come, an enemy he couldn’t fight, and it’s destroyed him so completely that he’s probably laughable in his devastation now—

But, God, does it even matter? He just wants Jehan back. He just wants Jehan back, and to hell with his strength, and his pride, and everything else. Jehan is gone. Gone. He was only just here, and so real that Bahorel couldn’t possibly comprehend the possibility of his ending, even as it was right there, inevitable, approaching... he can’t be—he has to be somewhere. Must be.

But he isn’t. And Bahorel knows that. Knows quite clearly, with horrific stabbing lucidity, that he is quite simply gone. He no longer exists. His thoughts and beautiful emotions, which he could lace into such exquisite language—his job at the library by the college has been vacated, and there’s one less name to call on the roll of all his classes, and his flat with all its books is dead, dead, dead to everyone—there are probably a thousand and one things that he knew that will never be shared, and Bahorel will never be able to feel him again, and it’s so, so useless to dwell like this, because he’s not coming back, and there’s no point to swamping himself deeper and deeper in the pain that’s already wrenching relentlessly, but he needs to, because there’s nothing else, there is. Nothing. Else.

How the hell did you let this happen?

He doesn’t know. He has infinite questions and not a single answer to provide himself with, and he knows that none of the rest of them do, either; the only wonderings that dare to cross his mind now are the ones that are somehow paradoxical in their own formation, pointless to even conjure in the first place, and it’s useless at this point. It’s all amazingly, deafeningly useless.

Two days later, he can eat again.

After a week, he talks to Grantaire.

Two weeks, and he almost smiles.

Three and he laughs—mouth closed, still not smiling.

In twenty-four days, he starts his classes up again.

Somewhere in it all, the funeral comes and goes. He attends in silence. There is no reason to try and put voice to the words that the rest will only hate him for.

They never talk to him. It’s curious, how they tread lightly around him in a tightly obvious way, and yet adamantly refuse to acknowledge the source of the fissure between them. He is not as fully separated as he perhaps expected, and they still talk to him—or most, anyways. Despite his words before, Courfeyrac does forgive him. Joly, Combeferre, and Grantaire are truly kind; Feuilly frigid, Bossuet tight-lipped.

Enjolras shows up at his apartment in mid-August.

“What are you doing here?” Bahorel demands baldly, scowling at the golden-haired form. Enjolras hesitates for a moment, eyes cast upwards, then steps in. His movements are purposeful, and he keeps his shoulders stiff, his chin high as he moves past Bahorel, turns so that his back is to the wall and his hands are tucked deep into the pockets of his zipped red jacket. He doesn’t quite look him in the eyes. His hair is bronze rather than honey, and cut shorter than Jehan’s, falling in loosely curled waves to his shoulders instead of his elbows. Grantaire thinks he is beautiful. Bahorel finds his features to be ice-hewn.

“I haven’t talked to you about Prouvaire, yet.”

“Of course you haven’t. Nobody has. I think most of them are pretending to forget about it, now.” He hasn’t forgotten. He never will. He hasn’t looked at anyone else, not really—the idea of another relationship, of moving on, is laughable, even after thirty days and nights and more of thinking and thinking until there’s surely not a single side left of Jehan’s memory to be discovered. Perhaps he should be bored, or distanced, or anything but what he is.

The truth is that it hurts. It constantly hurts. Hurts when he smiles, when he moves, when he reads, when he breathes too hard. He’s accepted that it won’t stop—rather than adjusting, he’s adapting; very, very slowly, this is becoming a part of him. He can pull together calmness for the public, and that’s all that matters, as he’s coming to realize. None of them care what he’s holding inside so long as they can’t see it.

“Yes. Well, I feel as though I should.”

“Enjolras, please—”

“When he was hospitalized, the last time, you called me. Because you thought I cared.”

He hasn’t shut the door yet; the light catches in Enjolras’s eyes and hair, refracting crystal glints of illumination. “Sure I did. I don’t want to talk about this right now, please.”

“But you need to. I want you to know that you were right, and that I did care, and I haven’t stopped caring.”

“Please—”

“I know it’s hard for you.” The softness in those sapphire irises suddenly freezes, and then his proud brows are curving into what’s almost a glare, a gleam of their resolute leader biting through his even exterior. Teeth clenching, Bahorel kicks the door shut, and it bangs loudly enough that he jolts; Enjolras doesn’t flinch. “I know it’s hard for you,” he continues, “but you’re strong enough to listen to what I have to say now.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

He remembers the first meeting at the Musain, after the diagnosis. How he decided in some instant there that he hated Enjolras. It’s harder to say now, for love and hatred and everything in-between have been torn free from their previously clear separations in the last few months, cast into raging chaos where he only knows passion from apathy. He cares about Enjolras, at least. Can’t quite call him a friend, but he does care.

“Tell me how things are going with Grantaire. You two had better be happy.”

It unfolds in a snap—there are suddenly strong fingers at his collar, and he’s against the door, his breath rushing out and adrenaline kicking into his veins in a sharp burst, because there are blue-fire eyes centimeters away from his, hot breath in his face, growling words shuddering through his eardrums.

“I’m not here to talk about Grantaire. Don’t ask me about him.”

“Why?” He’s angry—angry at whatever this is, this ridiculous outburst; he feels the familiar burn of rage building in his chest, and it’s so distant and yet so familiar and right both at once that he almost laughs—in fact, noting once more how some aspects of Enjolras’s face, the shape of his nose and the curve of his lips, really do bear a striking resemblance to Jehan, he does. He laughs into the fury before him, mocking it so that Enjolras toughens into a yet more potent sort of ferocity.

“Because—” The grip loosens; rather than pinning him, Enjolras is now only holding him against the door, hard against his back. He’s taller, and as Enjolras’s head dips, the golden tangle atop it is all visible. He can see over him, into the room, and gazes silently, both of them breathing far more heavily than the situation merits, somehow Enjolras the one shaking and Bahorel perfectly still. “—Because I... I don’t want him to come into this. I don’t want him to—I... I am not going to speak of my own private matters at a time like this. I am here to apologize.”

“Why the fuck would you apologize? You haven’t done a single goddamned thing wrong.” It’s almost infuriating, the truth of it, which only really becomes clear now, with the solidity of the words settling into the tension-warmed air. “In all of this. Not one thing.”

“Perhaps I have not, and that is because I haven’t done anything at all. In the last days, you distanced yourself from him. It was all the others would say of you.”

“Yeah, bet you barely noticed I was gone, yourself.”

Enjolras ignores him. “You did what I have always done, and I want to tell you—I... I am here to tell you that you were right, before. When you supported him. When you chose to care, and to—to, beyond that, demonstrate the extent of that care, I...” His hand falls, and he steps back. There’s a certain hollowness around his eyes; lack of sleep. “I do admire you, Bahorel.”

“Hell no, you don’t.”

“I do. You have a... a strength that I will not ever come near possessing, and I respect that. I am sure that it’s one of the traits which Jean Prouvaire found most admirable in you.”

The name, as always, is like an unsuspecting thistle prick, the sting spreading slowly through his whole body. “Maybe it is. But why don’t you tell me why you’re really here? Because I know you wouldn’t just—meditate on how much you admire me, and then come to say so. You’re not like that.”

Light eyes move upwards again, red-clothed shoulders shift in a silent high, delicate lips curl. “Grantaire told me.”

“About us?”

“Yes.”

“Great.” So he’s losing Grantaire, too. Does it matter? It doesn’t feel like it matters. Maybe it’s something that he’d do better without, either way. Any sort of loss that he’s experienced over the summer has been eclipsed in the magnitude of June 20th.

“Do you... do you love him?”

And then he sees it—the slightest shake to that carven jaw, the flicker in the depths of the eyes, the hesitation in the voice. I do admire you.

Or you want to. You want a reason for me to be equal to you.

“Of course not.” The words feel good to get out; he can’t remember how long it’s been—perhaps since Jehan—that he’s been able to provide real relief, but he sees it now, in a pair of eyes that are darker, more feline than the ones that he immersed himself in for so long. “It’s not like that. He helps me, to feel better. After Jehan—during Jehan—I just... it’s a physical thing. I don’t want to have this conversation.”

Enjolras nods, slowly. He seems almost on the verge of a smile, an expression which Bahorel decides would be profoundly alarming to see on his face, but doesn’t quite cross the edge. “I... didn’t know. I... it is true, though. If he did care for you, in that way, I would not... I would not be angry at you.”

“Sure seemed like you were.”

“Prouvaire loved you. Grantaire cares for you, however that may be, and they are both men whose opinions I value quite a bit. I do believe that you will be able to find someone else, who feels the same way for you, who you... care about, just as strongly.”

“Maybe.” Bahorel voices the word to fill space, because this is absurd, really. Enjolras is the last person he’d expect to say a word to him about love, and even now they’re hesitant enough that it’s clear their speaker knows little of what he speaks—but that somehow makes them more pure all at once. Enjolras is honest. “...I could.”

He glances over his shoulder, then, and squints as the afternoon sunlight slants through the front windows, bites into his eyes and floods him with white—for an instant, he can see only the inside of his mind, and there are flowers, soft and dusty and pastel, bursts of high, stevia-sweet laughter, a shy pearlescent grin, a smooth voice weaving lines of verse, long waves of hair like spun gold.

An ache. Not fading, but sinking, sighing into him. And, for the first time, he does not reject it.

“Not yet, though. It’s going to be a bit longer.” He looks down, and the sunlight snaps away; he can see the floor again, wood scuffed and dirtied a bit from where Enjolras stumbled in pushing him against the door, cobwebs whispered in a corner, a thousand imperfections running through the russet boards. “Just a bit longer, and then I guess I’ll see.” 

[riddelly]

ironfrost

fandom; frozen ships; kristoff/hans words; 3052

Kristoff cannot stop himself from visiting Arendelle's only prisoner. 

Kristoff Bjorgman visits Hans of the Southern Isles for the first time on the eve of his wedding. Some of the friends he’s made during his time in Arendelle’s palace tell him that the only proper way to spend this night is in the company of many—presumably them—and several mugs of rich ale. He does not disbelieve them, per se, but he does not want to be there. Here—here, he knows, is a better way to spend his time; he’s simply not yet sure why.

His boots resound on the rocky floor of the prison hallway, a stark change from the icily polished floors that make up the rest of the sprawling palace. It’s cold down here, uncomfortably so, and he’s more than grateful for the fur coat and hat that he thought to put on with the thought of hiding face, so that no servants or orderlies would question his doings at what’s approaching midnight.

Anna, he thinks, is in bed. They don’t share one, not yet, but he doesn’t need to see her to be sure that she’s fast asleep; his fiancée, he reflects with the slightest of smiles as he rounds the corner, is one of those rare people who manages to be accustomed to neither morning nor evening. Instead, her bodily cycle matches that of the sun—she is most energetic, most excitable at high noon, and her energy dwindles as the light turns orange and red. She is beautiful and fiery, and he adores her beyond all else.

“And just what has you in such a good mood?” a cool voice inquires, floating out of the darkness.

Kristoff turns quickly, half-stumbling to a halt. There are no lanterns in this section of the corridor, and he is instead staring into shadows that are initially pitch-black. A laugh stirs the chill air, and only after several seconds of gazing narrowly do his pupils slowly accustom themselves to the faint traces of moonlight leaking in through a barred window.

“Dark, I know,” the voice sighs. Something stirs within the cloaking shades. “One grows used to it, though. And your smile could be called dazzling, even on a new moon.”

Never has he heard a voice so bitter.

“Hans?” he tests, knowing that Arendelle holds no other prisoner, that he’s a fool to voice the name as a question.

The shadow twitches once more. “Who else?”

He is here to ask about Anna. He does not know why, cannot quite justify it to himself—he knows only that she seemed more in love with Hans than she ever did with him, and he wants to know why. He wants to know what Hans did—he wants to know how to make himself better. And perhaps this is the wrong place to come for that, especially considering that he’s sure there’s no soul other than this one that he despises and looks down upon more in the world, yet the months of lingering cold and Anna’s morning sickness have made him a desperate, desperate man, and he wants only one last thing that will make him feel as though he is doing the right thing. He wants to do what is best for her, what will make her happy, and he somehow believes that Hans of the Southern Isles may know what words he should speak to her. He is going to ask. That is what he is here for.

“Do they even give you a lantern?” he demands instead.

Hans rustles. “But of course not. I am the scum of the earth, now, Kristoff.”

A shudder clasps his insides at the time of his own name. Of course, it must be well known by now, but he is still used to hearing it only in the voices of trolls—the way it’s pronounced now is as smooth as the melted chocolate that Anna is so fond of, and it writhes all the way down to his stomach.

“Well… I am here to talk about Anna.”

“Anna.” There’s a faint thud of what might be a head on stone. “Of course you’re here to talk about Anna. Boring little Anna with her braids and her freckles.”

“I love her,” Kristoff says, the words a lifeline.

“I loved her, too.”

“You never loved her.”

“I did. I went through the actions. I flirted and I cajoled and then I proposed, and I almost even kissed. You’ve kissed her, haven’t you? Disappointing, isn’t it? She always looked like she wouldn’t know what she was doing. No, but there’s been more. There’s going to be a brand new little prince or princess soon, isn’t there?”

“That’s none of your business.” There’s something spicy and acidic rising under Kristoff’s tongue, and he wishes quite desperately that he had a lantern. He wonders what Hans is wearing, whether he is able to shave, if the dungeon food has left him skinny. His voice certainly rasps.

“It’s everyone’s business. You’re going to be royalty, as of tomorrow—I anticipate the wedding. I’ll be able to hear it. The music—I can always hear the music, did you know that? Through your floor. My ceiling.”

“I didn’t come here to—”

“You came to talk about Princess Anna of Arendelle. Let me tell you, then: she’s shallow and trivial and fickle and ditzy. She’s pretty, but she’s a child. The most pain she’s ever felt in her life is her sister refusing to play with her.”

“The most pain she’s felt in her life,” Kristoff is shouting, not knowing where the volume to his voice came from, only that his lungs burn, “is when you broke her heart!”

“Oh, you truly don’t know her well enough, yet, do you?”

Hans sighs, and it is a sound so human that Kristoff shivers. He does not speak another word, but instead lets the thud of his boots on the stone serve as his farewell.

 2

A week later, he is back.

“Did you hear the music?” he asks, stopping in front of Hans’s cell with his arms folded over his broad chest and his chin high.

The shadow laughs before replying. “Yes, I did. Traditional, of course. You two never would be a couple to break tradition. Anna and I—if we had gone through, we would have had fast music at our wedding. Music to dance to, not simply strut about.”

Kristoff kicks one of the cell’s front bars, hard enough for his toes to bruise, and turns on his heel.

3

The third time, Kristoff brings a lantern.

Hans looks up the moment he rounds the corner, and he can see him now, and he is thin. His epaulette-decked vest and immaculately cut hair from the time of the Winter are gone. He is dressed instead in what must be standard prison garb—loose trousers and a thin corded shirt, so oversized that it dangles from his emaciated shoulders. His eyes are dark, the shadows beneath them hopefully accentuated by the lantern light, and his lips are pressed tight, pale and twitching.

“If you came during the day, you realize, you would face none of these problems. Likewise, if you didn’t come at all.”

“I want to come.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of. Anna, too, I’m sure. Doesn’t she notice how often you vanish?”

Kristoff shifts uncomfortably, one foot dragging along the floor as his lantern switches hands. “I tell her that I take walks,” he says, “that I need the time to myself.”

“When, truly, you need the time with me. It’s shameful, King of Arendelle.”

“I don’t need the time with you. I don’t even want the time with you.”

“And yet…”

Kristoff is just beginning to form a sound of anger in the back of his throat when Hans springs to his feet, and he is agile despite his clear frailty; within instants, he is at the front of the cell, fingers curling around the bars, and Kristoff steps back with the lantern swinging from his hand, casting cold and twisted shadows over the prisoner’s face.

“You are ruining yourself, Kristoff King,” Hans says, and his words are still taunting, but his tone has fallen into desperation, voice narrowing almost until it cracks. “I can’t say what you want with me, but you would do better to leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you. Nothing, do you understand? I can’t help you with Anna. Talk to her sister, if you care. But she never loved me, and I never cared for her, and I am the villain now, do you understand? What happened with my mother, and with my brothers—that does not matter, because I am evil. This has made me evil. Elsa and Anna are happy and perfect now, and you, Kristoff. Your job is to be happy with them. That is all, do you understand?”

Anna called Hans’s eyes dreamy, but to Kristoff, they are haunted. They are a pale hazel, and yet there is so much darkness within them, lingering in the bloodshot sclera. They are eyes that seem too close to withering away in a brittle skull.

“I’m not happy with them,” Kristoff says.

“Then perhaps you are a traitor as well, King,” Hans says, and turns away, ghastly eyes fading away into a darkness that even Kristoff’s lantern cannot penetrate.

4

“Who was your mother?”

“A dismal wretch. After thirteen sons, her soul was as worn as her body. I was the most disposable, so I was the one who received the brunt of her displeasure.”

“What do you mean?”

“She hit me. She freely said that she did not love me. She told me that there was nothing in the whole of the world I could do to make my life worthwhile. So I was going to become a king. Then she would see.”

“Prince Hans—”

“Who was your mother, King?”

“…I don’t remember.”

“Oh, how I envy you. You and the weight of your crown.”

5

“No crown this time, hm?”

“I don’t like it. I know I should—I should love it, but… I can’t. It’s too heavy. I want to be in the mountains again, without… without any of this.”

“Without Anna?”

“She could never live there.”

“I like you, Kristoff. You are a wiser man than I could ever be.”

“You’ve taught me more than the mountains.”

“What pitiable mountains they must be.”

6

“My son was born dead,” Kristoff tells Hans eight months after the wedding.

Hans is watching the ceiling. It has been one year now, and he has only grown gaunter.

“She hasn’t stopped crying. She’s with Elsa now.”

“Still births aren’t all that uncommon, especially in the winter.”

Kristoff takes in a breath of the prison air, and it catches in his throat, grating and twisting; he moans, his shoulders shaking, and the tear trails gleam on his cheeks as he lowers the lantern past them, to the ground.

“Have you been crying, as well, King?”

“I couldn’t even father for her. I can’t even be a father.”

“Try again, then.”

“I can’t. I can’t watch this keep happening to her. I love her.”

“You claim that you love her,” Hans says, and then he’s on his feet, and he’s up against the bars again, and his eyes are wide, and there are tears within them, as well. “You claim that you love her, King Kristoff, but you do not spend the nights with your wife. Instead, this is the sixth time that you have come down to keep the company of Arendelle’s single prisoner. I tried to murder the Queen. I raised my sword to bring it down upon her. I would have killed Anna as well. I tried to. Why are you here, Kristoff? Why would you betray yourself and your kingdom?”

He cannot reply. He is paralyzed, inside and out, his heartbeat sluggish. His skull still screams with the weight of his scrawny cold-born child, and he wishes only that he could be in the mountains once more, yet he cannot escape. He can no longer go away and up—only down, down into these awful dark dungeons and their single prisoner. Yes, he has betrayed Anna and Arendelle. Yet he is not for Hans. He is here for the escape.

It has not yet occurred to him that perhaps Hans is the escape.

“I…”

“Aren’t you wiser? Aren’t you meant to be so much wiser than this?”

“Stop,” Kristoff whispers, so softly that his breath forms a wavering cloud in the air. “Stop. You have no reason to—”

“To what? To torment you? I have every reason! You would have killed me—you captured me, cowardly through the hands of your guards, and you married the woman I courted—”

“The woman you tried to murder—”

“She was mine!”

“And you ruined that right yourself!”

Kristoff doesn’t realize how loud his voice has grown until his throat is aching. The tears are back, blurring his vision, so that he can no longer make out Hans’s expression, and his lips are twisting into a horrible cringe as he remembers Anna, remembers how she’d stroke her belly and giggle and whisper about how much Olaf would love the baby—how Kristoff would be the best of fathers—

“What if she can’t?” he mumbles, and his voice is raw again. “What if she cannot child-bear?”

“Then it is your own wretched fault, Kristoff King, for marrying off to a woman who cannot reproduce for you. Was that your only goal? To create young? Typical. The mountain man, as ever.”

“No—no,” Kristoff hisses, because he won’t allow himself to be beaten down by these words—they’re not true; they cannot be true. He knows that he loves Anna. He is determined that he loves Anna. “That is not—it was never…”

Hans’s skin is waxy against the bars of his prison, his eyes hollow and dark, his lips twisted into a sneer. “Oh, you fool. You do not belong here. You should not be wedded to royalty… you should not be royalty yourself…”

“But I am. But I am, Prince Hans, so what can you do?”

“Exactly what I have been doing.”

“Nothing.”

“If that’s what you choose to believe.”

Hissing under his breath, Kristoff reaches up, gripping onto one of the cold bars. His fingers are mere millimeters away from Hans’s, yet he can feel no heat emanating from the other, ashen-faced man.

“You haven’t changed me. You’re—you’re nothing… you’re only…”

“What am I, then, Kristoff? Why don’t you decide that yourself? What am I to you? I’m hardly a source of wisdom or comfort, yet you come down here time and time again. I thought, when you paused for those few months, that you’d finally found your place alongside Anna. But you’re here instead. Why? Why?”

“I…”

“Why are you here, Kristoff?”

And, staring at the bright eyes and pale skin and shaggy hair and sharp teeth, it comes to him.

“I’m here because you’re the one thing in this whole magical kingdom that I don’t understand,” he says. His voice catches on the scars of sobs. “Queen Elsa turned it all to ice at one point, and that’s simple enough. I was raised by trolls. By now, I can even understand why Anna… well… everyone’s so… natural. Except for you. I don’t… I want to understand you.”

“I’m not worth your time, King. You’ll be disappointed.” Hans sags against the bars, head falling before hunched shoulders, and he exhales lowly, Something drips steadily near the back of the cell. “I’m the most human of any of your perfect souls.”

“You were a prince and a hero. You were perfect—you weren’t human then, and you aren’t now—”

“I’m less than human, to you.”

“When she described you, I thought you would be beautiful.”

“Did she talk about me? Funny. She barely crossed my mind once in her absence.”

He doesn’t think before he’s reaching through the bars, and then the front of Hans’s ragged shirt is caught between his fingers, knuckles pressing against the sharp ribs beneath. He can feel the birdlike beat of a fragile heart, though the lungs are tensed.

“She said it best,” he spits, pulling them together until he can taste Hans’s breath, bleak from the days of isolation. His elbow is braced against the thinner man’s stomach, and he’s nearly lifting him into the air. “Your heart is frozen.”

“You like to believe that, don’t you, King?”

“I do believe it. There is nothing you could do to convince me otherwise.”

He’s still staring at the eyes, still thinking haunted, when a hand darts out between the bars and grips him by the collar of his own coat, pulling him down just enough that the eyes are all he can see, and he’s drowning in them—he forces his own closed, blocking away the hollow agony that pulses through the other man, but he cannot stop the weight of the kiss when it comes, nor the heat that swoops through his whole being, shivering in his stomach, filling his lungs with a fire that the sweet exchanges with Anna never came close to. He feels a whining moan build in the back of his chest as teeth come down against his lower lip, biting sharply and furiously, and he wants to break away, but he knows now why Hans of the Southern Isles is imprisoned far beneath the palace of Arendelle—it is, too clearly, because he is the fire against the Queen’s ice, and if he were to be released, he would burn away the whole kingdom, as he is burning Kristoff now.

He pulls away from the chill lattice of the metal bars after seconds, fire in his throat and chest, and he stares—Hans’s eyes are as dark—as haunted—as ever, yet the faintest of flushes tinges his gaunt cheeks, and the overpowering sensation that surrounds him is no longer coldness—instead, he seems sad. Pathetically, quietly sad.

“Human,” Hans says, stepping back.

Kristoff leaves, boots heavy as always against the uneven ground, and speaks to the sole guard on the way out.

“From now on, make sure he has a lantern.”

“Yes, your majesty.”

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (9/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; marius/cosette, enjolras/grantaire (more will come later!) words; 2604 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory.

--

Jehanna Prouvaire has arrived in the Capitol, and, with the stylists and their inevitable stripping of her body, she has more to fear than most. 

Jehanna Prouvaire can’t bear the thoughts concerning what is coming next. The tributes have been chosen, the course set, the reapings shown, and the train is slowly but surely leading her and the other tribute from her district to the Capitol, where they’ll await their fate. She doesn’t want to comprehend that soon they’ll be amongst the flashy crowd of strangers that are going to watch her kill and die amongst a group of other killers and children. That’s all they all are in the end: children, sent away from where they suffered in their natural habitats already to kill each other on camera. It’s a sort of sacrifice. The real question is, what is this sacrifice even aimed towards? Who is it going to save? Maybe there’s a chance that without this game, another war would break out, but that’s not anything that’s definite, causing the whole tribute situation to be very pointless. At any other time, Jehanna would be writing a poem about it right about now, to leach the anxiety from herself and onto paper. But now she can’t even do that, for her nerves are so stressed she can’t force her brain to simplify itself enough for a poem, which is a frightening notion altogether.

She’s not alone in her compartment, but instead chooses to act as though she is, staring out the window to see the ruins of North America flee to every side of her, announcing that it’s still a while yet until their arrival into the Capitol. There is some food laid out on a large table beside her, but she can’t bring herself to eat much, nerves twisting around in her stomach too much. There is also the presence of two people also in this section of the train: the other tribute, who’s a pathetic little boy who can’t be more than twelve, and their mentor, Jean Valjean. The little boy looks like he’s already given up, which is probably a fair bet on his part. Unless he’s a remarkable killing machine, or can last out until the very end, he has very little chance against the other victors, there are too many that are older during this year. Jean has also been out of sorts since we watched the reapings of the others, from before when he seemed at least very helpful towards the other tributes’ cause. Now he’s a stone in his chair, his breath ragged and clearly panicked in his soft, silent way. The reason is clear; even the man leading the reaping in the district had knew that the female tribute from District 8 is Jean’s daughter, and decided to announce this fact to the world.

Jehanna might have a chance, maybe, but it’s very doubtful. As mentioned before, there are so many older tributes this year, a few of them even being volunteers, that the possibility of surviving is so very slim that she doesn’t dare hope for too much. Besides, there may be some other complications even before the Games start out, if luck keeps going down this destructive road.

Suddenly, the vision out of the window shifts, the Capitol clear in the distance. Jehanna’s gaze is locked on the incoming architecture and lights that gleam from the barren wasteland of the area around it.

“You’re going to want to show yourselves off once we get to the Capitol, pretend you’re not afraid and play the likable good little children who are about to murder for their entertainment. You’re going to need to get people to like you to get sponsors,” Jean murmurs, the first thing he’s said since the reaping, and the information startles Jehanna enough that she glances up at him before returning her gaze to the window.

It takes less than a minute to arrive into the city after spotting it from the window. It’s a flashing maze of nightmares, large industrial buildings spinning up from the ground, but worse yet are the people. They look like flowers, crammed into every space on the ground as they welcome the incoming train, flashy bright colors decking them. Between their glimmering makeup and their exotic hairdos, each of them looks plastic, little dolls calling out and waving viciously in the direction of our window. You’re going to need people to like you, Jean repeats in Jehanna’s mind, the words from one of her friends also playing back in her mind: You need to jump through the hoops and turn yourself into a frightening monster to force your way through this mess, Jehanna. You need to play the game just as much as the game plays you. So she does force herself to play this game, smile brightly out the window, wave towards the mass of flowers. It helps to imagine them as the soft-petaled beings of life—they don’t cause death, they wouldn’t watch on with glee as children massacred each other for their enjoyment. The blurry faces that are barely visible as they fly past, grinning at Jehanna, cheering on, ants scrambling around on top of their pile of dirt. The ironic thing of this entire situation is that these Capitol people think they’re better, too, superior because they have been born in a place where they can be properly fed each and every night. When, really, they’re just more inexperienced, fattened up so much by their luxurious life that they are mindless enough to think that watching children killing each other is entertainment.

All at once, the crowd vanishes as they plunge into a building’s tunnel before slowing into a stop. They have arrived.

“You’re going to go with the stylists now,” Jean is telling both Jehanna and the other tribute. “They’re going to brutal in how much they polish and shine you, before eventually dressing you up for the opening ceremony. The best thing to do is to just go along. They won’t actually hurt you; in fact, they’re trying to help you make an impression.”

“Jean?” Jehanna murmurs, attempting to swallow down her unease. She knows how this is going, how it’s going to complicate things. She can’t do this.

“Yes?” he responds, not really smiling but looking down on the child with a kind sympathy that she finds reassuring. He still seems so incredibly sad, but he’s talking now, and at least attempting to help.

“I can’t do this,” Jehanna admits, biting her lower lip. They’re walking down a long, glistening hallway, getting closer and closer to the place that the stylists will be willing to see them at.

“It’ll be fine. I promise this isn’t anything that will be harmful,” Jean assures her with a bitter smile. “Just best to get it over with.”

“No, I mean, it’s going to complicate things too much,” Jehanna clarifies, taking a large uneasy breath. “I might get—they can’t see me naked.”

“I’m sorry, Jehanna, but there isn’t a way to avoid this,” Jean replies, his tone grim. “Shouldn’t be more dangerous than anything in the Games, I can promise you that.”

He doesn’t understand, can’t get the hint. But maybe Jean does understand, but really is so truly helpless in keeping this complication at bay. Whatever the reason, there’s no stopping what’s coming as Jehanna separates from both Jean and the other tribute as she enters the room nervously.

Immediately, she’s swarmed by a crew of Capital people, who block Jehanna’s sight from anything else in the room. They’re bright colors of neon pink, acid green, and a blinding turquoise. The three of them all have their own colors, bopping around her in excitement; the first pink one has hair that whips up into a gigantic curlicue that stands a foot above her head, which is made even more impressive by the fact that this person is even shorter than Jehanna; the second has green hair that bobs this way and that above the dark green eye makeup that stretches across half of her forehead; the third has their hair twisted back, but a gigantic hat fanning out around the bun. The three of them together looked rather comical, tropical flowers dancing about in the stiff building’s air. They don’t look unusual next to all the other people who live in this wretched Capitol. Jehanna can’t even pretend to be affected by their presence, even though she knows that this is where the trouble is going to lurk, this is where things are going to go even more to hell then they already are. But these flustered people are just the messengers, the flowers, drifting in the wind with less of a mind than they have petals. Which is saying something, because although they have color, no petals bother growing upon their skin that is so reshaped into ‘stylishness’ that they would even be more natural if they had flowers budding out of their features. They’re talking, too, with large bubbly voices that squeak out in the Capitol accident that grates on the ears so profusely.

“You must be Jehanna!” the green one pipes, smiling widely between her leafy lips. “I’m Cornelia; this is Flavia and Cecelia. We’re your stylist team!” She says everything as though it’s some grand news that Jehanna should be so thankful for her to reveal. But, then again, it is very much like every other person in this city, so it comes as no surprise.

“Hello,” Jehanna responds, sighing deeply once again. She has to keep breathing, in and out, one second after another. The anxiety is now building up inside her to the point where it’s suffocating, her stomach becoming such a clenched ball that she feels as though there’s no way for it to relax again, just get tighter and tighter. She knows what’s coming, and how there’s no way to stop it. So many damn situations like this, but here, this is the costly one. Well, Jehanna reasons to herself, If I die from this, I won’t even have to try through the Games, won’t have to kill anyone, or have any sort of terrible ways of death in that arena. Maybe I should consider this a blessing, anyways; I have little chance amongst the others. Perhaps this is a kindness. Maybe I should at least look at it this way. She becomes so lost within her own thoughts that she doesn’t give any heed to the stylists, who are still circling her like over excitable puppies, speaking words that Jehanna can’t find herself listening to. They lead her over to a clean, white bed that dauntingly resembles the ones that belong in a hospital. They lay her down on the surface, and she can’t help but squirm, knowing what’s about to happen.

“Alright, we’re just going to get all that icky hair off your body,” Cecilia purrs in that high accent. Damn, here they go. Holding her breath, Jehanna takes the clothing off from her home that protects her from the scornful eyes of any around her. That protects people from realizing—

“Oh my God, you have a penis!” Cornelia squeals, backing away in horror as though she’s been struck. “You’re not a woman at all!”

“No I—I am, I swear,” Jehanna responds, trying to keep the clear panic from her voice. “I’m a woman in a man’s body. I promise.”

“How do they have a man in a woman’s place?” Flavia howled, shaking her head back and forth, ignoring Jehanna’s own words that explained that exact thing.

“Really, it’s nothing to get worked up about,” Jehanna promises, finding herself flushing and stuttering with her words. She knew this would happen, from the moment she heard her name drawn for the Hunger Games. They need to understand, she needs to make them understand, for her life could depend on it. She doubts the maiming of words she has sometimes gotten back in her district is the farthest they’re going to go now. “I just have a...girl penis because my body doesn’t work well with my mind. Just, do what you’d normally do with any other female tribute.”

“But you have a penis! How are we supposed to work properly on someone whose body is such a freak!” Cornelia asks, absolutely screaming at this point.

“Just, please... try,” Jehanna growls, shaking; there are tears now, stinging the corners of her vision. The damn thing is that she knows these people are just so completely thick and stupid that she won’t be able to convince them that she’s simply female born in a man’s body. And it’s hard to watch this scene deteriorate, bit by bit. What are they going to do to her? Execute her for ‘cheating’ the reaping process and getting chosen in a different gender? Let her free from the Games? Doubtlessly if that’s all they publicize, she will suffer further in other ways, behind the eyes of the public. They will find a way for her to suffer.

Suddenly Jean opens the door to come in, his gaze fierce as he glowers around the room, taking in the scene around him. He is angry, Jehanna can see that in his step, in the gleam in his eyes, but who he is angry at isn't something that Jehanna isn't aware of.

“Stylists, please, let’s settle down,” he commands, walking into the room swiftly, his brow furrowed at the scene before him.

“Jean, your female tribute is, in fact, male. You can see why this would be a problem,” Flavia titters nervously.

“Honestly, I cannot. You still have your two helpless tributes and the public still believes there is one male and one female,” Jean replies calmly, standing next to Jehanna and resting a hand on her shoulder. His presence is to the point of frightening, and it’s definitely taking its effect on the stylists. However, Jehanna knows with immense relief that her mentor is on her side. “It should be simple to continue on normally with this slip up; it could be the Capitol's fault just as much as Jehanna’s. Just do as you normally do, and I promise she won’t be any trouble.”

“Fine,” Cornelia mutters after a long pause. “I hope he doesn’t mind wearing a dress; we can hardly change his costume at this point.”

“She’s fine with dresses,” Jehanna corrects, barely able to believe that Jean has cleared their minds enough to continue as normal. Cornelia nods in response, still distracted by the unexpected body part. Thankfully, there are no more interruptions through the rest of the process, and Jehanna finds herself fully dressed for the opening ceremony, sitting by a very worried Jean.

“Thank you,” Jehanna murmurs to him, ducking her head down into her lap through her unease.

“Of course, Jehanna,” Jean assures her, smiling sadly in her direction. “I am here to help until the end of these Games. However, you should know that words are going to get out to the higher levels of this government about the gender confusion. They’ll be scientific about the matter and only take your body’s sex into consideration.”

“Oh,” Jehanna responds, the one word causing her to deflate. Granted, she expected this, but it’s still hard to hear it from a source so definite. “What’s going to happen?”

“Well, they won’t be able to directly do anything obvious to you while you’re involved in the Games,” Jean starts. “But the Head Gamemaker may be charged with making your life a hell in the arena. Now what you need to do is keep your head down and not to attract any attention.”

“I can do this,” Jehanna says, nervously. She’s not going down in this without a fight.

[riddelly]

roseate (9/10)

fandom; les misérables ships; bahorel/jehan, fwb!bahorel/grantaire words; 3028 previous; x

"I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don’t need to say so, not that… not that you can hear. But, just… do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? You don’t have to stay with me till the end, of course. I just… shit. Okay. Just try. That’s it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over." modern au // cancer fic

May 26th, 11:28 pm.

“M. Prouvaire should be stabilized for the time being.”

“What the hell do you mean, stabilized? He didn’t need stabilization. He needs to be fixed! You need to help him—”

“We’re doing all we can, monsieur. Your friend has a very serious illness, and—”

“Shut up. God, just shut your mouth. He’s not my friend, and I know he—I know—shit...”

“Are you feeling alright, monsieur? Perhaps a chair?”

“Shit. I’m fine. I’m fine. When can I see him?”

“It would be best for him to remain on his own for the night, but visiting hours begin at eight tomorrow, and I’m sure he would be very glad to see you here. Family support is always—”

“I’m not his family either. Just—can I stay here? For the night?”

“I can fetch a pillow, if you—”

“I’m fine. I’m fine here.”

“If you’re sure...”

“Positive. I’m not going to sleep.”

***

May 27th, 3:04 am.

“Yo.”

“Courf.”

“Dude, it’s three in the morning. This is getting kind of ridiculous, to be honest—like, I get midnight, or maybe one, but any reasonable hours are long since past, and you could be interrupting sleep or something equally important, right, so—”

“I’m... back. In the hospital. ...Courfeyrac?”

“Do you want me to come?”

“No, it’s... I... I don’t know. Shit. Just a few hours ago, he started—I—I don’t know what to—”

“I’m going to be there in ten minutes, alright?”

“No—no, don’t. I’m alright. I’m fine. He’s... he’s stabilized.”

“He’s my friend, too, Bahorel.”

“Please.”

“...Fine. Tomorrow afternoon, though. You can’t stop me, man. He’s important to me.”

“Okay... okay, just don’t tell anyone else, alright?”

“That’s not fair.”

“I know.”

“...Okay.”

***

May 27th, 4:57 am.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like a pillow, monsieur?”

“I’m fine.”

***

May 27th, 5:22 am.

“Yeah?”

“Bahorel, I’ve been trying to call for an hour.”

“So?”

“Courfeyrac told me.”

“I told him to keep his goddamned trap shut.”

“He doesn’t often listen to people.”

“I know.”

“How do you feel?”

“...He’s dying, Combeferre. He’s dying and I can’t do a single goddamned thing.”

“I’m—”

“I don’t care if you’re sorry. I don’t care if you wish you could help, because you can’t. I honestly don’t give a shit about anything you have to say at this point. I can’t talk right now, alright?”

***

May 27th, 6:16 am.

“Hello?”

“So... you really do get up this early.”

“Who is this?”

“Courfeyrac said you were technologically impaired. I didn’t realize that you don’t even know how to work caller ID.”

“If you intend to waste my time—”

“—It’s Bahorel. I, uh... Jehan’s... back in the hospital. I thought... I don’t know. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so fucking tired—I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“Wait.”

“Yeah?”

“Why are you calling me?”

“...I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d care. You cared before, I thought, sort of. Not that you showed it. I mean—I... I’m tired.”

“You said he’s in the hospital again.”

“Yeah. Relapse, or something. Not that it ever stopped. It’s gotten worse—that’s all I know. It’s all they know, too, I think.”

“Bahorel.”

“Hm?”

“I... I do care. Thank you.”

“Whatever.”

***

May 27th, 7:01 am.

“Are you sure I can’t see him? It’s less than an hour—”

“I’m afraid our enforcements are rather strict. It’s been a very long night for both of you, I believe, monsieur.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’m not—just—please don’t.”

***

May 27th, 8:00 am.

“I’m afraid that visiting times—”

“Look at the clock. It’s eight. Move over. ...Hey—hey, flower, how are you?”

“Bahorel?”

“What, surprised to see me?”

“It’s... it’s really early.”

“Yeah, I camped out here overnight. Wouldn’t want to miss any action, would I?”

“Stop it. You look awful.”

“Kind of you.”

“No... no, really. You slept, right? At least a little bit?”

“’Course I did. But you didn’t answer—how do you feel?”

“Well, I’m not throwing up any more, right?”

“There’s that.”

“Yeah.”

“...Fuck, I’m sorry.”

“For what? Don’t—Bahorel—”

“For all of this. That I’m so—that I’m so awful at this, and you’ve always deserved so much better, and—that you won’t get the chance for someone better, and... that I’m saying this now—God. I’m sorry. I’m—”

“Stop. Please... please don’t say that. Please don’t.”

“I don’t know what to do anymore.”

“Sit with me.”

“What?”

“Chair next to the bed, come on. Just... sit.”

***

May 27th, 8:49 am.

“Excuse me, monsieur, but we’re going to have to ask you—”

“Shut up!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Quiet. He’s sleeping, if you haven’t noticed. And if you’re here to kick me out, you’re going to have a bit of trouble with that.”

“...So I can see. If you’ll just slip your arm out—”

“Look, I’m not moving, okay? You can’t really say shit about rest, considering that he’s—just leave us for a bit, would you?”

“...Right away, monsieur.”

“I thought I told you not to call me that.”

***

May 27th, 8:53 am.

“And here I’d been hoping that you at least had gotten some sleep.”

***

May 27th, 8:55 am.

“I mean, they’re really idiots, if they think that ‘rest’ happens only when people are away. Look at you now, right? Like some little blonde kitten, seriously.”

***

May 27th, 8:59 am.

“I mean what I said before, by the way. I really am sorry. Really—really goddamned sorry, about everything. I... you didn’t deserve this. Well, of course you didn’t deserve it—nobody deserves it, not really. Of course some people would disagree, but... nobody ever does anything but disagree, so whatever. I don’t care that much. ...I never really used to care about things at all, you know? I thought I did, of course. You, um... you changed that. This is stupid. Okay. I’ll... let me try again. I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don’t need to say so,  not that... not that you can hear. This is so stupid. But, just... do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? Because... because I’m selfish. You said that you cared enough about me that, uh—that you wanted to stay with me, for the rest of your life, and you get that now. Well... if I could have just a bit of that, it would be nice. Because it must feel amazing. So, you don’t have to stay with me till the end, of course. You—you can’t, I mean, shit... I just... shit. Okay. Just try. That’s it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over.”

***

May 27th, 11:39 am.

“He’s still sleeping. Don’t bother him. I have to—I have to go home, but I’ll try to come back tonight. Just... call me if there’s any change, I gave the desk my number before, name’s Bahorel.”

“Of course, monsieur.”

“I—yeah. Alright. Thanks.”

***

May 27th, 8:21 pm.

“Oh, God. Shit. No. No, no, no, please no. Why does—fuck. No. Please.”

***

May 28th, 8:33 am.

“You know, he was practically chipper when I saw him. I wouldn’t be so down, if I were you, it looks like he has a while to go. Not that you shouldn’t feel bad, of course! That’s fine. Just... well. Don’t worry about his mood. He’s good! Or—okay. He’s better than I expected.”

“How did you even... what—give me a second. Your call woke me up.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I can call back later, Courfeyrac said you weren’t getting much sleep—I’m so sorry, I—”

“Shut up for a moment, okay?”

“Right, of course!”

“...Okay. What’s going on?”

“Well, Courfeyrac said that Jehan was in the hospital again, and offered to take me with—so the two of us and Combeferre went, and he seemed alright, though he did ask about you at one point—I thought that perhaps you’d want to know, in case you wanted to go back and see him.”

“I can’t. Not now.”

“...Oh.”

“Thanks, though. I’m... glad to hear it.”

“Well—well, good, then. I’ll let you sleep.”

“Hang on—Joly?”

“Hm?”

“Tell Courfeyrac he’s an asshole for me.”

“Oh... al-alright, I guess, if you say so.”

“Thanks.”

***

May 30th, 7:45 pm.

“He really misses you, you know.”

“I know. I just... I just can’t.”

***

June 8th, 9:02 pm.

“Grantaire? What are you doing here? How... how do you even know my address?”

“I brought wine. Let’s sit down.”

***

June 8th, 9:14 pm.

“Joly is actually convinced you’re dead. Enjolras doesn’t mention your name anymore. Even Courfeyrac is down... they miss you.”

“Your voice changes.”

“What?”

“When you say his name, you know. It gets softer.”

“...We’re not talking about him. We’re talking about you. You need to start living again now, or you sure as hell won’t be able to once he’s gone.”

“Grantaire, please—”

“I’m not going to pretend it isn’t happening! That’s what you’re doing. You think that it’s the opposite, that you’re proving how much you care by giving everything else up, but that’s not true.”

“I—”

“Don’t argue! I know it’s not true, because I’ve been there, and I’m still there, and trust me, you want to get out while you can. You’re lonely. And by closing off, you make it worse for everyone, not just yourself. So cut it out. Go see him again before it’s too late. He could be gone any day.”

“...Grantaire...”

“Do what I can’t. Just that one damned thing. Please.”

“...Grantaire.”

“I want to know that somebody—”

“Just come here for a second, goddammit.”

***

June 8th, 9:32 pm.

“His name. You... called me by his name.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“You’re not him.”

“Guess not. ...You’ll have to tell him, probably.”

“Tell him what?”

“Put plain, kid, you cheated on your boyfriend.”

“No. I didn’t. It’s not the same.”

“What do you mean?”

“It didn’t feel like anything.”

“...Huh.”

“What?”

“It’s just... bizarre. To think that it ever would.”

***

June 9th, 10:56 am.

“Hel—”

“For God’s sake, stop whatever you’re doing and go find Grantaire and tell him that you care about him. Right fucking now.”

“What?”

“I know you think it’s stupid, but it’s not, and it matters to him, and I’m sick of waste. You two deserve to be happy. Somebody on this goddamned planet deserves to be happy.”

“Bahorel, I am quite sure that—”

“No, you’re not. Go tell him. I can’t stand watching people fall apart any longer.”

***

June 14th, 3:09 pm.

“...Hey, flower.”

“Bahorel?”

“Who else?”

“I’ve called you every day. Grantaire said you were okay, but nobody else has seen you—I haven’t—I asked them to let me out, I—God—are you okay? Please be okay, I—what happened? Something happened, didn’t it? I want to see you, please, I... I—are you there? Just—talk to me, at least, I miss your voice, please, I—I’m sorry, if I did something wrong, I promise I didn’t mean to do anything wrong—Bahorel? Are you there? Please be there!”

***

June 14th, 4:26 pm.

“One new message. Left today at four twenty-five pm.”

“Alright, listen up, you self-indulgent bastard. Jehan just spent an hour freaking sobbing into my shoulder, and the only reason he stopped was because the nurses dragged me out. They thought that I upset him. Well, guess who really did? Bingo, that’s right, it’s you, you asshole. I don’t know what the hell you said to him, but you destroyed him, man. He thinks that you hate him now, and I know you don’t, so get your pretty ass over here, because visiting hours end at nine and I am sick of seeing him torn up over you. He needs you. Like, really needs you. And even though I personally think at this point that you aren’t worth his time, that’s not going to change anything. But if he dies over you—god damn it, Bahorel, if he dies over you, none of us are ever going to let it go. So stop being a selfish brat and come tell your boyfriend that you love him.”

“Message erased.”

***

June 16th, 7:48 pm.

“Why didn’t you go to see him?”

“Why don’t you hate me, Grantaire? The rest of them hate me.”

“You didn’t hate me. That’s the only reason I’m okay now. Thought I’d return the favor.”

“You were better than me, though.”

“Not ever.”

“Debatable. ...How are things going, then, with him?”

“Different. From how I expected. He’s not quite the same, when nobody’s watching.”

“Do you still love him, though?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Pretend it is, then.”

“...I don’t know. I hope so.”

***

June 17th, 11:39 pm.

“One new message. Left today at eleven thirty-seven pm.”

“How the hell do you live with yourself?”

“Message erased.”

“...I don’t know anymore, Courf. God, I don’t even know.”

***

June 19th, 5:12 pm.

“Open the door, Bahorel. I’m not leaving. It won’t kill you to talk to someone other than Grantaire, you know. I daresay it might even be healthy, and I’m sure everyone else will be reassured to know that you really are still alive. Joly especially... Bahorel. Come on.”

“God damn it, what do you want?”

“To talk. Most of them are angry at you. I’m not.”

“You should be. You’re supposed to be the smart one, right, so it makes sense that you’d hate me at this point.”

“Let  me in.”

“Fine.”

“Thank you. Now, please, talk to me. I can tell that something is wrong, and I know that Grantaire is far from the best at listening, whatever he may say. He’s distracted; I’m not. So, talk.”

“Combeferre—”

“You’re keeping something inside of you, something that you can’t even tell Grantaire. Tell me instead. I won’t ask you to go see Jehan, though I know it’s what you both want. I only want to know as to why you’re avoiding it.”

“...God. I... I can’t just—”

“You need to tell someone, and I’m here. So go on.”

“...I love him. So much that it’s hurting me—shit, it hurts so much. And he’s sick. He’s dying. He’s getting weaker every day—I know I don’t see him; he calls. Leaves messages. And I hear it in his voice. I want to see him, I want to stay by him every second, but I know that he’s falling apart all this time, and I... I... shit.”

“Just remember to breathe.”

“I’m fucking breathing. I... know that he probably looks awful by now, and sounds awful, and I don’t want to—I..”

“You don’t want your image of him ruined.”

“Shit, of course you wouldn’t know. You’ve never been in love, have you, ’Ferre?”

“Close, perhaps.”

“No. You’d get it, if you were.”

“What would I get?”

“It’s not just—it’s not that I want my fucking image of him ruined. I’m afraid, of seeing him like this, I’m afraid—I’m afraid of loving him even more. That’s it, I guess. I’m terrified to care about him even a tiny bit more than I do already, and I can’t see him, I can’t, because I know it’ll happen. I want to be able to live after he’s gone.”

“You aren’t living now.”

“Don’t get stupid and poetical. That’s his job.”

***

June 20th, 2:46 pm.

“One new message. Left today at two forty-six pm.”

“It’s starting.”

***

June 20th, 2:53 pm.

“Let me through. Let me through, I—please. I need to get to him—I need to—please.”

“M. Prouvaire is—”

“I know, that’s why I’m here. I need to see him. I—”

“Bahorel?”

“Courf—I’m so—”

“Why the fuck are you here now? Let him through, he’s a friend... damn it, man, why now?”

“I need to see him. I need to tell him I’m sorry. I’ve been so selfish. I’ve been so fucking selfish, and I need to tell him that I—”

“You can’t.”

“God damn it, of course I can—let me through! I need to see him! Please—please, I—oh, God, I—oh, God.”

“Bahorel, you can’t.”

“Shit... no, no, no, shit, shit, please no, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—please, don’t, I—shit, damn it, you have—fucking—defibrillators, don’t you? Some shit, I—he’s barely—I just need a minute, come on, I thought—I thought that—oh my—God, I—”

“We need to go. Come on. You need to leave him, there’s nothing you can do at this point.”

“Shut up, shut up, of course there is! He called me yesterday, he was fine, he can’t be—they can’t—I can’t—”

“We need to go, now.”

“Leave me alone!—Jehan, please, come on, sweetie, come on, just—I’ll come every day, I don’t care anymore, you... I... I... I love you so much, flower, please.”       

“He can’t—he can’t... hear you, Bahorel.”

“I... I... no...”

“There are things they have to... to do. They don’t want us here.”

“I’ll do anything, I swear, anything, just—just let me... anything, I need to talk to him, I need to tell him...”

“He knows. I promise he knows.”

“Monsieur, we—I must request that you be seen out.”

“I’ve been trying to get him out, he’s not coming. Come on, Bahorel, let go. Come on.”

“I can’t leave him. I can’t leave him again. Don’t make me leave him again. No—oh, God, no—please, I have to—have to... I...”

“I’ve got him, madame. Thank you.”

“Will you both be alright?”

“He’s just upset. They were... they were close.”

“Of course, of course. My most sincere condolences, messieurs.”

“Thanks—come on, we need to go.”

“He—he’s gone.”

“I know. I know.”

“But he—he can’t—I need him. I need him.”

“I know.”

“Jehan—Jehan, please!”

***

Time of death: 2:52 pm.

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (8/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; marius/cosette, enjolras/grantaire (more will come later!) words; 2676 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory.

The train moves faster than anything that he’s encountered in his life, and it’s more than disorienting, rocking beneath his feet with a steadiness that seems to threaten to topple at any given moment. He’s already unsteady, alcohol from last night or this morning—shit, he can’t remember, he can never remember—pulsing against his skull in an almost comforting pattern of aching throbs. He’s not sure when this particular wave of intoxication, now beginning to distance itself from the separation of the damned reaping and this stupid train ride that he still hasn’t entirely comprehended the significance of, set on, but that does nothing to decrease the reality of the pain it’s causing him now.

He knows what’s happening. That he’s chosen, and that means he’s going to die. And yet, try as he may, he can’t bring himself to care. Death has never felt particularly threatening, and now, what with the addition of his cheap wine-induced unsteadiness, the whole prospect seems little more than laughable. To be murdered, and probably by a child below even his own scant sixteen years, on a television broadcast across the nation—it’s as though the very gods and fates with which he holds so low in his own beliefs have whisked him out of normality, thrown him onto this speeding bullet of a transportation system solely to mock him.

Here’s what you deserve, Grantaire. This is the reward for all your foolishness. Get to die before eighteen, now, you can hardly call yourself a waste when what little you do possess is expended so early on.

His mouth tastes bitter. He blinks, tries harder to solidify his surroundings. The last few hours are ablaze in his mind—the bright town square, the sounds of his own name, the grin of the Capitol escort and the roar of the crowd, the tears of his sister as she grasped his shaking arms in the last minutes they were given, her pleas falling on his hollow ears. It all whirls within him, and he knows that he should be more emotional than he is, yet can’t shake the feeling that it really is just funny. In a dark, macabre sense, but of course that sort of humor’s the cleverest, and this truly is the only destiny that he deserves.

Think, no, think. There are cameras on him. That’s what she said—cameras, constantly from here on out. He has to pull himself together. Live for me, she’d implored with her fingers on his light-scruffed jaw, and proceeded to drown him in all manner of advice that he retains none of now. He knows he won’t survive, just like she does. But perhaps he ought to try.

The thought, almost a hope, is quite fleeting, and as soon as it extinguishes itself he finds himself stumbling along the metallic corridor once more, his fingers tracing abstract patterns on the wall as his feet disturb the vivid carpet. It’s a colorful pattern, he recognizes, full of all sorts of twisting shapes that seem to undulate before him. God, his head hurts. He can’t remember why he’s here, what he’s supposed to be doing... he’s thirsty, and probably for water, though that’s far from the liquid that tempts his mind so heavily now. He doubts they’ll give him wine, but this is the Capitol, after all, and they are known for being utterly idiotic. Perhaps he’ll get the opportunity. The prospect of numbing himself entirely is a bitter comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, especially as the thoughts of his sister sharpen his awareness, threaten to transform themselves into the real emotion that he can’t possibly afford right now.

A sharp, repetitive clicking noise draws him back into reality, and he glances up blearily to see that the narrow compartment is no longer unoccupied. Wavering before him are the bright colors of his Capitol escort—he can’t remember her name, but she’s green, green as a pine tree from her extravagant waist-length hair to her pearlescent twisting fingernails. A dress sheathes her like a lily blossom, and it seems surreal, somehow.

“Now, Grantaire!” she reprimands, using his name like a whip. Her voice reminds him of some glass instrument, not out of delicacy but rather frostiness. “I told you to meet me in the viewing car ten minutes ago now! What have you been up to?”

He feels himself frown. “I’m not supposed to be here,” he gets out, and she purses her lips, closing the distance between them with a huff.

“Nonsense. You were chosen! It’s your special, special honor to be here. Now, for goodness’s sake, don’t slouch. You are a guest on this train, and you had best behave like one, young man, if you intend to get support from the audience!” Each of her sentences ends on a flying note, as though she’s about to burst into song, and something about it irks his already throbbing brain, sending sharper spikes of pain across his forehead. Her nails work more than her fingers as she adjusts his shirtfront; he wore nothing special for the reaping, and it’s clear from the downward tilt of her bejeweled eyebrows that she highly disapproves of his casual attire. Still, she expects herself to be able to fix it, and he supposes she will, in whatever demented way she and his stylist can come up with.

“Now, that’s a bit better, don’t you think? Keep a smile on, there’s a good boy! Now, let’s get back to the viewing car, your friend is already waiting!”

He takes a long moment, trailing after her grasshopper-like skipping steps, to realize that the friend she refers to is his partner, the girl chosen from District 12. He can’t even remember what she’s called, and doesn’t receive any sort of reminder as they enter the compartment a few minutes later. The door slides open to reveal her—she’s young, younger than him, but appears far from frightened. She has a long neck and a gaunt face spattered with freckles, inlaid with large, dark hazel eyes that regard him warily. Even now, she sees him as an enemy. He wishes he could laugh at her bizarre caution; he’s nothing to be afraid of. Surely she must realize that.

“Mm, yes, good, good. Now we’re all here together, nice and cozy, isn’t that right?” The escort fluffs her pine-tree skirt and sits primly upon one of the two long thick-cushioned couches, arranged as a triangle, the hypotenuse of which is formed by a wide, thin-screened television. It’s currently dark, emblazoned only with the faintly blue Capitol insignia, and the escort softly hums the national anthem as she pats the space beside her, presumably indicating that Grantaire sit. He does, but not in the space she offers, instead flopping against the side in a heavy action that shakes the cushions beneath him. The other tribute scowls even more darkly, but he doesn’t return the glare, doesn’t even meet her eyes. He tilts his head back, exhaling slowly. The wine on his breath can probably be tasted in the air, but he doesn’t give much care to it. He doubts they’ll be bothered. It’s clear enough that he’s half-drunk, anyways; they don’t need material confirmation to be sure of that much.

“This is the fun part,” the escort half-whispers, glancing back and forth between the two of them. “You get to see who you’ll be playing against!”

“You mean who we’ll be killing,” the mousy girl interjects. Her voice is surprisingly gravelly.

“Well—yes, yes, but it’s all part of the festivities!” the escort trills.

Grantaire shakes with silent laughter. He decides that he likes his fellow tribute, grouchy as she is, and hopes in a vague part of his mind that she might manage to outlive him. Of course she won’t be able to win—she can’t be more than fourteen, and he’s never in all of his years of inebriate and sober observation seen such a young participant be crowned victor—but it’s a nice thought, that she might get a bit of attention before they slaughter her.

The escort draws her fern-hued lips into that odd pout again, but before she can say anything against either of them, the screen flashes with light and the very tune she’d been murmuring blasts from hidden speakers. She squeals in delight, drawing her legs up like a child about to watch its favorite film, and Grantaire only stops from rolling his eyes with the thought of how physically painful such an action would be. He affixes his gaze vaguely on the screen instead, paying no attention to the words of a round-faced, ginger-chopped man in typical Capitol makeup that drones out some repulsive opening speech. All of the tributes are watching this now, he realizes slowly—this is when they all first see each other, and not only will he be taking in them, but vice versa; he knows without a doubt that every one of his opponents, not only the Career tributes, will mark him down as an easy target. He isn’t likely to last out the bloodbath.

The dry speech, unsuccessfully attempted at being made more interesting by the announcer’s springy voice and glittering effects around the screen, comes to a close, and the plain background collapses to reveal the bright, sunny square of District 1. It’s a remarkable contrast from the reaping that he’s grown up with; rather than standing about in ragged handfuls of people, these citizens are mulling about proudly, shouting to one another, potential tributes showing off their build and confidence as if it really is a lighthearted competition rather than some sick death battle among adolescents.

Thankfully, the footage skips through the mayor’s speech, and then there’s a woman with a head of shifting-colored hair at the front, dipping her hand into a glass bowl with a simpering smile cast towards the camera.

“Now, whoever she calls probably won’t be the one to play,” the escort whispers, sounding like a young girl with a juicy secret. “The first few districts usually use volunteers only!” Like they don’t know. Like Grantaire and the other haven’t watched years and years of the damned Games already, like they could erase those memories if they tried.

Sure enough, there’s a stir as soon as the name is called. One girl is traded out for another, and Grantaire still doesn’t care, still can’t help but wonder whether any of it really even matters. They’re all caught up in this bloodied spider web, and it’s really sickening how they dance around it, play within its slick grasp as though coming out on top will bring them any sort of genuine victory. Likewise, the boy’s name is called, and a dark-haired figure from the crowd snarls in frustration. Grantaire’s insides rot with apathy. He starts down the aisle, fists clenched, jaw stiff.

A stir pulses through the crowd of seventeen-year-olds.

Something trembles in Grantaire’s stomach in the moments before the source of the disturbance emerges. For an instant, all the sound ringing so painfully through his head is sucked away as if in a complete vacuum, and he can only make out the slight catch of his own breath, heat and cold simultaneously battering at his face as the screen burns through his perception, all he can detect, all he can comprehend. This is a far more vivid isolation of his senses than any petty upset that rocked him at the sound of his own name, and he feels, in that instant, on the brink of something. Something momentous.

The golden-haired boy emerges, and his amazement crystallizes.

He can barely detect the voice as the crowd murmurs in astonishment, but he can see the fine lips moving, and watches without blinking as the initial tribute is shoved aside, as this bronze-gilded deity moves to take his place, head high, eyes bright and nearly smiling. As he approaches the stage, the camera cuts quite suddenly to a close-up, and Grantaire can’t remember how to breathe as the volunteer’s face fills the screen. He is beautiful. Golden curls frame regally crafted cheeks, a strong jaw and wide blue eyes, and all Grantaire knows is that the feeling emerging inside of him now, strengthening and solidifying as the new tribute takes his rightful place beside the Capitol woman, is new, unlike anything that has ever touched him before. And it is remarkable. It pierces like a shaft of lightning through the haze of his mind, clearing all the doubts and confusion condensed there, rendering everything pure, straightforward, easy.

He doesn’t realize he’s leaning forward until the other tribute clears her throat in irritation, and even then he doesn’t care. His ears ache as voices pound out, the Capitol woman’s high and piercing. “Now, let’s all calm down and listen to what this young man has to say—what’s your name, sweet?”

The blue eyes shift, and when they affix themselves perfectly onto the camera, Grantaire feels a raw shock surge through his spine. He cannot help but feel as though the even stare is directed straight towards himself, and he can’t feel his own lips, knows only that they must be slack in enamored breathlessness, that he is shaking inside and out with the extent of the emotion thrumming through him.

“Enjolras.”

Grantaire hears his breath rush out but cannot feel it. He does not understand the sensation clasping him, knows only that it is foreign, and stunning in its unfamiliarity.

“And what about your last name, Enjolras?”

“It is my last name.”

The crowd roars and fanfares are rung; the two tributes join hands and then it’s a cut to District 2, but Grantaire’s mind is still in the seconds before, adhered to the brilliance that he had glimpsed so briefly and yet so profoundly. It takes long, trembling minutes, and through the whole of the female tribute’s selection, he holds in his mind only the image of the golden-haired Enjolras, repeats and repeats the striking instant upon which he first sighted him, savors the shuddering glory that fills him at the very thought.

Hope.

The word emerges unbidden, and it courses repeatedly through his thoughts as a pale, dark-haired fifteen-year-old, sparkling-eyed and long-limbed, volunteers as male tribute. Hope, hope, hope.

That’s what you feel. Is it so hard to recognize, now?

The rest of the reapings, which he fully expected to be a tedious thing to sit through, whisk along rapidly. District 3 offers a pale girl and a solemn-faced blonde boy; both of District 4’s are eighteen-year-olds, powerful and brooding; District 5 pulls in a light-haired girl, doe-eyed and thin-framed, and an older boy who curiously has no hair at all, his bare pate glinting under the sunlight. District 6’s girl is lovely, golden-haired but remarkably fragile, and he figures she won’t last long, along with her partner, a miserable-looking twelve-year-old boy. The girl from 7, laden with rust-colored curls, looks much stronger than her straggling, dark -haired partner, whose features never shift from an expression of acutely terrified concern. District 8 presents a freckled boy and a lovely blonde girl; 9, an unremarkable girl and a young but muscular boy whose eyes are fiery with eager anticipation of the battle before him. In District 10, a pale, dark-haired girl with a horrible fixation of horror over her delicate features is reaped alongside a sturdy boy with curly hair clinging to his neck, and 11’s are siblings, a skinny brunette girl and a ragged blonde boy; curiously, there seem to be no distraught parents in the crowd. Names race through his mind as he takes in the sights emptily, few of which properly attach themselves to their bearers: Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, Musichetta, Cosette, Bahorel, Gavroche.

They are meaningless to him. None imbue him with that ringing sense upon which he still soars, the giddy high induced by the first volunteer, the golden-haired boy who held himself so proudly, whose eyes shone with such utter strength.

Enjolras.

It is not a name that he will forget. 

[riddelly]

roseate (8/10)

fandom; les misérables ships; bahorel/jehan words; 3083 previous; x

"I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don’t need to say so, not that… not that you can hear. But, just… do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? You don’t have to stay with me till the end, of course. I just… shit. Okay. Just try. That’s it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over." modern au // cancer fic

The rest of the afternoon passes in lazy leisure, and Bahorel pretends not to notice the fact that Jehan’s smiles never quite regain their full sunny extent. There’s enough light and warmth flooding the plaza and streets, anyways, and he lets himself absorb it completely until there’s no room for doubt. Of course, it finds a place to linger within him anyways, but he strives to ignore it, to instead keep talking, keep smiling and laughing and allowing himself to consider nothing but Jehan.

The festivities carry on as the sun winds its way across the arching, cloud-studded sky, and it’s not until around six that those gathered finally disperse in the name of dinner and other duties. Jehan and Bahorel, after bidding a final farewell to Courfeyrac, whom they’ve managed to relocate lingering about with the addition of three or four more young men and one wide-eyed girl, head home on their own, both of their steps misleadingly light, awash in a silence that Bahorel sorely hopes to be companionable.

He orders dinner from a nearby sandwich joint without a word, and eating is likewise a quiet affair, with both of them perched by the kitchen table. Jehan spends most of the time with his wide blue eyes fixated on the window beside them, chin resting in one contemplative hand, and Bahorel, in turn, is watching Jehan. There’s a faintly melancholy shade to the poet’s stare, and though he seems to be quite intent upon the cars streaking back and forth on the street, he’s surely lost in thought, removed far beyond anything set physically before him. By the time Bahorel delivers his own dishes to the sink, Jehan’s sandwich is practically untouched, and worry is beginning to gnaw within him once more.

“Hey,” he murmurs, pacing the small distance between them and extending his hands to settle them on Jehan’s thin shoulders. There’s a momentary start of surprise, then the muscles beneath him slowly relax as a sigh escapes Jehan’s lips. He leans back, his head tilting against Bahorel’s forearms, and soft chills extend from the point of contact.

“You should eat,” Bahorel urges. “Not like you can get any skinnier.”

“Not hungry,” Jehan replies, his voice barely audible. One of his delicate-fingered hands lifts slowly, almost absentmindedly, to settle upon Bahorel’s wrist. Both of them gaze out the window for an interminable number of minutes, green and blue likewise watching the glass as the light stained across it shifts from dark gold to purpled umber. They don’t talk—don’t need to talk, though the thoughts between them are most certainly not shared; Jehan’s mind is a mystery.

Bahorel, for once, is not worrying. Despite his rather characteristic lack of appetite, Jehan has had a good day—a good day, and a good week before. He’s doing alright. Better than alright. Today, despite the few catches, was pleasant, and, being here now with nothing between or around the two of them save the silence of the evening-dappled kitchen, he is content. If things were his way, he thinks, it would always be like this.

Jehan’s smile, caught in the sunshine of the parade, flashes through his mind again, and he squeezes the shoulders below him a bit more firmly, signaling that he intends to pull away. The fingers on his wrist cinch before releasing him, surprisingly fierce, but he opts to shrug off the strange intensity.

“Let’s go to bed,” Bahorel offers, and his own voice is softer than he believes he’s ever heard it, so gentle and tender that he himself is caught unaware.

“It’s only eight.”

“Long day,” he replies, trailing his fingertips along the fall of Jehan’s golden hair. “Come on—if you’re not going to eat, you should at least get some rest.”

“…Alright.” The chair, screeching softly against the tiled floor as it’s pushed away from the table, is a louder noise than any that’s permeated the stillness of the kitchen since Bahorel dumped his dishes, and they both stiffen slightly at the disturbance. “I’m going to shower first, okay?”

He hesitates as Jehan turns to face him, and it once more overcome by the absolute pure beauty of the delicate features—soft lips, clear cheeks, wide eyes, light lashes—set across from him. Jehan is more gorgeous, more fair than any fairytale princess, and the nickname so often invoked feels suddenly cheap—it doesn’t do him justice. Isn’t worth his possession, and Bahorel quite suddenly realizes that he isn’t, either—that he is so much lower than this fragile being whom he has somehow managed to find himself with.

I’m going to shower first, okay?

“Yeah,” he gets out, his mouth numb as he looks away, hands finding their way back to his pockets. “Sure. I’ll be in bed.”

He turns away and heads for the hallway, footsteps noisy, before he can see Jehan’s response.

It’s fifteen minutes later that he’s rejoined in their bedroom, and Jehan’s figure is small in the doorframe, his blonde locks stained dark with dampness. A damp towel is tied around him, light steam still drifting from it, and his expression is tentative, almost shy as he approaches the bed.

“Hey.” Bahorel, watching with his arms folded across the pillow and his cheek resting upon them, watches him with a faint smile, and it’s quickly returned as Jehan closes the difference between them.

“Hi. Sorry—sorry that took so long,” he mumbles, reaching up to comb a few stray strands away from his eyes. By now, he’s at the bedside, and Bahorel reaches up to assist him, only preoccupied for a second with the wet hair before his fingers instead curl around Jehan’s, pressing against his palm.

“It was fine,” he breathes. “Not too long.”

“Okay… good.”

Bahorel scoots back, then, lifting the edge of the blanket in a gentle invitation, and Jehan lets the towel fall to the floor in a warm, moist heap before slipping underneath. The shower water still clings to his skin, and the fresh scent of shampoo emanates softly from his hair. Bahorel immediately curls an arm around his shoulders, disregarding the dampness, and leans in until they’re a hair’s breadth apart, each other���s eyes the only thing visible.

There’s a stir beneath the sheets, and then Jehan’s slender arm emerges, light fingertips wandering up to trace along Bahorel’s jaw and mouth, soft enough that he finds himself shivering slightly. An almost lazy grin tugs at Jehan’s lips as he traces the curve of Bahorel’s own thoughtless smile, and his wide eyes glitter in the semidarkness, the only light source being the lamp that the curve of his shoulder obscures.

“I don’t ever want to lose you,” Jehan tells him simply. “Don’t let me.”

“Of course not.”

“Never.”

“Never.”

He won’t say the converse, won’t implore Jehan to stay with him for as long as life allows. It is too cruel, even to consider. Jehan sighs softly, his sweet breath the only sound, and so mild that Bahorel feels a stab behind his lungs alongside it, suspending his own exhalations, utterly enraptured.

“I want to stay with you,” Jehan continues, his palm now cupping the curve of Bahorel’s jaw. “Do impossible things with you.”

“How impossible?”

“Anything. The most ridiculous thing you can think of. Learn magic.”

“Magic, huh?”

“Yes. Dreams. I want to—I want to make dreams real, with you. I want us to defy reality together. Defy the oppression, and the revolution, and everything in-between—escape. I want to run away from it all, and I want you to be with me.”

“That’s a lot of wants, flower.”

“So I’m selfish.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

Jehan’s eyes half-close, and his breathing levels out, thumb now wandering around Bahorel’s neck, nails running lightly along the heated skin. He is limp on the pillow, as if he’s asleep already, but blue still gleams beneath his light golden eyelashes, vivid in shadow. “Impossible things,” he repeats, drawing the words out as though he doesn’t know their meaning, is merely voicing phrases from a foreign language that he finds somehow beautiful.

“Of course I will. I’ll do every impossible thing that we can ever come up with.” The words spilling forth in such a sudden fevered rush are nonsensical, but he doesn’t care, because he means them. Cradled beneath the sheets now, with only the glow of the lamp and the moisture of the shower, the heat of their bodies and the pace of their breath, he feels as though he could—could make dreams come true, could pursue his wildest fantasies, for surely, in having Jehan within his arms now, he is already halfway there.

“All of them?”

“All of them. But, for now…” His own hand drifts along Jehan’s neck until it reaches his shoulder, tracing patterns along the warm, damp skin. “For now, let this be enough.”

He needs not say a single word more. Without another syllable uttered between them, Jehan’s wandering fingers reach up to tangle fiercely in his hair, and Bahorel clutches him and pulls him in and savors his gasp, and nothing else matters.

The retching wakes him.

Several hours later, and he’s been up till now immersed in the most peaceful sleep he’s received in weeks, dozing in the wreath of warm blankets with his arm wrapped loosely around Jehan’s shoulders as the smaller man curled up against him, rested his head on Bahorel’s chest. Yet that comforting weight is absent now, and he feels cold air where there was previously a heated form—something’s wrong, the soft black space ripped through by the scraping noise of dry heaves.

“Jehan?” He’s sitting up all at once, blinking furiously, and nearly falls out of the bed in his desperate attempt to reach for the lamp and flick it on. The room is flooded by light that causes him to squint painfully, but he can make out all he needs to—Jehan is still in bed; he must have reached right past him to get to the lamp. He’s tangled in blankets up to his waist, doubled over forward, his hands clasped around his mouth and his frame trembling with violent gags.

“Jehan—hey, hey, what is it?” A hand instinctively flies to one trembling shoulder, and he’s greeted by the awful sting of cold sweat. Jehan’s hair, still faintly shower-damp, hangs in a stringy curtain around his face, the hollow cheeks of which are a sallow greyish-green shade that hits Bahorel like a punch to the stomach.

“Sick,” Jehan gets out, fingers still firmly covering his lips. He shudders again, and it’s all Bahorel can do to run a hand down his back, repeatedly, trying to provide some sort of comfort as he jolts and shakes. It’s a truly awful sound, one that turns Bahorel’s own stomach, and he’s suddenly quite grateful that the sandwich from last night is still untouched, that there’s nothing to come up. “…I feel—I feel so… so sick…”

“Look at me, Jehan, flower, please. Look at me.”

The eyes, wide and flat with none of the subtle brilliance from last night, turn towards him, and it’s no struggle to see that tears are lingering behind them, held forcefully back. He’s never seen Jehan so pale.

“I…”

“No, shh, shh, you’re fine. It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

Jehan leans into him, releasing half a sob as he buries his face in Bahorel’s shoulder. Instinctively, Bahorel twines his arms around Jehan’s bare back, still running his hands along the tense muscles in what he hopes to be a comforting action, continuing to cling tight and murmur worthless reassurances as the skinny frame spasms beneath him. His mind, not completely free of the sleepiness so recently thick around all of his senses, is a mess, heated and terrified by this sudden change. They fell asleep mere hours ago, he recalls desperately, and Jehan seemed fine then—more than fine, practically happy. This can’t happen. Not now.

Not now.

But denying it will only inflict more harm. It is happening, and that reality re-establishes itself fiercely in Bahorel’s thoughts as Jehan shakes with another weak retch. “Okay,” he gets out, murmuring into the top of his partner’s blonde head, “okay, we’re going to the hospital.”

“No—no, please, I hate it there—”

“Get dressed—can you get dressed? We have to go now.”

“Bahorel… please…”

And even though the action tears like his skin itself is being gouged, he forces himself to release Jehan, ignoring the pitiable whimper that his action elicits, and scramble out of the bed, hurrying towards the closet. His actions and thoughts are quick, one following the next in a blind sequence, hoping desperately that they can achieve some sort of purpose. Open the closet, find clothes—shit, does Jehan have anything clean? It’s not his goddamned apartment—he suffices to find the smallest shorts and shirt he can, then tosses them onto the bed, grabbing his own outfit and pulling it on as swiftly as possible. “Can you get dressed?” he demands over his shoulder.

“Y-yeah… I can.”

“Good.” Sure enough, he’s only just pulled a T-shirt over his head when he turns to see Jehan sitting on the edge of the bed, still sickly-skinned but now clothed—the things that were selected for size purposes are completely mismatched, so that he now dons a slightly baggy pair of khaki shorts under a russet-colored sweater whose sleeves extend past his fingertips, but there’s no time to worry about looks. Bahorel hurries over and wraps an arm around his shoulder, helping him into a shaky standing position.

“Can you walk?”

“’Course I can walk…”

“You sure? You don’t feel faint at all? I can—”

“I’m fine. Bahorel, please…”

He ignores the soft imploration, instead keeping an arm around Jehan as he hurries down the hall and towards the front door. He grabs his car keys, kicks on a pair of shoes without bothering to find socks, then hooks a pair of Jehan’s sandals under his fingers, muttering “You can get them on in the car.” Then he’s opening the door and slamming it shut behind him, they’re descending through the inappropriately peaceful corridor and heading outside. The night is ridiculously calm, and Bahorel hates it, just like he hates everything else right now—hates his exhaustion, and his disorientation, and the way that he’s moving so fast that he’s never in one place long enough to process it.

“Let’s just stay,” Jehan tries, half-limping towards the car—his own; it’s been parked outside of Bahorel’s apartment in a gesture of semi-permanence over the past several days. “It’s not like they can do much, anyways…”

“Don’t you say that, goddammit. Don’t you dare say that,” he snarls, opening the passenger door and pushing Jehan inside as gently as possible before ripping over to his own side and leaping into the driver’s seat. His hands are shaking as he settles one on the steering wheel, and it takes him three times to get the key in the ignition, each attempt punctuated by a fierce expletive forced between his lips. “You don’t know if it’s—it could just be something you ate,” he insists in what he hopes is a rational manner as the power finally catches, and immediately sets about veering them onto the street and setting course for the hospital.

“I’ve barely eaten anything…”

“Then it could be that! You can’t treat your stomach like that, come on…” The words catch in his throat, and he laughs to force back tears, his voice escalating into a near-hysterical half-shout. “I’m overreacting, you don’t even need to be in the hospital, for something like that. I—me, I’m overreacting, and you’re supposed to be the dramatic one—” Quite suddenly, he can’t stop laughing, and it terrifies him—terrifies both of them, if Jehan’s protest is any indication.

“You’re scaring me—” The words narrow into a soft gasp, an almost startled sort of oh, and Bahorel, silenced all at once, nearly crashes the car in his effort to turn, to pull Jehan back into his sight. The young blonde man is leaning forward, suspended only by his seatbelt, with his hands covering his mouth and tears swelling in his eyes once more. “Hurts,” he whispers, the word a ghost, and Bahorel has to hold back a cry of desperation as the salty streams run down his cheeks and over his thin, shaking fingers. “Bahorel, it h-hurts…”

“We’re almost there, I promise, I promise,” he gets out, forcing his eyes back to the road. The bright lights of the hospital rear into view, and he swerves them into the parking lot, sweat slipping between his palms and the steering wheel. “Hang in there, flower, please—” His voice cracks on the nickname, and then he’s swearing again as he struggles to find a parking place. It takes far too long, nearly thirty full seconds, and Jehan’s movements have gone from frantic to sluggish; he’s sagging against the car door, his eyes half-closed and shallow breaths leaking from his whitened lips.  Lightheadedness suddenly washes over Bahorel himself, but he forces it aside, thrusting open the car door and jerking the key out of the ignition before dashing to Jehan’s side. He half-supports, half-lifts him out, and Jehan leans heavily against him as they move across the parking lot, his feet slipping. “I’m… I can’t—” he gets out, then exhales heavily, his legs buckling.

“Shit—no, come on, we’re almost there, almost there. They’re going to figure out what’s wrong with you, I promise, they’re going to fix you, that’s what doctors do,” Bahorel reminds him, roughly heaving him back into some semblance of a standing position. He’s practically carrying him at this point, Jehan’s own still-bare feet only occasionally slipping in an attempt at a step, and his head feels as though a furious swarm of bees has found its way through his ears, white noise roaring as he gets through the double doors of the hospital and forces himself through the reception area, not thinking, only holding Jehan up and trying to get to the front counter.

“He needs help—Jehan Prouvaire, he’s been here before, he—he’s sick,” and the words are disjointed, loud, everyone’s probably watching him but he doesn’t care because all he can think is that Jehan is hurting, and he needs to stop it, needs to save him. “Please—please, just help him.” 

[riddelly]

important.

i have a house in hudson, wisconsin. it’s a lovely little town, and my favorite part of it is a quiet, privately run bookstore downtown, called chapter 2 books. it’s small and cozy, and the owners are remarkably sweet. 

well, a dentist bought out the building, and the beautiful little bookstore is being forced to vacate by the end of the month. 

luckily, there’s a petition here, on change.org, to give them more time to organize the moving process. it would mean worlds to me if you could take a minute to sign and another minute to reblog. 

i cannot stress how wonderful of a store this is, and how much it deserves the extra time.

[riddelly]

roseate (7/10)

fandom; les misérables ships; bahorel/jehan words; 3014 previous; x

"I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don’t need to say so, not that… not that you can hear. But, just… do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? You don’t have to stay with me till the end, of course. I just… shit. Okay. Just try. That’s it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over." modern au // cancer fic

“I look ridiculous,” Jehan sighs, but he’s grinning as he breaks Bahorel’s gaze, directs his eyes instead towards the long stretch of light pavement glittering below them. His hair is held back from his face in a loose braid, but a few unshakable strands still dangle in his eyes, pale gold over the bright colors laid over his cheeks. The very start of the parade housed a few people with jars of paint and eager expressions, urging passerby to decorate themselves, and Bahorel, taking Courfeyrac’s advice to behave as over-the-top as possible, urged Jehan to participate, at only the price of doing so himself. So it is that they now both have vivid rainbow hues striping their cheeks, matching the bright flags and banners that surround them. The day is perfectly sunny, and Bahorel has cast aside all of his self-consciousness to instead be consumed by childish cheeriness.

“Of course you don’t. You’re gorgeous,” he laughs, playfully  mussing the top of Jehan’s head. He’s rewarded by a yelp of protest and a duck out of the way, though it’s punctuated by a few helpless giggles.

“Stop it,” Jehan urges, straightening his thrown-askew braid.

“Sorry, princess.”

“Haven’t I told you not to call me that?”

“Haven’t you noticed that I don’t listen?”

Jehan rolls his eyes and lets out a very un-princess-like snort, turning towards the street, which has been cordoned off from traffic to allow for the flood of noisy people beginning to fill it. “Come on, let’s get moving.”

“No rush, is there?” Despite his words, Bahorel follows Jehan as he steps off the curb and into the street, nervously beginning to merge with the rest of the crowd. He looks shy, and not nearly as boisterous as some of the others; his casual clothing, additionally, is quite subdued in comparison to some of the skimpy getups that many of the rest are dressed in. It’s a relatively relaxed event, and the hordes of people, though noisy, do seem a bit calmer than he might have expected. It’s cheerful without being intimidating, and Bahorel is completely comfortable as he slings an arm around Jehan’s shoulders and starts down the boulevard in the current of the rest.

“It’s nice, though, isn’t it?” Bahorel prompts, his eyes tracing a bunch of multicolored balloons as they lose themselves into the sky. They wander about in several different directions, winding into the perfect light blue expanse, and their spread communicates a sense of such absolute freedom, release, that Bahorel feels a lightening in his own chest, distancing him from the weight of everyday life. Here, surrounded by other people who shove aside their troubles for a few brief hours of celebration, awash in the light and warmth and color of what seems to be a perfect springtime, he feels content. The truth, the damning truth that seemed so coldly near in the stark white hospital rooms, has never felt more distant.

“It is nice,” Jehan agrees with a sigh, and leans up against him, reaching down so that his fingertips trail along the back of Bahorel’s wrist. A second later, their hands wind tightly together and twist, and they’re holding onto each other with a ferocity unbefitting of the careless atmosphere, but Bahorel doesn’t care, because the slight pain that twinges in his wrist is irrelevant to the delight coursing through him.

“It feels so... welcoming,” Jehan murmurs, a small smile taking hold of his lips as he scans the others around them. Some are confidently wandering along on their own, while others meander in proud pairs—two women, two men, and just about everything in-between. It’s true, Bahorel thinks, though he doesn’t voice it. The two of them have always been accepted without a thought among the Amis, most of who couldn’t be less bothered by their shared gender, but it is far too easy to recognize, when thrust into the rest of the world, just how unwelcome they may be to some people.

Here, however, acceptance is as warm as the air itself, and though Bahorel is typically undeterred by whatever ridiculous homophobia may be thrust in his face, he can’t deny that this really is a relief even to his usual uncaring attitude. He can relax here, and he knows that Jehan feels the same as the smaller man sighs and tilts his head into Bahorel’s shoulder, swinging their joined arms slightly as they move on down the sunny street. Energetic pop music is radiating from a few speakers set on the sidewalks, and it’s more ambient than deafening, winding through the background and casually overlaid by the loud exclamations and chatter of those around them. A few conversations are being shared, while other people elect to simply stroll in silence, Bahorel and Jehan generally among them, though they occasionally exchange a few soft words.

“I wonder if they have food at any point,” Jehan murmurs now, lifting his chin in a futile attempt to see past the swathes of people lining the street, trying to make out any sort of refreshment stands ahead.

“Why? You hungry?” Bahorel questions. It’s probably early afternoon by now, and they did have a relatively early and small breakfast—damn, he should have thought of this; of course they wouldn’t be able to make it the whole way on a few slices of toast.

“Mm, just a bit. Don’t worry about it.”

“I don’t want you to be unhappy, though,” Bahorel objects, concern welling within him. “Maybe there’ll be a restaurant somewhere up here, then we could stop in and just grab a sandwich or something. I’m sure this thing will keep going on long enough for a quick break,” he adds, glancing over his shoulder, where all number of people are continuing to move from behind him, as far as he can see down the next block or two.

“It really is quite a turn-up, isn’t it?” an animated voice interrupts. He turns back to see a very familiar gangly, dark-haired figure pulling up in front of him, hands shoved in his jeans pockets and a wide grin spread across his face.

Courfeyrac is far less subtle than them—he’s wearing a rainbow tie-dyed T-shirt in what might be a woman’s cut, with vibrant green skinny jeans underneath that seem to practically glow in the sunlight. Though he dons no face paint, his inky curls are strewn with multicolored ribbons that look as though they’ve been thoughtlessly woven in by someone else, an assumption backed by the appearance of a couple of wide-eyed young men who hasten to his sides, one grasping his hand and the other leaning up against his shoulder as he continues to stride backwards.

“Your ribbons are coming out,” the first, a thin ginger-haired boy with light green eyes, scolds, reaching out to tuck one curly dark strand behind Courfeyrac’s ear.

“Hm, are they? Sorry, sweet, it’s a bit breezy out.”

Bahorel raises his eyebrows, unable to suppress a snort at the apparent flock gathering around his friend. “Got some fans, there?” he half-teases.

“Oh, I’m meeting all sorts of people!” he responds enthusiastically. “Like I said, bigger turn-up than I expected, and a bunch of quite lovely young men and ladies and the like, at that. Wouldn’t you say so, darling?” he adds to his second shadow, a soft-faced youth with curly blonde locks rather reminiscent of Enjolras’s.

“Yes, yes, absolutely!” he agrees eagerly, and it’s incredibly obvious that he’s dazzled by Courfeyrac—that they both are, and Bahorel is torn between laughing and wincing at the knowledge that they’re bound not to get much anywhere with him; for a hopeless flirt, he’s never actually known his friend to get into a proper relationship. Courfeyrac seems to generally prefer solitude, with the company of the several cats who share his apartment and perhaps the occasional partner over for a night or two.

“Anyways,” Courfeyrac goes on, shaking himself slightly free of the pining duo, “what do you think?”

“Oh, it’s great,” Bahorel agrees, glancing around at the sea of people around them. “Thanks for bullying me into coming.”

Courfeyrac’s thin eyebrows arch and his gaze flickers over to Jehan, who smiles wryly.

“Yes, he told me it was your idea.”

“Wow, that’s a bit counterproductive,” he muses, scowling in Bahorel’s direction. “Don’t you ever listen to a word I say?”

“Sure, but I’m awful at lying.”

“And it’s a good thing he told me the truth,” Jehan continues primly, slanting a faint glare of his own towards Courfeyrac. “You shouldn’t tell him to say things that aren’t true. It’s only going to upset both of us.”

“Don’t seem upset now, do you? And you’re here now,” Courfeyrac points out, apparently unperturbed by the accusation. “Anyways, glad to hear you’re doing well. I should probably get going, though—I heard Feuilly is here somewhere, and maybe Grantaire, if he was listening to me at all.”

“Yeah, like Grantaire would ever show up somewhere like this.”

“Hey, he might!” he objects, though it’s pretty clear that he doubts the possibility just as much as Bahorel does. As good a person as Grantaire really does seem to be turning out to be, his nice qualities don’t  make it any less doubtful that he’d appear someplace like this. The chances are more likely that he’s at the Musain or elsewhere now, probably drinking and quite possibly gambling—a fairly direct inverse correlation seems visible with his mood to the weather; on a bright, sunny day like this, he’s likely to feel the most dismal, probably retreating even from his usual social haunts and brooding in solitude.

Bahorel doesn’t want to think about that now, though—he’s surrounded by light and music and enthusiasm and he’s going to allow himself to be happy, force himself to be happy no matter what, because he can’t afford anything else. So he nods and bids a brief farewell to Courfeyrac, as does Jehan.

“I think there are only a few more blocks—enjoy the rest!” the dark-haired man waves, then whisks around and starts ahead, shooting a quite unnecessary “you two coming?” towards those behind him, who hurry after even without his bidding.

“Well, I’m glad to see he’s enjoying it,” Jehan laughs slightly. Bahorel grins down at him, his heart convulsing at the pure liveliness alight in his delicate features. However, it dissolves a few seconds later, making way for a slight frown that contrasts with the light surging about them. Bahorel follows his gaze, worry rearing up within him once more, and his eyes soon settle upon the source of his boyfriend’s concern.

At the edge of the street, planted there as if in intentionally contrasting juxtaposition, is a small knot of stony-faced men and women, their arms heavy with wide black-and-white signs that are practically laughable in pathetic comparison to the multicolored banners sailing over everyone else. Bahorel doesn’t even need to make out the specific block words to know quite well what they say, and he groans in disgust.

“Is that really necessary?” he demands, raising his voice so that the protesters can hear. Jehan exhales heavily.

“Just ignore them...”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, it’s ridiculous. It’s none of your goddamn business!” he shouts, and earns a hardening of the protesters’ glares, while the other members of the parade laugh and cheer him on. Jehan’s jaw tightens.

“Please, don’t...”           

“What? Don’t tell them that they’re being assholes? Because they—”

“I don’t want you to get into a fight right now, okay? Just—just this once, please don’t.”

“Fight?” he echoes, then the concern in his tone morphs into humor, narrowing to a gentle laugh. “Aw, come on, flower, they’re too stuffy to shout back at me, let alone actually pull out their fists. Here—here, nonviolent protest.”

“What?” Jehan asks, confusion flitting over his features as Bahorel unlaces their fingers and takes him by the shoulders instead, spinning him around until they’re standing face to face, causing a slight blockage in the crowd that isn’t objected to in the slightest.

“Let’s show those jerks,” Bahorel breathes, then ducks in and moves his hands to Jehan’s jaw, tilting slightly and kissing him as hard and fierce as he possibly can. The immediate response is a slight squeak, and then anxious hands move to loop around his own shoulders, and Bahorel can hear the cheers of those around them far overwhelming the hisses of disgust from the protesters.

“There,” he chuckles against Jehan’s lips, awash in the light warmth of the sunshine bathing them both, lightheaded from his impulsivity and giddy with the overwhelming positivity of the myriad people and colors around them. “If they think there’s something wrong with that, then I don’t know what the hell’s wrong with them.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Jehan shoots back, but he’s grinning as they pull apart and step strongly past the clump of defiance, melting back into the crowd that’s now moving up towards what seems to be the end of the stretch, yet more flags and balloons gathered around the final point.

“It’s good to be ridiculous every once in a while,” Bahorel replies brightly. He scans the mulling crowd around where the parade concludes, trying to make out Courfeyrac or Feuilly or even Grantaire, but all the faces that meet his stare are unfamiliar. It’s no matter, really—he didn’t expect to meet anyone they knew, and the sole encounter with Courfeyrac was pleasantly surprising enough. “Now, do you want to try and find food?”

“Think they have any?”

“It looks like there are a few booths up here... probably something to drink, too.” He’s thirsty, but at the same time, there’s that softly lingering rosy taste on his lips from the exuberant kiss, and he’s not particularly keen on washing it away anytime soon.

“Do you have any money?” Jehan checks, glancing around at the stands up. Bahorel follows his gaze and observes that there are indeed a number of food and drink setups.

“There should be something...” He dips a hand into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out a wad of crumpled but workable bills. “Yeah, we’re set. Where do you want to start?”

“Mm... look, there’s lemonade!”

“What, are you a lemonade fan?” Bahorel questions, pulled by the hand once more clasped in Jehan’s as the smaller man hurries ahead of him, his braid trailing in the air behind him as he half-skips towards the winding line outside of what does indeed appear to be a lemonade stand.

“What’s wrong with lemonade?”

“Nothing, I just... thought you were more one for iced tea.”

“Lemonade’s good every so often,” Jehan replies matter-of-factually. “Can’t have it too often, though, or it starts tasting too sour.”

“Is that so?”

“It is,” he confirms, beaming. Bahorel laughs, and is about to reach out and fluff up that golden hair again when he remembers Jehan’s objection from before, and suffices to instead twine his free fingers through the braid. The golden light is soft on Jehan’s creamy skin, giving it a warm sort of glow, and his hair is illuminated in metallic strands like pale tinsel. He’s breathtakingly lovely, and Bahorel is momentarily distracted by the pure innocent beauty of him, figures that there isn’t another face in the world so absolutely gorgeous.

“Alright, then,” he breathes, no longer quite remembering what he’s talking about. Jehan blinks, light lashes momentarily flickering over his wide blue eyes, and Bahorel realizes that he’s smiling stupidly, almost drunkenly. He shakes his head and starts to turn away, but soft fingers on his stubble-roughened jaw stop him, turning him back to gaze down at Jehan.

“Just let me look at you for a second,” the smaller man murmurs.

“You can see me any time you want, flower.”

“I want to make sure I know you perfectly. So that no matter where I go... I remember what you look like. It’s the... most important thing there is.”

His words cause a sharp twisting sting in Bahorel’s stomach, previously so aglow with euphoria, and their gaze breaks as his own stare falls to the pavement between them. As hard as he tries not to back Jehan’s words with meaning, he knows the point of them exactly, and he hates it—he doesn’t want them ever to be separated, doesn’t want Jehan to go somewhere that he can’t follow. He hates this, hates the distance that’s clearly between them despite their physical proximity; already, Jehan is slipping away from his grasp, intentionally distancing himself from reality so as to be better prepared for the inevitable. And Bahorel detests it, wants to be able to hold onto him and force him to stay, keep them together for infinity.

“Don’t look down,” Jehan chides, “please... your eyes are the most important part.”

So he forces them up again, the smile now entirely gone from his features, and is once more captivated by the fragile fairness of the face across from him.

“So green... they’re so green. It’s the nicest green I’ve ever seen, did you know that? Better than any sort of gem... or forest...”

Each word seems to strike deeper into his heart, and so, with a heavy heave of breath that’s almost a gasp, he breaks away, stepping back so that Jehan’s hands fall from his side, a frown staining his forehead and darkening his own sky-hued eyes.

“Come on, we’re blocking the line,” he mutters, though nobody seems to be upset by it—in fact, there are several other couples around them holding each other in a similar manner, though they all seem to be smiling, and he highly doubts that the soft words between them hold any of the weight that Jehan’s did.

“Bahorel...”

“Lemonade, right?” he mutters, and pretends he doesn’t notice how Jehan’s formerly tender expression closes off slightly. He can’t focus on that right now. And so he forces himself into the line without another word, drowning himself once more in the light and the sounds and the colors, and hoping desperately that it’s enough to keep reality at bay.

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (7/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; marius/cosette (more will come later!) words; 3347 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory.

Marius doesn’t sleep much the night before the reaping happens, but that’s a usual occurrence for him. The possibility of being entered into the Hunger Games isn’t something that’s relaxing in the least. That’s why he’s sitting up in bed, staring out the window in his room. He’s lucky; his grandfather that he lives with is a Peacekeeper, and therefore the house that they live in is decent, especially considering they’re in District 8. However, none of this can comfort Marius as he sits up in bed, wide awake with the anxiety of the oncoming day.

His gaze is locked on the window, because there is one comfort that has come during each and every year during the reaping, one that will come from the sky. It’s sort of a strange obsession,  that could even go as far as to be embarrassing, so he keeps it to himself, and pretends that it’s only fear that sets his mind and stomach askew on the night beforehand. Really, it’s more the girl who comes for the reaping. Marius has never understood why she comes; she’s obviously from another district, and has little to do with his world here. And yet she’s still brought here on a hovercraft for this barbaric event that everyone pretends is so ordinary and necessary for survival. Marius has only been able to discover one thing about her, and that is that her name is Ursula, which he learned from finding a handkerchief she had dropped while departing at one point, embroidered with the lettering U. F. Because of this, Marius realized that her name obviously had to be Ursula. It is the silliest thing, how little he really knew about her, and yet she has still managed to so completely cast him under her spell without knowing that the poor nerd existed. It’s her stunning beauty that manages such a thing, with her golden locks flowing beneath the bonnet she generally wore to this gathering. She has a kind gaze, full of softness and generosity, lurking above her rosy cheeks. All the clothing Marius has seen her wear was grand and rich enough that he can guess that she is either from one of the wealthier districts, like one or two, or perhaps that she is under the protection of a Peacekeeper as he is himself.

Finally, he sees the hovercraft land, a few blocks from his house in the center of town, and Ursula exits, followed by a few Peacekeepers. The small clump of people goes silently from the house, to the building to the left, which Marius knows as the Mayor’s home. This is where she generally stays, as he has seen her enter and exit this building in past years.

As Marius sits there in bed, he can’t help but wonder if he’ll actually be able to muster up the courage to talk to this young lady. He spends the rest of the time pondering over what he will say to her if he does have the chance, before eventually the sun rises, and the voice of his grandfather can be heard beckoning him out of bed.

“Marius!” Grandfather shouts, stirring the young man from his daydream.

Marius stands from his bed, leaning against the post of his resting place as he dresses into a nice blouse for the events of today. From the light of the window his form can be seen, a skinny figure without too much muscle or food to build him up. His face is pale in the morning light, splotched by a smattering of freckles that covers his cheeks and nose. A mop of brown hair lies scattered on top of his face.

“Marius, get out here!” his grandfather calls again, but still not bothering to go up the stairs and into Marius’s bedroom to fetch him properly.

“I’m coming, Grandfather!” Marius answers warily, withholding a yawn. “Just getting dressed.”

“Well, hurry, then; we only have so many hours of the day until the reaping,” Grandfather responds harshly, irritation clear in his voice. “You need to get some food in you before the ceremony takes place.”

Marius hurries down the stairs the moment he’s zipped his pants, scurrying over to the table that’s already set with a full table settings and meal. “Sorry. How long do we have?”

“Hardly time to speak, my boy,” Grandfather grumbles in his immense irritation. This Peacekeeper is often so grumpy, to the point that it doesn’t even affect Marius’s mood in the slightest, his mind too far gone towards his Ursula. This old man wears his traditional Peacekeeper suit, which is a grey that fits into the mood of the reaping. He has a stubbly beard that is almost as bristled as his attitude, growing from his lined chin that well represents the amount of years he has on his back. “I expect they’ll be starting on time as they always do, which will be in an hour’s time. Come now, Marius, you must make yourself presentable for the reaping.”

“Of course, Grandfather,” Marius nods in response, the movement and words automatic as he shovels his food in. Again, he’s not really listening, because he can still see Ursula’s face in his mind’s eye, and gazes upon the memory longingly. Perhaps he will be able to talk to her this time, maybe if he’s able to stop her before she leaves back to her home through way of the hovercraft. The entirety of it is silly, really; even if he can talk to her, there’s little chance they could have more than a few words together, and then she’d be off who knows where. Still, he can hope, dream.

“You’re wearing that, then?” his grandfather snorts in disgust, eyeing the clothing in complete disdain. “You must look proper, my young man. Dress yourself as if you were meeting with a lady friend, not that you do that sort of thing.”

“That’s what I did,” Marius mutters in response, his already pink face flushing further at his elder’s insistence. “I look fine.”

“Nonsense! Must I dress you myself? You have an overcoat, don’t you? And a decent pair of trousers, I imagine!” Grandfather flails his arms slightly as he says this, his wrinkles wobbling around his face. “Come, now, you don’t have any time to spare; go and redress yourself with some taste.”

“Fine,” Marius murmurs, shrugging. He doesn’t care; but perhaps his grandfather’s advice will get Ursula’s attention. So he takes his time to choose clothing that no one will make him switch out of. When he returns with a dusty brown coat over the blouse and a pair of grey dress pants, it is time to leave, and his relative is already out the door to perform his duties amongst the masses of the district. Frankly, Marius is relieved that the old man is gone, so he can exit to the center of town in peace, taking his time as he tries to seek out the one face in the crowd who he cares about. He doesn’t even have any other friends, since he’s never been much for seeking out people; even at school, no one really pays him much head. He’s just the strange little boy who’s adopted by one of the top Peacekeepers.

His eyes are magnets for her face, and he searches her out immediately, darting about with the other girls who are awaiting the frightening prospect of being chosen for the Hunger Games. This isn’t like District 1 or those nearby it; there isn’t any cheer, just a nervous, frightened mumble of noise that’s closer to silence than the noise level of the mass talking. And yet Ursula is a radiant sun amongst the group, shining even with her obvious nervousness and discomfort, and somehow manages to sooth Marius’s own nerves, if just a little bit. With her face in view, he gets into the boys’ section. Admittedly, even with Ursula here, he’s beyond nervous. Marius can’t comprehend how he could possibly be part of the Games, to kill people. Such a thing is completely unspeakable.

The courtyard that’s usually empty with its dusty paved ground now has barely enough room to stand in properly. Around the edges of the area, the cameras are everywhere, Peacekeepers from the Capitol rearranging lighting and different cameras to center the attention at the large wooden stage that they’ve positioned in front of the mayor’s mansion. Several people are already up on the stage, the Capitol people standing out the most with their frilly and unnaturally bright and dyed coloring. There are others, too, who Marius knows as the past victors, but there are very few of these; the youngest one who now serves as the mentor is still only slightly younger than Marius’s grandfather. It has been a long time since they’ve had a win, and this old man, who goes by his last name of Mabeuf, is looking with solemn interest over the crowd, his gaze wary. The people he focuses on are the children, separated into the two different groups by their genders in preparation for the ceremony about to begin. The adults are held behind where the children are gathered, too far away to lend a comforting hand. Marius can spot his grandfather, though, who has a stony face that’s emotionless as he helps others from the Capitol set up the center stage with even more cameras.

“Attention, attention!” A shrill voice squeaks from a man on stage, his high tones heavily bearing the Capitol accent that’s so vividly recognizable. His hair looks like the top of an ice cream cone that has been licked into the air, a spike that bends backwards in its strands of electric blue and vibrant orange, twisted together in a bright mass that almost seeks as much attention as his voice does. His eyelashes are also exaggerated in size and flicked up in the same manner, outlining his grey eyes in a dark rim of purple, set on top of the exotic acid green makeup that circles his eyes even further. His pink suit looks plastic from where Marius stands, a rubbery material that’s stretched over his broad shoulders and squeezing at his narrow hips in that ridiculous Capitol fashion. Of course, it’s the Capitol representative that comes to choose the tributes each and every year. To Marius, this man has always resembled a large tropical bird much more than an actual person. “Settle down, everyone! It is time for us to begun! For us to choose the victors of this year!” He says everything shrilly, resting on the ‘v’ in victors for an entire second as he assumes that whoever is chosen will win the Games this year, as he does every year, which is extremely optimistic since they haven’t won since he has come to serve at this district. “Yes, that’s right; quiet, everyone. Now, before we get to the exciting part, we have a few words from the Capitol itself!”

Marius tunes all of this out, because the words he can recall by heart really mean nothing to him, just a nonsensical reason behind the suffering. Instead, he focuses on Ursula once again. She’s standing at the edge of the crowd of girls, her face cast downwards towards the ground with her arms wrapped around herself. It’s clear she can’t be more nervous, and Marius wishes that there was something he can do to help her through this. As he lets his eyes soak in her beauty, he’s almost able to forget what possibility is right around the corner, almost able to detach himself completely from his world and believe that maybe there’s some chance that someday he may be able to do more than stare, and actually talk to her, even.

“Wasn’t that lovely,” the capitol representative squeals, clapping his hands together so close to the microphone that the sound echoes slightly in the silence. “Makes me tear up every time. Now, here we have the excitement!” He pounces forwards, drawing one manicured hand into the glass ball in front of him that contains the hundreds of slips, shuffling his fingers around in his own slow time. Finally he pulls out the first one, from the woman’s bowl, as it always is done first.

Please not Ursula, please not Ursula... Marius begs in his mind, biting his bottom lip.

“Cosette Valjean,” he announces, gazing around the group of girls.

Oh, thank goodness, Marius sighs in relief at the words, so thankful that he won’t need to watch such a lovely woman fight others to the death.

To his utmost horror and surprise, the woman he identified as Ursula takes a large shaky breath and walks out from the rest, allowing herself to be lead to the center stage. No, this can’t be; she can’t be Cosette, the victim of this horrid game.

“You must be Cosette Valjean!” the Capitol representative purrs, grinning at the new victor.

“I am,” she responds, her voice shaking ever so slightly.

“I bet you anything that with a last name like that you’re related to the Jean Valjean, victor of the 24th hunger games! Is that true?” he prods her further.

“It is.” Again she answers with two syllables, and Marius almost wishes that he could go ahead and volunteer in her place, almost but not quite—despite her attractive qualities, Cosette still is a stranger. He hadn’t even known her correct name.

“Any volunteers?” he asks, his eyes darting about the crowd without really expecting anyone to respond. No one does, and he proceeds to slip his hand in the second bowl, nimbly grasping another slip of parchment. He lifts the paper up to the light, and his lips, which look almost sharp from the way his lipstick is formed, speak the next familiar words with a numb sensation tingling all over Marius’s body and causing him to quiver in place. “Marius Pontmercy.”

Marius can’t move, he has imagined this moment so many times, dreaded it so completely. Now this is reality, he has been chosen, and he’s absolutely positive that this means his death. Not only that, but Cosette’s also going to die—they’re going to be throttled to death together, and that’s never how he wanted it to go. This isn’t the way he wants to get to know Cosette.

“Marius Pontmercy?” the Capitol representative repeats, gazing around the crowd of boys, searching him out. The others around him part, knowing that he is the victim who is supposed to walk up to the stage like a pig to the chopping block. His name is his death sentence.

“Come on,” an older boy whispers to his left, slightly pushing Marius’s shoulder to urge him forward. Marius does take this cue, proceeding to stumble forward, shaking from head to toe. This is live, too; all the other tributes will be able to see him and see him as the meat of the games. Marius hardly can make himself care; he’s already dead in his mind, anyway. He manages to force himself up the steps to the center of the stage where both the Capitol citizen and Cosette are waiting. He manages to meet her eyes, if only for just a second, to see immense pity lurking there, along with such sorrow. They both know they’re already dead.

“Mr. Pontmercy, I presume?” the representative quips, looking down at me with his bizarre stance.

“Yes,” Marius replies, not quite understanding how he’s able to form words at all.

“Here we have them!” he continues, as if Marius had come onto the stage with no problems at all. Well, such things have happened before, it’s hardly a stretch to ignore. “The tributes of the 32nd Hunger Games, District 8!”

There’s no response to this, but apparently the man from the Capitol isn’t expecting this, either, because he doesn’t hesitate before leading the two of them back to the mayor’s mansion behind them.

* * *

The tributes of the oncoming game are entitled to quick goodbyes with a few friends and family before being whisked off to the Capitol. Marius only expects one person to come to him, his grandfather, for his mother had died so long ago and his father had abandoned him upon her death. Of course Marius’s grandfather is who appears first. They meet in the minute room they are allowed, with plain walling and wooden flooring, a place that could have been one of the factory rooms if it had been created large enough. The first thing Marius notices upon his grandfather’s arrival is how red his face is. He’s not crying, but simply has a very red face.

“Marius,” Grandfather begins, and his voice cracks as he speaks. “Marius, oh, Marius.”

“Grandfather,” Marius starts, knowing not to embrace the old man, but still finding his own eyes begin to fill with tears as the sight of him. He doesn’t want to leave, he doesn’t want to die. He tries to say more but is unable, tears rolling down his cheeks and filling his mouth.

“Marius...” his grandfather repeats with a hoarse voice, shaking his head as he surveys the young man. “Why did you do this? Why were you chosen?”

“Grandfather, I don’t want this. I want to escape, get out,” Marius murmurs, gasping for air. The tears are still coming, and they show no sign of ceasing.

“You had one slip of paper; how did you manage it?” His grandfather’s screaming now, and Marius edges away, his tears coming faster.

“I don’t want this!” Marius promises, backing up against the wall in his haste to get away from the screaming adult. “I want to be home, safe, with you!”

“You’re done,” a different Peacekeeper announces, stepping in the room.

“Goodbye,” Marius chokes out, watching his grandfather leave, who doesn’t say a word as he exits. He feels so incredibly hollow. Is this really how the one person he knows is going to say goodbye? By screaming and blaming him? Is he really going to die so forgotten?

To Marius’s greatest surprise, another person enters, a servant girl who hands him a slip of paper. “Marius, this is from your father. He wanted you to have it sooner before he, well, before he died, but that didn’t happen. I’m sorry.”

“My father?” Marius croaks, taking the slip of paper and opening it. “What do you mean, he died?”

“Passed away a night ago,” she informs him sadly, shaking her head. “He was a good man, your father, wanted to see you with all of his heart, but your grandfather wouldn’t let him. He watched you grow up, though, tried to protect you as best he could with the distance involved.”

“My father...” Marius repeats, his voice at a whisper and his tears falling in a hurricane now. Uncontrollable, unstoppable. He had been told that his father had abandoned him, without a care or a mention of him. But this, this is an entirely different story. His eyes trace the paper, reading the lines that his own flesh and blood had penned in.

For my son: during my life I gained the title of Baron, but many disputed over my rights to this title, so it shall be passed to my son as he is deemed worthy. Also let it be known that a man by the name of Thénardier saved my life, and that if Marius happens upon him, he will do all he can for the man.

So that’s it, the words that he bothered to scribe to Marius. Marius wants to hurl the paper as far as he can away from him in his frustration, but instead clings onto the scrap and presses it to his chest. As little as it is, this is all he possesses of his father’s, and he keeps it dear to his heart.

“Thank you,” Marius bids the woman, who says farewell and leaves as well. However impossible he might have thought that before, Marius feels even more completely hollowed and empty now.

[riddelly]

important.

i have a house in hudson, wisconsin. it’s a lovely little town, and my favorite part of it is a quiet, privately run bookstore downtown, called chapter 2 books. it’s small and cozy, and the owners are remarkably sweet. 

well, a dentist bought out the building, and the beautiful little bookstore is being forced to vacate by the end of the month. 

luckily, there’s a petition here, on change.org, to give them more time to organize the moving process. it would mean worlds to me if you could take a minute to sign and another minute to reblog. 

i cannot stress how wonderful of a store this is, and how much it deserves the extra time.

[riddelly]

scarlet fire (6/38)

fandom; les misérables/the hunger games ships; none (they will come later!) words; 3104 cowriter; x previous; x

The Mockingjay’s rebellion was not the first. Years before, there was another uprising. It was crushed by the Capitol, erased into historical nonexistence, but the survivors remember its martyrs: the golden-haired boy, the scruffy blonde child, the hollow-faced girl who let herself die. They were only children, yet theirs was a time of glory. 

The sun beats without mercy upon those gathered in the town square, its bronzed caress gladly nudging the strong forms mulling below it into flattering accentuation. The talk rushing about is excited, babbling, and punctuated with the occasional laugh; it’s very different here than it would be in any of the poorer Districts, surely. While they gather with their heads down and their eyes full, the youth of District 1 are proud and eager, only praying that they might be lucky enough to get their name drawn for the honor of participation in the Hunger Games. These people have spent their lives hoping and training, and it’s the last year for some of them; those are the ones who stand with a more focused ferocity in their wide eyes, perhaps exchanging the occasional joke or prod, but with their mood generally somber as they gaze on at the glittering stage before them.

The reaping hasn’t officially started, and so the residents of the District mull about without aim, gathering in small flocks that only vaguely line up to the age groups through which they’re meant to be organized. Some are hard-faced, scowling towards the cameras in an attempt to impress the audience that they haven’t yet been exposed to, while others take advantage of these last free minutes to converse lightly with their friends and family. There is, notably, an absence of any sort of negative emotion. The only ones who show even a hint of tears are the parents and relatives of those pooled for the reaping, and their crying is through smiles, clearly borne out of pride rather than fear.

They have been raised to believe that there is no higher glorification than the selection of their name to be pitted in a hopeless, impossible fight to the death against other, probably weaker teenagers. For them, there is no other way about life. This way has always been the norm, and chances are that it will never change.

One among their undulating ranks thinks differently. A single mind to contradict the masses, a lone defier in the face of absolute dominating cruelty.

He stands a bit apart from the rest, surveying them with a faint scowl that could almost be called prissy, had it perhaps a bit less strength behind it. Strength is very vibrant in everything about him, conveyed in the set of his fine lips and the tilt of his carven chin, radiating from the lean, muscular form clear beneath simple clothing; unlike the rest of his peers, he’s dressed far from fancily. The simplistic outfitting does little to play down his appearance, though—on the contrary, the intent beauty of his face and figure is only emphasized through the dullness of his attire. For beautiful he is, in a most striking way; one that draws the attention of several girls across the square, giggling and shooting him the occasional look, which he calmly chooses to ignore. Everything about him is bright and golden, pure in a way that’s intimidating, frightening in its absolute undimmed strength. He stands perfectly tall, as though he considers himself superior to those around him, and the arrogant posture draws the attention of several others. He is perhaps seventeen, on the very edge of eligibility, but it couldn’t be clearer that he does not intend this final year to go to waste.

The young man is clearly bored with the doings around and about him, but satisfaction closes over his stony face as a pulse of sound travels through the air, traceable back to the Capitol representative as she intently taps at the microphone stationed before her. She is repulsively extravagant, with iced orange hair piled high above her head like an angular tower, gem-encrusted magenta lashes clashing with the vibrant shade of the wig and the unnaturally copper tint of her skin. Her beam is grotesque, but nonetheless rewards with a roar of enthusiasm as she clears her throat into the microphone, drawing the attention of the fervent crowd towards her stage.

She stands in the center, waving one taloned hand, the other positioned on her hip. To either side stand several far less glitzy forms, still powerfully eye-drawing but fading into almost nothing next to her vibrancy. They are five or six in total, varying in age and gender but united in the sense that every one of them is powerful. Most are strongly built, and almost all latticed with some pattern of scars, which they proudly display to the audience before them in a manner that ranges from casual to obtuse. One, perhaps, is distinct from the rest—though not by standing out more than them. Contradictorily, he is unsettling in his subtlety, and perhaps his very presence cannot be observed with only a quick glance. Something about him seems to cling to the shadows, regardless of the fact that he very nearly assumes the chief frontal position. His head is tilted downwards, the brim of a wide, old-fashioned hat casting his eerily pale skin into stark shadows, and his stance is wary, as though he’s concealing a weapon of his own, ready to unleash it at the slightest hint of a violent disturbance in the crowd over which he presides.

It is to this slender shade that the blonde boy’s eyes are drawn, and for a moment, though the older man’s stare is not detectable, he is victim to the creeping sensation that their eyes have met, that the other has targeted him among the throngs and that they are both regarding and evaluating each other simultaneously. He knows who this is—a former victor, like the rest of the brutes who flaunt from the stage, and the most recent one. This echo of a man will be training whichever boy is selected for the Games, and the blonde teenager who regards him so aggressively now has no doubt that he will be the one to fill that space. Unlike the other citizens pining for the chance to die, he has a purpose, an intent, and he refuses to let their foolish playfulness interfere.

The Capitol escort clears her throat again, and a more definite hush presses in on the wide town square as the last few teenagers scamper to their roped-in age sectors. The sun seems to sharpen in the silence, painting a starker image as eagerness clasps the features of all those awaiting.

“Now, now, now, everyone, I know we’re very excited!” she begins, her teeth shining like thirty diamond beacons. The result is a resounding thunder of applause and enthusiastic shouting, which she makes no move to pause, but instead allows to run its course before it dies down into a murmur. “Very excited,” the Capitol woman repeats, “but I’m afraid it’s not quite time for us to choose the lucky names yet!” She affixes her lips into a caricatured pout, and the crowd groans in accordance. “Don’t worry, soon enough, soon enough! Though let me first present, with all enthusiasm, your District’s beloved mayor!”

The clapping this time is muted in comparison; no one is particularly enthused over the inevitably wandering and tedious speech that their mayor is sure to provide. It’s necessary, apparently required, but that doesn’t detract from its dullness in the least, and the blonde boy finds himself clenching his teeth in frustrated impatience as the District’s balding representative takes center stage and starts in on his endless words. They fall on uninterested ears, recounting the history of Panem and its Districts as is done every year, but even the pressing boredom can’t properly quell the excitement humming within the potential tributes. Glances are still swiftly exchanged among them, heightening in eagerness as the time draws on and the decision creeps nearer.

One boy and one girl, the mayor’s voice echoes, and the blonde’s eyes widen infinitesimally. He is on the edge of his calmness, an instant away from whatever powerful form his own anticipation may realize itself in, and tension rolls off of him in waves as he swipes his tongue swiftly over his lower lip, shoulders heaving with discomposure that can’t quite be softened by his stoic attitude.

The mayor reaches the end of his speech, launching into the names of the District’s previous victors, each of which receives a much more powerful flood of invigorated cheering than any part of his dry rant did. The victors themselves, now seated in a number of chairs meant to express some sense of actual order, each grin in acknowledgement as their own name is called out. The darkest one, however, the one who had previously captivated the blonde so entirely, remains silent, almost brooding as his is bellowed. “Claquesous,” the mayor declares him, an odd title for an appropriately odd person, and after says nothing more.

The blonde boy is still intent on the enigma of Claquesous, the only one of those before him whose game he is old enough to remember properly, but the rest of the crowd is eager to move on. And so the mayor takes his leave, nodding briefly before retreating to the back of the stage, replaced soon by the acidly hued figure of the Capitol escort. The blonde boy narrows his eyes from the back of the crowd—he is rather sure that her hair was orange mere minutes ago, yet it now seems to have receded into a lemon yellow, rather as if its candy-floss mass is trekking steadily through the rainbow. He supposes, dismissively, that it wouldn’t be the strangest thing the Capitol has produced yet, and so renders it under his attention, electing instead to focus on the words emerging from her painted mouth.

“Now, who’s ready for the fun part?” she questions, then immediately paws at the air as a swell of sonic response builds through the square. “Rhetorical, rhetorical,” she chuckles, and it couldn’t be clearer that, beneath her frivolity, she finds the District’s incessant enthusiasm quite taxing indeed. Regardless, she adjusts her curls, which are now sinking into an electric green tone, and takes a small step closer to the large glass ball positioned before her.

“Alright, let’s see what the fates have in stock!” she squeaks. The sound is grating, and she performs an irritating little skip-hop to reach the hollow crystal container properly. Her hand darts into it like an exotic fish and flips rapidly through the white slips gathered there, whisking about in a movement that’s entirely more teasing and extravagant than necessary. The blonde boy keeps breathing in as steady a manner as possible. These are the girls. This is not the part that matters.

At long last, the slip is chosen and withdrawn, unfolded meticulously between the escort’s overlong fingernails. Her voice rings through perfect silence as she reads the name, and the result is a shriek of defiance from a burly eighteen-year-old, her dark eyes sharpening in aggravated disbelief. It is, the blonde reflects, equally punishing for one’s name to be called here as it is in the poorer Districts. There, it damns them to death; here, to life, for never once in all thirty-two years of the Games has there been an incident when the drawn name and the final tribute match up. Volunteers always interfere.

The pattern is predictable, and does not fail now. The ranks stiffen as the fuming brunette makes her way up the aisle, shoving aside all of those in her way, and whips around at the front of the stage to glare at those before her. The escort repeats her name, and it falls past the blonde boy’s ears, dismissible in its unimportance. Then she’s asking for volunteers, and the whole place is thrown into tumult, pressing in his eardrums to the point where a sharp pain is drawn. He scowls but makes no noise of his own, waiting with no semblance of patience as the complicated proceedings take place. There will not, he reflects, be any of this nonsense when it’s the males’ turn. His planning has made that clear.

Eventually, a volunteer tribute is selected, and the brunette is pulled away from the stage to make room for another, younger one. She is around sixteen, he estimates, and slender in figure, with long gingery hair braided nearly to her waist and a sharp-featured face pulled now into a feline grin. Her name also shudders unnoticeably past him, and he makes little effort to evaluate her. She looks strong enough, but she is not the true enemy, and therefore he has no reason to size her up in the way that the other male volunteers surely are. A few let out teasing wolf-whistles, which he only finds aggravating; she is attractive, he can suppose, but surely it is not of matter now.

Heartbeats later, the escort has calmed the crowd, and then she’s at the second ball, this one on the other side of the stage. Tension fills the air once more, this time concentrated more on the area of the boys, and his heart jumps into a swift race against nothing as her hand emerges with no lack of ado from the pile of white name slips, her lips frame the next name and a cheer shoots from those gathered, mingled with a single, practically inaudible groan of resentment.

He closes his eyes for a fragment of a second. It’s time.

The boy making his way into the empty aisle now is fair-skinned but dark-haired, young, his features handsomely and distinctly carved. Easily categorized as the pretty-boy type, though the blonde lets that slip below his notice, occupied by much greater matters as he is. He has only instants, and those instants are what he must act on, so he seizes them without hesitation.

A surprised stirring moves through those around him as he shoves his own way into the aisle, making sure to keep his eyes bright and his chin high. They know that it wasn’t his name that was called, and that it’s too early for volunteers. He doesn’t care. His very purpose is to defy all the structures of normality, and the stronger a first impression he can give, the better.

He catches the thin arm of the boy whose name has been called halfway through the podium, twisting it and staring into the wide, slightly irritated pale blue eyes across from him. “Go back,” he commands lowly, knowing that every person in the wide town square is staring at him, and that the cameras are swiveling to get a proper shot, to frame his intent face.

“Shove off,” the chosen boy spits in response, attempting to jerk away. The blonde doesn’t let him go, however; instead, he tightens his grip until pain is clear in the tension of the other’s pale face, a hiss emerging from his thin lips at the sharp grasp.

“Go back,” he repeats. “You are not going to the Games. You’ve known that since the second your name was called. Now rejoin the others of your age, before you proceed to embarrass both of us far more than is necessary.”

The pause feels infinite, though surely it can’t truly last for more than a breath and a half. The crystal blue eyes flicker down and then up, obstinacy clearing to make way for what can almost be called nervous respect. Then, without a nod or any sign of assent other than the action itself, the dark-haired boy steps away, and the blonde willingly releases him, straightening as he feels the attention of the masses sift over until it’s fixated solely on him.

He keeps his head high and ascends to the stage with a firm step. The red-haired girl is watching him with a sly grin, her braid twirled around her fingertips. The few planes of Claquesous’s face that he can make out resemble an expression of careful intrigue, and the Capitol escort appears simply scandalized, the slip with the dark-haired boy’s name still clutched in one hand.

“We haven’t yet asked for volunteers,” she begins uncertainly.

“I’m not fond of waiting,” he responds, and a couple of the victors chuckle appreciatively. He doesn’t allow anything near a smile to touch his own features.

“Well—well, then, it would appear we have a volunteer!” the escort exclaims, turning into the microphone. A roar of defiance rises from the assembled boys, furious at their chance having been ripped away from them, but the rest of the crowd is wild with eagerness. The knowledge of the hundreds of cameras recording his face is the only thing that keeps him from smirking; it would appear that he’s made the perfect first impression.

“Yes, yes, I know it’s unusual, but strangeness is what makes the Games so exciting, isn’t it?” the escort continues. It’s clear that she’s still trying to arrange her own thoughts, demonstrated by her reaching up once more to adjust the mass of curls that is now being stained gradually but surely turquoise. Up close, the fibers look plastic, even faker than they appeared from a distance. “Now, let’s all calm down and listen to what this young man has to say—what’s your name, sweet?” She extends the microphone, an encouraging smile in place.

He hears his own voice echoed across the town square, striking itself powerfully into the silence.

“Enjolras.”

She titters, and it’s the only sound for what must be miles. “And what about your last name, Enjolras?”

“It is my last name.” Before she can protest, he goes on, keeping his tone impeccably measured, ensuring that it doesn’t shake even a hair’s breadth. “A brief glance at the District records will be enough to show you that no others of eligible age share my surname. My identity isn’t that much of a challenge for you, I should hope.”

A few of those audience members who aren’t still fuming allow tentative laughs, but the rest are wordless, enamored by his dark confidence.

He can feel Claquesous watching him as the escort attempts to push his seriousness into a joke. Her voice tunes entirely out of his perception, and Enjolras turns to face the people, his shoulders proudly thrown back. Every one of them, shrunken now by his position high above them, is watching, breath held and faces blank in astounded bemusement.

He has captivated them. And, watching their wide eyes and parted lips, he feels a surge of faith blaze through him. This is perfect. These people are sorely starved of abnormality, and he has provided it without flaw.

At this rate, they are well on the way to the revolution that their country so desperately thirsts for.

[riddelly]

roseate (6/10)

fandom; les misérables ships; bahorel/jehan words; 3019 previous; x

"I love you. Yeah. I definitely love you. You know that, I guess, so I don’t need to say so, not that… not that you can hear. But, just… do me a favor, and—hang in there a little longer, okay? You don’t have to stay with me till the end, of course. I just… shit. Okay. Just try. That’s it, I guess. Just keep trying, because I don’t know what I’m going to do when it’s over." modern au // cancer fic

It’s Courfeyrac who makes the suggestion, apparently sees a flyer in the coffee shop that he’s employed at and opts to call Bahorel with the suggestion one morning. He speaks in a rush, apparently eager at his own idea, and Bahorel, having just heaved himself out of bed at the still-unfamiliar trill of the new phone bought for him by this very caller, only makes out about half of the words hurried by him.

“I know it’s not really your thing—well, either of yours, but I think he’ll appreciate it—hate to break it to you, but he told me a couple of nights ago—you know, when I took him home because you were wasted as shit—he told me that he was worried about you, thought you didn’t care about him as much as you used to or something, and it’s not like I’m trying to shove this all on you now, but he was pretty upset, and in my opinion, an excellent way to prove him wrong would be to—”

“Just slow down for a moment, would you?” Bahorel interjects in a harsh whisper, hurrying out of the bedroom where Jehan is still curled under the covers. He runs a hand through his already wild gingery hair, causing it to stand on end, and tries to make some sense of the words being fired his direction. “He thought I… didn’t care?”

“Dude, I think almost everyone thought that. You barely looked at him all night, and didn’t notice when he said goodbye to you, either. It was pretty harsh.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Sure you didn’t mean to. People never do, but the fact remains that you’re pretty much turning into another Grantaire—”

“Grantaire’s not all bad.”

“Yeah, of course he’s not. Who doesn’t love the guy? No, wait up, I’ll answer for you; Enjolras doesn’t, and he’s probably the only one that the poor sod wants the attention of, so how about you shut up and listen to what I’m trying to say before Jehan becomes your Enjolras.”

The sun slants painfully through the kitchen window, and Bahorel frowns at it as though it’s responsible for the heavy weight that Courfeyrac’s words are forming in the pit of his stomach. He doesn’t want to hear this, but he also knows that it would be nothing short of idiotic to hang up the phone now—entirely useless, in any case. He has to be strong enough to take these reprimands as they’re given. If he’s causing a problem, he needs to be responsible for settling it.

Especially, the now-familiar nasty snarl at the back of his mind fires up, if you have a limited amount of time to.

“Okay—okay, so, what? I pay more attention to him? I don’t get drunk around him? Shit, I…” He leans against the wall, gazes at the microwave. It’s just past eight, according to the plain digital numerals. “Just tell me what to do, Courf, and I’ll try to. I don’t want to be bad to him…”

“Shut up, I’m not asking you to go all angst-ridden boyfriend on me, alright? I’m not calling to bemoan your romantic skills, I’m calling you to fix them. Like I said, I’m staring at this flyer, and it says there’s some sort of pride parade thing going on day after tomorrow. It starts outside of the shop here and goes for a few miles, and it looks like it’s going to be a pretty ridiculous thing—hell, the paper has little multicolored balloons printed in the corners, okay? So go get Jehan and tell him that the two of you are going to this rainbow fest thing, be all soppy about it—don’t deny that he loves that—and then do it.”

“Are you giving me dating advice?” Bahorel mumbles, his gaze rising to the ceiling.

“Yeah, because I’ve known him longer than you and I know that this sunny little bonanza is the perfect thing to convince him that you aren’t getting tired of him. I said it before and I will again: it’s neither of your styles, but you’re both going to have a blast. So do it.”

Bahorel can’t help but doubt the validity of Courfeyrac’s insistences, but he can’t exactly turn him down, not when he’s behaving in so determined a manner. Besides, he could be right—and if Jehan has been feeling neglected, then there’s really no choice to the matter. He’s got to do anything he can to fix it, and as absurd as the suggestion may be, he’s willing to at least give it a try.

“Alright… I’ll ask him, I suppose.” He pauses in his already hushed speech as a creak stirs the hallway, and moments later a sleep-muddled Jehan wanders in, light hair tangled and matted over his robed shoulders, the palm of one hand rubbing at his half-closed eyes. He glances up to see Bahorel and smiles tiredly. Bahorel finds himself returning it, offering a silent wave as he murmurs a few closing words to Courfeyrac.

“Yeah, I’ll make sure to. Thanks.”

“You’d better. And if you’re about to hang up on me, I swear to—”

He hits end and sets the phone on the counter, suddenly aware from his lack of pockets that he’s wearing nothing but the boxer shorts in which he typically goes to bed. Scratching the back of his head a bit self-consciously, he grins wider and offers Jehan a proper greeting.

“Hey, flower. Sleep well?”

“Mm… sort of. Who was that?” The thin blonde wanders over to the coffee cabinet and opens it, fingers wandering along for the sole box of teabags shoved within it.

“Oh, just Courfeyrac being his usual chatty self. You know how he is.”

“Yeah.”                                                                

His words are briefer, terser than usual, and Bahorel, now with the exposition of Courfeyrac’s warning, is painfully aware of the fact that Jehan is treating him almost coldly. He attempts to behave ignorantly, though, deciding that to react in a defensive manner will only spark more definite tension between them.

“So, there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you about,” he half-lies, keeping his tone light as Jehan sets water boiling and sits back against the counter for a moment, hugging his light robe more firmly around his shoulders and retracting his hands into the sleeves. Bahorel, noticing as he does, frowns in concern, his former train of speech cutting off. “You cold?”

Jehan shakes his head. “Keep talking.”

“—Okay, if you’re sure. Well, in a couple of days there’s this… this pride fest thing, just going for a few blocks a bit further downtown, and I was wondering if you’d go with me.”

Jehan exhales heavily, his chin tilting upwards as his pale blue eyes fixate on the ceiling. His profile is delicate against the sunlight, breathtakingly youthful and far from sick-looking. “You’re so transparent,” he murmurs, golden lashes coasting in a slow, nearly doe-like blink.

“Sorry?”

“You sound stilted. It’s okay if Courfeyrac suggested it, you know. I don’t mind that you…”

“That I what?” He can practically feel the air heating between them, but tries his best to keep the words measured. A slight breath of steam begins to leak from the lid of the plastic water boiler, but neither of them makes a move towards it.

“That you can’t bother to come up with anything yourself.”

His stomach jolts. “Jehan, please—”

“I mean it. I don’t mind. I wouldn’t expect you to.”

Each word drives like an iron wedge in between Bahorel’s ribs. He’s too tired for this—too tired and too anxious already; the absolute last thing in the world he needs is Jehan becoming angry at him, even passively so, but it would appear that the bullshit concept of fate has really had it out for the two of them lately.

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. The boiler begins to whistle, and he hurries over to it, flicking its power off in a single sharp motion. Jehan still doesn’t look away from the ceiling. “Okay, I’ve been shitty lately. I know I have, and it’s my fault, and I—I won’t do it anymore, okay? Flower—Jehan—I love you. You know that. I don’t want to hurt you, and I’m so sorry that I’m awful at showing it.”

Jehan swallows, then sighs, a motion that trembles through the whole of his slender frame. He drops his arms to his sides and straightens up, and, to Bahorel’s relief, when their eyes meet, his are far from icy. Rather, they’re a soft sort of sky-blue, searching, nearly desperate—but not upset, at least certainly not at the man they’re settled upon. His lips quirk into an apologetic half-smile, and he nods, a few golden strands falling from their position tucked behind his ears. “Okay,” he agrees, his voice so expressly tender that it twists Bahorel’s stomach more severely than any of his sharper words.

“Come here,” Bahorel sighs, turning fully away from the stove, and Jehan doesn’t hesitate before stepping over, nestling into the embrace offered. His forehead presses into Bahorel’s shoulder, and Bahorel secures his arms around the smaller man, holding him as tightly as he can without feeling as though he’ll shatter him. He exhales, pressing his lips into the light golden tangle of Jehan’s hair, and breathes him in. He smells no sicker than he looks, and it strikes him, not for the first time, that this is so goddamned unfair, that Jehan Prouvaire is the last person on Earth who deserves to be assaulted by this disgusting biological anomaly, this disease that everyone despises the very name of.

“I thought, a few times,” Jehan mumbles into his shoulder after a minute or two of silence, “that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you. And now I get to. So I suppose one of my biggest wishes was granted… maybe I should be grateful for that.”

The words are so pure, so genuinely thoughtful, that Bahorel feels the immediate rear of tears at the back of his eyes. He blinks hastily, staring at the window without seeing a shade of the sunlight, and feels a surge of gratefulness that Jehan can’t see his face now. “Yeah,” he replies thickly, and his voice cracks slightly, so that he has to swallow and cough before continuing. “Talk about silver linings.”

Laughter trembles against him, and he’s aware all at once that it’s accompanied by dampness, and that he’s blind to Jehan’s expression, as well. Wracked by anxiety, he pulls back, his hands moving to cup the delicate face across from him. Sure enough, there are tear trails painting Jehan’s cheeks, enough that he must have been silently crying for some time now, without Bahorel’s awareness.

“Shit—God, shit, I’m sorry,” he gets out, stiffening, one hand running repeatedly along the side of Jehan’s head as the other shakily attempts to wipe away the salty moisture. “I’m sorry, I—”

“No, don’t apologize,” Jehan mumbles, ducking his head. “I don’t mean to get emotional, it’s…”

“Don’t mean to get emotional? I—listen to yourself, you’re—no, just… it’s alright. It’s wonderful to get emotional. By all means, cry your heart out, you deserve the chance to, and I’m so sorry if I haven’t made it seem like that—” He remembers Courfeyrac’s words—he told me he was worried about you, he was pretty upset—and it suddenly occurs to him that he hasn’t seen Jehan cry at all, not since the diagnosis, and that it’s probably no accident, that his boyfriend has likely instead turned to others, found Bahorel to be unreceptive to what surely must be tearing him apart from the inside out more than physiologically. And he hates himself more than ever, because how could he let this happen? How could he turn away, close himself off when it matters most?

“You’ve been fine,” Jehan laughs through his tears, shaking his head, “you’ve been all I could ask for. I’m sorry—”

“Don’t you apologize, either,” Bahorel whispers, “don’t you dare.” And, thoughtlessly, because he’s aching and he needs this and perhaps they both do, he leans in and steadies Jehan’s trembling lips with his own, drawing a light gasp that quickly melts into a gentle response. Jehan’s hands lift to twine behind Bahorel’s neck, and they remain that way, wound in each other and stained by the sunlight and the now-mutual tears as the water behind them grows cold once again. The sound of Jehan’s light breaths is surely the sweetest thing he’s ever heard, and, once again, he is reminded in a heavy swerve that they won’t last forever, that there is a definite limit to their delicate existence, and that it could come any time, roar out of the relative peace, that they’re now only in the eye of the storm.

He cannot comprehend losing him. He can’t.

Several shaky minutes later, Jehan pulls away, his hands releasing Bahorel’s shoulders, one moving to clear away the loose strands of hair tangled over his face while the other busies itself with wiping away the tears blotching his cheeks. Bahorel clears his throat and hastily clears the moisture staining his own face with the heel of his hand, turning back to the water boiler and quickly tapping against its side. Sure enough, it’s still warm, and he hurries over to remove two mugs from the cabinet, dropping them on the counter and retrieving a second teabag before pouring water into each of them.

“You don’t like tea,” Jehan half-sniffles as he drops the bags in.

“I’ll manage,” he replies, offering one of them up. Jehan accepts it, fingers tight enough around the ceramic that it must burn, and holds it to his chest as though clinging to the heat. “It’s not awful.”

“Not awful,” Jehan agrees, gazing into the clear swirls of water as the golden brown essence of the bag begins to diffuse through them.

What he said was true, of course—Bahorel despises tea, plain as it is. There’s quite simply no appeal to hot water permeated by the stink of dead leaves, but he doesn’t want to prepare his usual cup of coffee, is reluctant to create any more distance between them even through petty differentiations.

Another couple of minutes wander by—it’s eight-thirty, now, and Bahorel finds himself quite grateful that it’s Sunday morning, and that they don’t have anywhere else to be. No plans for the rest of the day, then—though he hasn’t forgotten what Courfeyrac said, and, with that in mind, he should probably ask Jehan if there’s anything he’d like to do, rather than allowing nothingness to swallow what promises to be a perfectly nice day.

Thoughts of Courfeyrac, additionally, bring to mind the initial subject, and he opts to voice it just as Jehan takes his first sip of his tea, which has apparently reached an adequate steeping point. “I’ll tell Courf that we don’t need to do his stupid parade thing, then.”

“No—no, let’s do it,” Jehan objects, to his surprise. He doesn’t meet Bahorel’s eyes, but rather continues to stare contemplatively into his mug.

“Really?”

“Why not?”

“Well… no reason, I guess. I wouldn’t really think you’d be into it, but if you want to—well, sure, I’m willing. It’s Tuesday, then—in the afternoon, I think, or else I guess we’ll be skipping classes.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Alright.” For no particular reason, Bahorel finds himself smiling, and takes the moment to down a long sip of his own tea. Sure enough, it’s tastelessly bitter, almost sour in its potent disgustingness, and he struggles not to wince as he swallows. He’s got no idea how Jehan can stand the stuff, but also supposes it’s not really his place to question the preferences of the man who probably has a much more refined sense of taste than he does. “Tuesday, then,” he half-coughs, setting the mug on the counter with a finality that communicates clearly to them both that he won’t be having any more. Jehan rolls his eyes, but it’s a fond expression rather than an annoyed one.

“Yeah. Tuesday.”

The thought is somehow a nice one—even if, as Courfeyrac made sure to state his knowledge of, Bahorel really couldn’t care less for big innocent social events, Jehan really does seem interested, and he’ll be glad to see him happy.

—Especially considering that there’s a limited amount of time left to—

But no, no, no, he won’t think about that right now, he can’t. So he keeps talking, hoping somehow to drown out the awful internal words with bright external ones. “What about today, then? Feel up to doing anything in particular? We could go out to lunch later, if you feel like, walk down to that sandwich shop… or, I don’t know, do you want to—”

“Before we make any plans,” Jehan interjects with a wry smile, placing one hand on the counter and tilting his head to the side as he leans into it, “just give me a minute to get dressed. You might want to put some clothes on, yourself,” he adds, and Bahorel is once more reminded that he’s wearing nothing but boxers.

He grins a bit bashfully and nods, casting one last sour glance at the tea mug before turning to head to the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower first, alright?”

Jehan takes a last long swig, then steps forward to set his own mug beside Bahorel’s, the handles clinking together. “Mind if I join you?”

Bahorel’s eyebrows raise, accompanied by the emergence of a wide grin, and Jehan huffs and swats at him indignantly.

“I mean really shower, I need to!”

“Oh, well, in that case…” he begins playfully, but is cut off as Jehan snatches his wrist and leads him to the bathroom in half a skip, laughter falling from his lips. “Yeah,” he gets out, a light coast of almost childish joy trembling through him. “Of course you can, flower—of course you can.”