#ENJOLRAS/MARIUS SWEEP SWEEP SWEEP

[lesmisshippingshowdown]

Round of 32 Wrapped!

To tide you all over until the next round begins (although I hope you're all keeping busy getting started on your fanworks to steal some votes!), let's have fun with some statistics about the Round of 32 :)

Poll with the most votes overall: Combeferre/Courfeyrac vs Turnchetta (1,554 votes) What else could you expect from a contest between a veritable fandom juggernaut, inescapable as both a main couple and background couple on Archive of our Own, a true bedrock of fandom heritage... and Combeferre/Courfeyrac?

I jest. But it's great to see people turning out in honour of the great fandom tradition of getting a little silly with it. The question remains - how far can a novelty ship like Turnchetta (one could call her the Jedward of this competition, and I of course mean that with the utmost respect #JEPIC) make it in the bracket?

(It's worth noting that Turnchetta also takes home the prize for Round One's Biggest Giant Killing, defeating AO3's 4th most popular Les Mis ship by published works despite not a single fic coming up when I click their relationship tag on that website.)

Poll with the least votes overall: Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta vs. Bahorel/Éponine (546 votes) Again, perhaps this was unsurprising. J/B/M is a true staple of the fandom, and one of only 6 ships in the bracket with over 1,000 tagged works on AO3 (and that's not even counting individual pairings within the throuple!). Bahorel/Éponine, on the other hand, has only 46 tagged works and I wasn't even able to find fanart for them on a sweep through Tumblr tags. This was not a match up that necessarily spurred on hard fighting and intense propaganda, and turned out to be one of the round's most resounding sweeps.

Will J/B/M nation be forced to turn out in greater numbers for round two, or will they be able to rest on their laurels against a - once again - comparatively niche ship like Courfeyrac/Grantaire? And will Bahorel/Éponine's fandom turn out to be small but mighty when given a chance for redemption in the Great Round 2 Steal-Off?

Closest battle: Combeferre/Éponine vs. Enjolras/Marius (47.5% vs 52.5%) I'll say this outright as the bracket's resident infamously unbiased Enjolras/Marius shipping mod - Combeferre/Éponine shippers, I seriously underestimated your game. In a poll where most of Éponine's het ships fell dramatically at the first hurdle, you guys held your own against me constantly reblogging my own posts to yell "PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE" in increasingly undignified ways. You stood behind Éponine's right to date a really nice nerdy man, and I'm very excited to see what you guys pull out of the bag in the Round 2 Steal-Off. I suspect this may not be the last we see of Combeferre/Éponine in this competition.

Biggest whitewash: Courfeyrac/Éponine vs. Cosette/Éponine (4.1% vs 95.9%) As Les Mis's most iconic relatably lovelorn everygirl, Éponine based ship wars have been a fandom staple probably since the actual 1860s. Whether she's battling for Marius's affections or accidentally playing a pivotal role in very, very 2013 discussions about queer erasure in fandom, when there's a ship war to be had in the Les Mis fandom our girl is normally at the scene of the crime. This match up, however, showed none of the fire of its predecessors. When asked if you'd rather see Éponine paired off with Les Amis' lovable centre or patching up her longstanding and complex relationship with Cosette, you overwhelmingly voted in favour of lesbianism. Got to respect it. Happy belated International Women's Day.

Winningest multishipping target: Enjolras (5 out of 6 ships progressed to the Round of 16) For a character who is canonically uninterested in romance to the point that I've seen large swathes of this fandom headcanon him as aroace, you guys LOVE it when Enjolras gets around. Not only did he have 6 ships entered into this bracket (for the mathematicians among you, that means 18.75% of the bracket involves Enjolras in some way), but he won almost every first round contest he was involved in. The only losing Enjolras ship in round one was Enjolras/Éponine, so I guess that's settled*. He really didn't know there was such a thing on earth as woman.

(*It is not settled. If you don't think we're getting a special Enjonine vs E/R face off at some point you don't know me)

Losing-est multishipping target: Éponine (1 out of 8 ships progressed to the Round of 16) Speaking of Enjonine, the other half of that ship suffered basically opposite fortunes. Poor Éponine appeared in a whopping 25% of all ships entered into the bracket, but only one - Cosette/Éponine, her sole femslash pairing in the contest - made it as far as the round of 16. It seems that homosexuality has mutually won out for both halves of 2013's most controversial het ship.

Other stats for the interested:

The average number of votes cast per poll was 770.5 - not bad for a first round! Can you up that number by encouraging your friends to pokémon go to the polls for the round of 16 next week?

In the Round of 32, the balance of different relationship types (going by characters' canonical genders) was as follows: 56.25% M/M, 34.38% M/F, 6.25% F/F, and 3.12% Multi.

In the Round of 16, the balance will be as follows: 68.75% M/M, 12.5% M/F, 12.5% F/F, and 6.25% Multi. I would say "I'm sorry, women" but to be fair both the yuri ships did sail through their respective match ups. Really, I'm sorry heteros. Especially Éponine's hetero ships. I know I keep saying this but it was a rough ride for her.

All of AO3's top 3 Les Mis ships (by tagged works) are still comfortably in the game - as already established, Courferre was this round's biggest loser. Could the Round Two Steal-Off, where the creation of fanworks is crucial to success, offer them a chance at redemption? Tune in next week to find out!

[deadgayturtles]

okay some notes from les mis arena tour last night!! 20 may melb/aus

i was so far back it was a little hard to see so the notes are not as great and also anything i alr said on saturday i didn’t type up again xx

- was supposed to be alfie & michael on today, but bradley and killian ended up going on (ngl, i was a little distraught bc i bought today’s tickets just to see alfie and michael, i’m already seeing bradley and killian twice 😭 but i get that shit happens…)

- bradley was significantly less disheveled today?

- rachelle ann go is back as fantine! she is phenomenal. probably the strongest and most elegant fantine i’ve ever seen, she’s angry in parts of at the end of the day and lovely ladies that i feel are usually played as frightened or nervous, but rachelle’s fantine is fierce and defensive? and i LOVE it

- ^ the fact that she keeps her head high for so long/through so much makes it really devastating at the end of lovely ladies, and every time she sings about cosette too — the contrast of her being so soft and vulnerable when just seconds ago she was standing her ground is amazing!! gosh did my heart break during her death

- i also never knew how much i liked the at the end of the day sequence till today? something about it… or maybe i just really like rachelle

- the confrontation was really good today & the way killian sings to fantine is so loving and soft 😭

- my god does bradley just look like a crazed man in these scenes (i’m obsessed)

- when valjean frees javert at the barricades, there is a moment where they are like inches away from each other and ngl i was like are they gonna kiss or… (and valjean says go very softly and i may have been converted to the valvert agenda)

- another thing i’m obsessed with is the set design for this production!!! one thing i couldn’t see from the side the other day is that the wood of the barricade that hangs from the top (it goes up and down throughout) forms the shape of a roof during the intro of the thernardiers, overall it’s all just very clever… at the very end of the musical the colours of the french flag sweep across the audience also, very nice

- the children today were amazing! so adorable and gosh they can sing, cosette has a very sweet voice and gav was so spunky!

- in building a baricade enj has very serious reactions to wtv the other amis say but when grantaire says let’s give them a screwing they’ll never forget enjolras turns his head to him and smiles/smirks at him with like a head nod and his arm stretched out toward r, and r has this like slightly bashful moment???

- when gavroche reveals javert’s identity at the barricades, everyone celebrates gav esp enj and r, and blink and you’ll miss it enj hugs gav then motions gav to go over to grantaire, it was very parents and their son and i will never get over it

- today’s drink with me: marius tries to confront grantaire but enj stops him then goes to r, honestly i was way too far away to tell how enj was feeling about it but he sort of puts his hands on r’s shoulders and is violently shrugged off by him, at this point enj looks very at a loss of what to do and gav starts coming over.

- grantaire turns to look at enj and it’s kind of angry but also desperate? very melancholic anyways and they just stare at each other for awhile before r collapses into enj’s arms (i’m not even exaggerating he collapsed into his arms) and enj kinda just holds r for a bit before once again being violently pushed away (honestly poor e lol he’s just trying his best)

- r turns to go and gav runs to give him a big hug

- enj is just standing where r left him and staring at r go, grantaire does look back at him once before finally leaving with gav

- enj stands there until one of the amis come to collect him :<

[combeferres-mothematics]

Thanks for the tag @twistyoliver!! :D I have... probably 30 wips sooooo be prepared for a LONNNGGGG list (I am going to dig out each and every one of these, I'm so sorry y'all)

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And tag as many people as you have wips!

Beyond the Barricade

In Which Joly Finds a Family

The Sweepings of the Street

Valvert Sickfic

JBM Baby Files

"Could you just hold me?" (Courferrius sickfic)

NATM au Feuilly sickfic

Role reversal- medic to sickie (E/C/R sickfic)

Adventures in Pontmercy Babysitting

Bini Hijinks and Shenanigans

Combeferre Loses his Eyebrows

Fantasy Les Amis

Joly Vs. Cholera

Les Amis Camping Kidfic

Les Amis Camping Fic

Les Amis Roadtrip

Feuilly Stitches Fic

Les Mis Ghosts Part 3

Magic Barricade :3 (Oh I thought I was exaggerating when I said "like 30, but maybe not I'm sobbing)

Marisette Baby + Uncle Enjy

How Joly got His Cane

NATM au

SCIENCE MUSEUM SCIENCE MUSEUM SCIENCE MUSEUM

Feuilly Sickfic

Enjolras stealing Ferre's Clothes

Joly at Bahorel's house for some reason and possibly sick??? Idk??? (I'm at the "Untitled docs" section and trying to describe them so I know which one is which XD)

The Adventures of Marius Babysitting

Cats

Bini Snuggles

Feuilly accidental Baby Acquisition

"I wish I could get you back" (unfinished whumptober fic)

Courfeyrac et les Bebes

I think that's most of them omg..... I don't think I have 33 people to tag, so here we go XD

No pressure tags!!

@onlythemoonlooks-down @syrupsyche @jolys-cane @calico-cows @whorejolras @lesbianmariuspontmercy @cericreatively @delabaisse @lemurious And anyone else who wants to join!! :D ....I think that's all the mutuals I can think of off the top of my head who write

[breadvidence]

Lull

@megab was kind enough to bid on my little talent for the Bishop Myriel Fundraiser and requested I provide some Enjolras/Feuilly, with a preference for modern AU, romance, and low sadness content. Set post some kind of barricade, rated G. Thank you again, @megab, this was an excellent challenge for me—I hope you're pleased! (Find it also on AO3.)

⁂⁂⁂

Enjolras offers Feuilly the vape across the center console of the van, caught, as he’s been caught for years, by the contrast between Feuilly’s heavy, hairy knuckles and rough skin and the delicacy with which he moves. When their hands brush, it’s little more than a stirring, a breath, yet very warm. Nicotine always grants him a moment of pure focus, and that is a very fine thing to spend attention on. They’ve talked the last two hours in spirals on school history curricula, age appropriateness and accuracy, facts versus principles versus play, a conversation that would’ve been a debate full of presumptions and ignorance about each other three years ago and is now a collaborative fantastical, familiar lines padded each time by new knowledge, moving ever closer to an actionable theory. He recalls, with a shock of humor, having years ago been cautious of Feuilly’s frank militancy around the topic of children’s education, how he braced himself for debate of his own disinterest in family life. It’s unserious, today, with the windows cracked to let the last of the evening into the cab, seeking the light of knowledge while the world slowly dwindles to what’s caught in the headlights. They have disagreed about the year when a person most benefits from learning the rhythms of agriculture and the flowering season of sweet peas, ’til finding common ground that their mutual adult ignorance on the topic is a shame. Somehow, this is an extension from the topic of Mendel’s genius, his lies, their persistent place in the classroom.

Feuilly sweeps his left hand along the wheel: the rasp of calluses on worn vinyl, the soft chuck of the turn signal lever, the van’s frantic blatting. Enjolras says, “Marius’ future father-in-law knows some. You haven’t seen the garden at that house, yet. Maybe an ask that would get him to speak—I ought to text Courfeyrac; it’s a harder pet project than Marius ever was, that old man, and I don’t mind collaborating.”

This earns a neutral hum. The suspension struggles with the gravel road they’ve turned down and when it’s clear Feuilly has no input Enjolras turns up the music so that it can be heard over the jostle and groan.

The road paces a thorn-hedge he remembers tearing his clothes on as a child for another ten minutes’ of slow going before crooking abruptly left, and there’s the cottage, and beyond the cottage: the sea, sound and smell, brief flashes of light when the clouds bannering the moon allow its shine to reach that far. Feuilly presses the breaks, uncertain, ’til Enjolras directs him to park the van in whatever weed-grown dusty part of the yard suits him; the cottage never had a proper place to put a vehicle, and though his father complained every summer about the car getting filthy, he never materialized his various plans of canopies and concrete pads.

Inside, the power comes on when they flip the breakers, which was not a given. A new water-spot in the kitchen ceiling, mouse droppings in the corners of the cramped bathroom, dust on every surface. Normally his parents hire a maid service before the family visits, but that’s for August, and here he is in July. Gillenormand’s lawyers suggestion to step out of the city, Courfeyrac’s wry concurrence that ducking out of sight from the social media circuit would be beneficial, the impact of fines on his finances: he’s fallen back into the family nest with all the dignity of a cat slipped off the edge of a counter, on his paws and stiffly strolling to his next destination. The proximity to the coast and an org he’s been in contact with about immigrants crossing the Mediterranean promises opportunities to make this sabbatical from Paris a step—if not on the same path he’d been on before—forward. Always forward. He’s not dead yet.

By the light on Feuilly’s phone, they cut on the water out front, go in and run the faucets ’til they’re done sputtering out air.

Feuilly bends closer, expressive face scrunched in consideration. “Does it ever run clear?”

“No. Father invests in a new filtration system every few years, it clogs, and he has to go back to the old faithful, which—” He cuts off the faucet. “—only does so well. There’s gallon jugs of drinking water in the van.”

Feuilly plays his fingers over the wood of a kitchen counter that’s been in use for three centuries, warped and lined and smoothed to unevenness by thousands of passes by knife and hand in the work of feeding others. “When you said your family had a cottage on the Côte d’Azur, I imagined something luxurious. —I see by your expression you have a lot to say about that. ” When he smiles, age has begun to show a stamp at the corner of his eyes. “Come on, let’s get our bags while you talk.”

Enjolras can discuss the price his family rents this cottage out for during the season when not in residence, owning the earth as a symbol of luxury that makes the building somehow irrelevant, the gap between his wealth and wealth, the social games with the richer families up the coast, all more or less by reflex: he thinks about how Feuilly looked at him, fond, present, the tiredness hanging upon his face the strain of the drive and nothing more. In the legalities and failures of the past month, if Feuilly’s love remained all-embracing, sometimes he could be seen in moments of contemplation with a pinch at the corner of his lips, skewing his generous mouth to the side, like a parent faced by a child’s poor choices. He has been gazing on the shadows rather than the light.

Courfeyrac had been the one to volunteer the passenger seat of the van to whoever wanted to assist Enjolras in the move. Grantaire jerked upright, but when Feuilly said, quietly, I’m due for vacation, he laid his head back down with a great air of ruefulness—a few days out of rehab and painfully sober, the third round and this one I’m really going to keep with it, I swear, this time it’s it. He surprised them all, himself included, when he showed to help pack Enjolras’ apartment. An hour into the drive, Feuilly had said, You could argue Grantaire needs more than me, to which Enjolras rejoined, Why should I argue anything when he does it so well himself?, in a tone warmer than it would have been before June.

In truth, Grantaire would have made this trip. Any of them would have, injured or no—even Marius, maybe, with his heart pierced through with love. But he is glad for Feuilly.

The linens will have to be washed and hang-dried, so for tonight they fetch the sleeping bags out of his camping supplies. As he leans over to drag them out from where they’ve shifted, he feels himself watched; catches Feuilly in it when he straightens up, expression obscure in the uncertain light off the van overhead. Through a flush, the awareness of an action not quite yet ready to be deployed, he says, “Will you grab that cooler and bag from Marius’ grandfather? We might as well finish off the perishables. It’ll be a while before the fridge gets actually cold.”

They’ve been watching each other for a while, too busy for that to mean anything. One time, Grantaire asked Enjolras if he were asexual, the words near lost under the froth of a long night of stout; he said yes, then, as the easiest and shortest answer to offer someone who would never have a real stake in the matter. It never occurred to him to wonder whether that got back to Feuilly, a thought which seems abruptly relevant.

The thorn hedge chatters with a wind that pulls the clouds away inland. The moon hangs bare.

They flip a coin for the modestly more comfortable bed in the master bedroom, haggle over the results—you’re the guest against it’s your house—’til Enjolras says, “Let’s revisit the point after the wine. —Would you have argued with the coin if it landed on its edge?”

“Would I have? —He packed us Clicquot,” Feuilly replies, slow, thoughtful. Deferring, too. “I don’t know how to tell if it’s a nice bottle. Do you think it’s a sin to drink it at room temperature?”

“No,” Enjolras replies as he opens the windows and shutters, wrestling against the jasmine vine that’s escaped its trellis and taken up onto the wall of the cottage. The perfume of the flowers, the bottle of wine, the idea of pleasure taken when it presents itself—the memory of the dusty road, the anticipation of sweetness—these concepts won’t marshall to his tongue, and he’s distinctly aware of why he maintains such a robust group of friends; love of them aside, he can borrow their talent when he’s needed them, and the sentiment he wants feels suited to Prouvaire’s kind of wordcraft, not his. “All that matters is to appreciate it, I think.” He retrieves a blanket from the chest in the corner. “Which we can’t do in this stale place. It will take a minute to air out. Follow me?”

Never a given. Always a request. It flatters him that Feuilly says yes, has said yes, but they’ve never had the time to dwell on the fact. Lesgle, a few days before the trip—in his two arm-casts, Enjolras’ day to help him around the house, not the worst injuries any of them walked away with but certainly the least convenient—had asked, What are you going to do, out there isolated?, and Enjolras listed the contacts he’d already made, the plans for the coming months. To which Lesgle said, Nothing that whole first two weeks, huh? Feuilly will have his hands full keeping you occupied. Maybe we should figure out how to fit a third person into the van, distribute the work load, eh?

Enjolras declined that idea, with respect for the utility three-ways provide in Lesgle’s life. A week and a half in Feuilly’s company, in quiet, no Wi-Fi, no television other than what they’re willing to burn data on streaming to their phones. This, and more of this: him with the old woven blanket over his shoulder and the Clicquot by the neck in his hand, Feuilly with the cooler of Grandpère Gillenormand’s idea of road snacks, out to the old flat stone that noses out towards the beach, the one with the ancient olive whose roots buckle over the edge, shielding it from the sight-lines of the cottage. Even without eyes to see, that feels important.

The cork comes free dramatic and loses itself noisily into the dark, logical consequence of all the shaking during the trip. Feuilly comments, philosophical, “It’s biodegradable,” then drinks from the bottle without asking first if Enjolras minds swapping spit. Holds it out to him.

All due respect to Grandpère Gillenormand, it pairs well with pear slices gone a little brown, bite-sized quiches that are probably still safe to eat, soft musky cheese with the fats gone runny in the lukewarm. He sucks some from where it has oozed onto his thumb, prickling aware of Feuilly’s gaze. Comfort with silence is a project of Enjolras’, unevenly worked on; he breaks through the surf’s hush, hush, with, “I don’t want to presume to take up more of your vacation time, but if you stay on another week, I bet we could arrange some in-person meetings with contacts you’ve communicated with for a long while—there’s a woman in Morocco, the one who mostly goes by— What?”

He smiles, shaking his head. There’s an uneasy edge to it. “They’re not skittish of you, with all…” He gestures to encompass this exile.

“She was never interested in the mainstream politics of it all. Maybe I shouldn’t have been. That game—sometimes it felt like the wickedest way forward. Like an execution, though I don’t know of what.”

He hitches up a shoulder, picks up a crushed cookie from the bottom of the bag, individually packaged, unlabeled, so many crumbs. Drops it. “It seemed like a viable path for so long. —And now we have treats from Grandpère Gillenormand, but none from—” And here he names some powerful people who could not be called personal friends, invested in the cause to variable degrees, who have declined to attach their names to a young men’s scandal. “—who haven’t even invested a bag of chips.” He looks up, smiles crooked “I’ve complained about it already, I know, but nobody’s given me an adequate answer.”

“Combeferre tried.”

“Combeferre was witty. I love him for that.” He dwells, a moment, in one of those silences that invites no comment. “You’re not bitter.”

“I acted knowing what doors would be closed. I’m alive and free. In any case, Lesgle tells me it’s his kind of luck come to me; that politicking is no better than lawyering, in the end.”

It’s money’s privilege that he’s on the coast rather than in a prison, a more impressive shuffling under the carpet than Enjolras has seen among his parents’ friends but not by much. Feuilly is too much a practical to reject an escape, and too sharp an intellect not to question it. With his eyes fixed first towards the sound of the surf, then with one squinted down into the neck of the bottle, he says, “There’s something undignified in being shuffled aside. Like we’ll be forgotten. If I didn’t believe in the future you’ve described, I wouldn’t be here—I mean that two ways; I wouldn’t be having to rebuild all my networks after our failure, but I also wouldn’t…” He hesitates. “I wouldn’t still be out here, sitting on an old blanket, wondering whether we’ll stumble on our way back to the house. It’s a very hard thing to love, sometimes.” He raps his knuckles against the blanket, the stone beneath.

“I trust your judgment,” he says, solemn, and reaches out to tuck Feuilly’s big hand safely into his, before he can rough those knuckles again. “Though I think we emptied that bottle quicker than we should have. We’ll have to linger out here a while, make sure we have time to get steady.”

“One bottle between the two of us won’t have—” Then he stops, considering, as Enjolras—a little clumsy, but with intent—laces their fingers. “Ah.”

“Lesgle was very worried I wouldn’t have enough to keep me distracted.”

“Was he?”

He makes a low noise of agreement. “But I thought it might be a good time to explore some questions I haven’t taken the time for in the past.”

“Please,” Feuilly says, the tone of his voice like the first drag off a cigarette, smoke and heat and nerve-awakening, “never let someone convince you that you’re smooth.” Then he leans in, catching Enjolras’ surprised laugh with a press of lips. Leans back enough to have space to mutter, “Since there’s nothing else on my to-do list, guess I’ll make my move—really. I’ve heard you speechify, you can do better than—”

Each word soughs air across his lips, the skin there alive to every current as they’ve never been before, and if there was strangeness and damp and more softness than expected and the scratch of their stubble against each other, Enjolras can see his way to understanding the cultural hyperfocus, so he takes Feuilly’s face in his hands and kisses him with purpose. The first touch of a tongue startles him, but Feuilly loops an arm around his shoulders, steadying. When he reciprocates the touch, slides a hand across his cheek, down his throat, it stuns him: the heat, the power of his throbbing heart, the catch and kick of his breath. All the same, he has to interrupt—it must be said— “Balancing organizing direct action with conventional politics did consume time I would have put towards interpersonal connections, which was one of the losses I considered a necessary—”

Feuilly kisses him again, on the point of his jaw, in a manner that ought not really interrupt him. It does. As Feuilly has served to do in the past, his argument adjusts Enjolras’ understanding of the breadth of the issue: namely, it seemed a matter of explaining why they have only now kissed, which words could adequately address; and now, after another brush of lips, to his cheek, ticklishly beneath his ear, he perceives this to be a matter better handled by action.

But one might plan, first. “We can zip the sleeping bags together,” he says, “and both sleep on the better bed.”

“Practical,” Feuilly replies, and gathers him close. “We will.” The moonlight softens his face to boyishness, his eyes are wide and pupil-blown in the dark, and if there has been bitterness, and failure, and hurt, and a shadowy place traversed: their blood is in them yet, and they are together, and before the future makes its demands, they may have a little of the present.

[lonelyroommp3]

the thing about enjolras/marius is unlike many other ships in this bracket your vote can never feel tainted by memories of its slightly crap ubiquitous fanon version, because so few people care about it that it has never gotten a slightly crap ubiquitous fanon version. this is why it deserves to sweep the entire bracket

[expired-applejuice]

Les Amis: dress up as the first letter as your name.

Note: it also includes JVJ, Javert, Marius, and Cosette

Courfeyrac suggested a fun idea for a social event, so everyone can get to know eachother

Though some wanted to stay professional, some being Combeferre and Enjolras, they were out voted by everyone else.

So, they had a lot more drinking at this get together, and took turns saying who they thought was going to be the drunkest.

"I'm a cowboy, baby, and I think Bahorel will be the drunkest," Courfeyrac said tipping his cowboy hat with one hand and held a drink with the other. He wore a traditional western outfit. It was so cliche, down to his boots.

Next was Jehan Prouvaire, "I dressed as Jasmine, but blonde. I think Courfeyrac will be the drunkest it's his party." Prouvaire had his hair like Princess Jasmine',s instead of his usual braids. He wore two pieces and had a stuffed tiger to complete the look.

"Um, I'm Coraline from the book. I think Papa is going to be the drunkest," Cosette said holding her doll, Catherine, who was also dressed up. They both wore the signature yellow raincoat and boots. The only difference was the doll's hat.

"Obviously I'm Elphaba from wicked, notice the green skin, qnd Grantaire will definitelybe the drunkest. How did no one say that yet?" Eponine asked fixing her hat. She had a dress that could go from blue to black. She had the blue hat in her hands so she could put the traditional Witch hat on. She undid something and the dress turned into the beautiful black gown.

"Mermaid here! Just without a tail. Um, I know joly won't that drink, and Bossuet is already too clumsy, so I agree with 'Ponine, R," Musichetta said sweetly. She was truly an angel. She had a flower in her hair, and a shell bra, but she wore green pants in the place of a tail.

"I'm next, I'm a boxer, so Grantaire I'll beat you ass. And Grantaire will be the drunkest." Bahorel said, drinking right after. He had to take one of the gloves off to drink. He had a robe on that didn't do anything to cover his chest. It wasn't like it wasn't ment to, but still.

Marius stood up, only to be interrupted by Feuilly, "I'm Fix it Felix! And Bahorel is like my calh-"

"Don't you dare!"

"Reck-it Ralph? Yeah anyway... bahorel will be the drunkest tonight. Last time Grantaire was the one to help me carry him home." Feuilly had his work clothes on, that looked like Felix's, so he added a hate and a hammer he pained gold.

"Ok, I'm Marius-"

"Marius we know who you are, just say what your costume is," Groaned Combeferre.

"Oh well then, I'm Mr Incredible!" Marius then proceeded to flex his muscles, "And I think it will be Courfeyrac." Marius used to have a mask on, but Courfeyrac kept pulling it and letting go, making it hit his face so he took it off. He also had fake muscles so he could look more like bob.

"I'm a Greek God. Nothing more to say. Bahorel is definitely getting drunker than I am. And I'd like to see you try. I will knock you out," Grantaire wore a toga that showed haft his bare chest, and he wore shorts under it just in case he blacked out.

"My costume is Jean Valjean. And I think Jean Valjean will be the drunkest." Javert was wearing Valjean's clothes and had a loath of bread in his hand.

"I'm dressed as Javert, and I think Marius will be the drunkest, he looks like a light weight," commented Valjean. He wore Javerts clothes and had a toy weapon, because Javert wouldn't let him use his.

"Hey, I'm a jeti. Even though I have never seen star wars, um, I think Bossuet will be the drunkest." Joly got creative with his cane. He painted the body of it a bright green, and it he held it up, it would look like a Lightwave.

"Egyptian. That what I am. Um Grantaire will be the drunkest, no doubt." Enjolas said. Who knew that he could do eyeliner so well. He wore a white shirt and shorts with tons of false gold jewelry.

"I'm last, and I'm a Chimney Sweep. Unpopular opinion, but I believe Enjolras will be the drunkest, seeing as this is just a party." Combeferre had black soot all over his outfit, and wore a flat cap. He was adorable to day the least. He needed to work on the accent thought.

This isn't to be taken seriously, I just saw so many of these videos and thought it would be cute.

[everyonewasabird]

Jukebox Montage Adaptation Game

New game: put your music on shuffle and figure out where the first five songs in the queue would go in a montage of a Brick adaptation.

Thank you for reccing this game @pilferingapples​!

1 - Summersong, The Decemberists

My girl Linen and curls Lips parting like a flag all unfurled She's grand The bend of her hand Digging deep into the sweep of the sand And summer arrives With a length of lights And summer blows away And quietly, it gets swallowed by a wave It gets swallowed by a wave

The joys of summer and how they get swallowed up and destroyed? Yeah, it’s Fantine in the year 1817, in that happy time before Tholomyes and his friends all left.

(Actual #2 was Bring Him Home, which.... I’m going to say there’s no part of the brick that that corresponds to and move on.:P)

2 - Girl, Tori Amos

From in the shadow she calls And in the shadow she finds a way, finds a way And in the shadow she crawls Clutching her faded photograph My image under her thumb Yes, with a message for my heart Yes, with a message for my heart [Chorus] She's been everybody else's girl Maybe one day she'll be her own Everybody else's girl Maybe one day she'll be her own

Eponine. It’s just.. Eponine. Specifically, post Gorbeau, when she’s stopped obeying her father, but there’s no one else willing to replace the family she gave up.

3 - Ice Cream, Sarah McLachlan

Your love is better than ice cream Better than anything else that I’ve tried And your love is better than ice cream But everyone here knows how to fight

And it’s a long way down It’s a long way down It’s a long way down to the place Where we started from

Uhhhh. Hm. I have to admit, I don’t really connect to this song, and it doesn’t seem to tonally fit anywhere for me. I guess I have to have it be Cosette singing about Marius during their Rue Plumet courtship days--the sweetness and sensuality of the song suit her, and they both have sad pasts.

..I did briefly consider trying to make it Enjolras’s Quel Horizon speech, but I couldn’t justify it except for the “everyone here knows how to fight” line.:P

4 - Lotus, REM

Let it rain, rain, rain Save me from myself again Wash away my ugly sins Opposing thumb, dorsal fin That monkey died for my grin Bring my happy back again Let it rain, rain, rain Bring my happy back again [Chorus] So happy to show us Oh, I ate the lotus Say haven't you noticed? Oh, I ate the lotus

I mean. It’s Grantaire. Obviously. It doesn’t have the urgency or traumatic stakes of the scenes closer to the barricade, so I’m assigning it to his early rants in the back room of the Musain. You just know if Grantaire were existing post-Darwin he would have lots of rambling, incoherent things to say about evolution, too.

5 - One Song Glory, RENT

One song glory, one song before I go Glory, one song to leave behind Find one song, one last refrain Glory, from the pretty boy front man Who wasted opportunity One song, he had the world at his feet Glory, in the eyes of a young girl A young girl

I thought this one would be hard because of the Brick’s odd lack of artists.. but no. The central problem in this song never feels to me like it’s about songwriting so much as about the speaker’s belief that his life has been pointless and empty up till now and will continue to be unless he accomplishes this One Thing before he dies. So, this is Marius in his deep depression after losing contact with Cosette, daydreaming about death and holding onto the idea of trying to find her as the One Accomplishment that matters.

This game is a lot of fun! Highly recommend.

[fremedon]

Brickclub 3.5.1, “Marius in Penury,” and 3.5.2, “Marius in Poverty”

We gloss over several years in these next two chapters: years in which Marius, through difficulty and very hard work, becomes self-sufficient--remarkably so.

This is not a good thing for Marius.

(Everything here is riffing off the discussion @everyonewasabird started in his writeup, so go read that first, it’s quite good.)

The language in which Hugo extols the beneficial effects of poverty for Marius is so much like some of the worst contemporary bootstraps rhetoric that it’s very easy to miss the places where that praise turns ironic. But look at this, from the end of the first long paragraph of 3.5.1, detailing the hunger, evictions, and social embarrassment and humiliation Marius endures:

Awesome and terrible test from which the weak emerge degenerate, the strong emerge sublime. Crucible into which fate casts a man whenever it wants a villain or a demigod.

Marius is becoming a Great Man.

In this book, that’s a terrible thing to be. (And it says something about how radical a message that still is that I miss it almost every time it comes up.)

Hugo continues,

For many great feats are performed in small struggles. There are dogged deeds of valour, overlooked, that hold out step by step in the darkness against the fatal onslaught of destitution and depravity. Noble and mysterious triumphs that no eye sees, no renown honours, no fanfare salutes.

Life, adversity, isolation, abandonment, poverty are battlefields that have their heroes, the obscure sometimes greater than the illustrious. 

This is Cambronne at Waterloo; this is the barricade; this is Fantine’s descent, and the narrator means every word here--but between this and the villains or demigods of fate’s crucible, there’s a contrast it’s easy to miss. These aren’t the struggles of great men; they’re the struggles of good men--of people. Being a demigod isn’t a goal in this book. Enjolras starts as one and his endgame is becoming more human and more vulnerable.

And the next paragraph:

In such a way are steadfast and rare natures created. Almost always a stepmother, poverty is sometimes a mother. Deprivation begets strength of soul and of mind. Hardship is the wetnurse of pride. Adversity is a good milk for the noble in spirit.

Marius was offered the chance, two chapters ago, to take the Republic as his mother. And he took the other choice--here, poverty; there, glory and war. Being a great man; pulling himself up by his bootstraps; going it alone, without accepting help or charity. To lend money to his friends from time to time, but never accept anything but Courfeyrac’s old green coat. It’s as much a mistake for him here as for Madeleine in M-s-M.

And to compound it--hat tip to @pilferingapples--he cloisters himself, going out at night so his clothing looks black, and pulling away from social connections to maintain his pride in a way that is also reminiscent of Valjean, in another of the book’s inversions:

Some formality of expression or behaviour that in any other situation would have seemed to him polite, now seemed to him servile, and he bridled at it. He venerated nothing, not wanting to back down. There was in his face a kind of austere flush. He was shy even to the point of rudeness.

In other words, he feels his position of social inequality so keenly that routine social kindnesses or friendly give-and-take would feel like charity on others’ part or scraping on his own, so he avoids them. It’s the opposite of Valjean’s habit, of eating those abasements and feeling proud to the point of hubris of how much of them he can swallow, but it has the same result--both men end up almost completely atomized and alone.

The horrific thing is that Marius probably thinks he’s taking Combeferre’s advice. What could be greater than to be a Great Man? To be free, Combeferre says. And, welp--

He had suffered everything in the way of privation. He had done everything except contract debts. He said in his own favour that he had never owed anyone a sou. To him, a debt was the beginning of slavery. He even told himself that a creditor is worse than a master, for the master is master only of your person whereas a creditor is master of your dignity and can give it a beating.

Hugo goes out of his way to distinguish Marius’s ideas from the narrator’s here, and that’s often a flag that the character has gotten something wrong. Marius isn’t entirely wrong here--for Fantine, debt was the beginning of slavery. He has, correctly, sensed and avoided a pitfall that we have seen swallow Fantine--consumer debt, debts of the sort that Thenardier has fled so thoroughly that Marius can’t track him down in three years of searching (more on that in a moment), would have been a terrible thing for him.

But Fantine didn’t have friends offering her a loan or a place to sleep. Mutual aid isn’t debt--and Marius gets this on some level, because he’s willing to be the source of the rotating ten francs the Amis trade back and forth. He lends Courfeyrac sixty francs once, and he doesn’t think less of Courfeyrac for taking it! But he’s not willing to accept it.

And accepting help, being vulnerable to people who matter to him, is the quest he should have taken. Having been brought up by Gillenormand, it’s not something he knows how to do. But that’s a lot harder and scarier than isolating himself and learning to live on one mutton chop for three days--and, Bonapartist as he is, he’s determined to do everything himself.

And then there’s his debt to Thenardier. “It was the only debt the colonel had left him, and Marius felt honour-bound to repay it.” This debt is his entire patrimony. If human interconnectedness isn’t a matter of debts--if this debt doesn’t need to be discharged--then his father has left him nothing tangible. And that’s also a hard and scary idea, and not one he’s ready for.

(And now we’re back to Marius’s internalization of that word ingrate. I have no doubt that Gillenormand played the patriarch and drummed into Marius’s head constantly how much Marius owed him.)

This got hugely long, so just a couple more short observations:

Marius’s food budget (365 francs/year), when he gets to a low but stable income, is more than ten times his rent (30 francs/year). He pays 36 francs--20% more than his rent--to the concierge for some basic housekeeping and shopping. One of the privations we are told he endures before he achieves this stability is “sweeping his own landing.”

Marius is having his mail sent to Courfeyrac’s address, which presumably is how Aunt Gillenormand keeps tracking him down. I would love to read a fic about Courfeyrac’s occasional conversations with Aunt G.

“While all this was going on he qualified as a lawyer.” Which, for someone with no connections and no professional wardrobe, opens precisely zero doors--he continues to support himself on the basic literacy that’s part of his class inheritance and his self-taught language skills.

“This Rousseau restaurant, where so few bottles of wine and so many pitchers of water were emptied, was palliative rather than restorative.” Nice. Restaurant, meaning ‘restorative,’ was originally the beverage one drank in a restaurateur’s establishment, as one drinks coffee at a café--an expensive, highly concentrated bone broth, which was a health food craze in the 1760s and 1770s. (I am currently reading Rebecca Spang’s The Invention of the Restaurant: Paris and Modern Gastronomic Culture. Highly recommended.)

[faerielleart]

who is here for a really bad and random high school au that is completely self indulgent yo

in which levi loses a bet with erwin and mike and is forced to audition for their school’s production of les misérables, he tries to mess up the audition but somehow he still sucks less than everyone so he ends up getting the part of marius??? and he can’t quit because it will influence negatively on his grades??? idk imagine levi reading the script without knowing shit about the play and reading all the cheesy lines for the first time and him hating every single thing about this situation until the first day of rehearsal where he meets the person who will play cosette, his weird schoolmate hanji who shares some classes with him who is always spending time in the school laboratory to do experiments and shit and oh. Oh.

at first dude wants to Scream because he just can’t bear the thought of acting like a booby who is madly in love (quoting old les mis memes from years ago here) with this wEiRdO who somehow has a pretty fucking amazing voice and wow maybe this weirdo,,,,, isn’t a bad weirdo. how bizzarre

Maybe just maybe as the days go by they start spending time together because hey! Looks like they are polar opposites but at the same time they have SO! MANY! things in common!!! and they eventually use rehearsing as an excuse to spend even more time together! and they bond over the fact that they’re supposed to play characters who are SO distant and different from how they are irl and levi finds out that hanji tried to audition as a joke but got the part bc she can actually S I N G like an angel and has a really solid head voice and range despite being a mezzo and cosette needing a soprano bc her parents forced her to take lessons, while levi despite having a decent singing voice actually had to have the songs lowered a lil bc bby is a baritone in a tenor role and has never had lessons and can’t support all the notes but fear not! Hanji offers to teach him some tips and tricks and whoops now they’re spending even more time together

And maybe just maybe it becomes easier for levi to sing “in my life she has burst like the music of angels, the light of the sun, and my life seems to stop as if something is over and something has scarcely begun”, maybe it comes natural for levi to stutter his line in “a heart full of love, a heart full of song, i’m doing everything all wrong” because?? he is looking right at hanji’s really pretty brown eyes and he can’t concentrate?? and he hates feeling like this lmaooo like sweaty palms butterflies fast heartbeat,,,,, boi is in love and he doesn’t realize it he just thinks he’s constipated

anyway let’s spice shit up and add erwin to the mix! erwin knows hanji, they’re childhood friends and they actually met through their singing lessons, the dude who was going to play enjolras gets idk chicken pox and the director is frantically looking for a substitute, levi wants to get back at erwin for making him audition in the first place (it’s all in good faith tho it’s a joke and they’re best friends dw he just wants to have a lil revenge) and suggests erwin, not knowing that he and hanji know each other and that he actually has been trained in singing so yeah erwin gets called for a last-minute audition and dude SMASHES it the director’s crying tears of joy they found their authentic tall hot blonde enjolras who looks like he’d be a great commander and people would die for him (;DDDDD) and during rehearsal levi finds erwin and hanji chatting like old friends!! and dude’s like wtf do u know each other??? and hanji says hell yes we studied together since we were children :D and just because i am huge huge erumike trash lemme say that mike got a lil part bc they needed ensemble members and he got to play grantaire so yeah enjoy both e/R and erumike there we go erwin gets to act with his boyfriend!! and they both watch levi and hanji during rehearsal and see how they obviously pine for each other but are far too oblivious for their own good so they decide here and there that they must get those two together bc it’s exHAUSTING to watch them stare lovingly into each other’s eyes and hold hands and kiss and then brush it off saying “it’s just acting we literally have to play a couple”

anyway the day of the show is here ladies and gentlemen levi is nervous af but doesn’t show it, he has to act like a lovesick fool in front of the whole school, the students, the teachers, the parents, EVERYONE and oh my god i hate it here might become his gratuation quote but all he needs is hanji backstage who squeezes his hand and whispers “can’t wait for you to sweep me off my feet shorty” which is extremely cringy but hanji did it on purpose just to see levi get embarassed and he does lmao so yeah the show goes amazingly! levi went flat a few times on the higher parts but it’s totally normal bby’s not trained and he did great everyone praise the birthday boy he deserves it

it’s after the show that things get a lil sad for our boi bc now he doesn’t have to rehearse anymore and is afraid that hanji won’t spend time with him anymore bc the show’s over :(( but fear NOT hanji plans on glueing herself to his side for the rest of the schoolyear and until they graduate and even after that and years later they’ve graduated college they’ve been living together for a while and they go to see the actual show on bway done by professionals and hanji acts weird all evening and OH as they’re going home she stops in the middle of the streets and whips out two lil matching rings,,,,,,, and says the cringiest cheesiest fucking thing in the world that has levi groaning and facepalming,,,,,, hanji says “will u be the marius to my cosette” and yeah levi just sighs and puts the ring on his finger and they smooch under the moonlight aw isn’t that CUTE and they lived happily ever after victor hugo is smiling down at them from the afterlife and patting himself on the back for helping them get together

NOW THERE’S TOO MUCH FLUFF AND I NEED ANGST TO BALANCE IT OUT so imagine this is also a reincarnation au and whenever levi sings “empty chairs at empty tables” he gets a weird feeling in his stomach and he gets really emotional singing “oh my friends my friends forgive me that i live and you are gone, there’s a grief that can’t be spoken, there’s a pain goes on and on” and “oh my friends my friends don’t ask me what your sacrifice was for, empty chairs at empty tables where my friends will sing no more”?? He blames it on the character getting to him too much but then he sees the scene where the students sing drink with me and the lyrics “drink with me to days gone by, can it be you fear to die, will the world remember you when you fall, could it be your death means nothing at all, is your life just one more lie” sound really familiar and resonate with him somehow as if he heard similar words somewhere else already, he sees erwin playing enjolras and being a commander giving orders and singing “let others rise to take our place until the earth is free”, he sees the scene where all the students get shot at the barricade and die one by one and he feels his head pulse and he has the strongest feeling of deja-vu and suddenly everything goes black and he wakes up in the infirmary with a very worried hanji sitting on a chair beside him and he really can’t explain what happened except that he feels like he just woke up from a very long dream and he feels like he fought through a battle and hanji just waves it off as him taking the stanislavski technique a bit too seriously for a high school play but the feeling doesn’t really ever go away and sticks with him even years later whenever he hears les mis being mentioned

[les-amis-against-napoleon]

His Patria--An Enjonine Fanfiction

The part where Marius tells Eponine about Cosette isn’t canonically accurate, but whatever. 

~~~

It was said of Enjolras that nothing aside from revolution had a prominent effect on him, that no flower, no bird in flight, and least of all no woman could make him any more sentimental than if he were looking at a clod of dirt. But those who said these things were, in fact, wrong. Enjolras could be affected by things, although it seemed when it came to women that that was an impossible case. But much of the latter reason was due to the fact that Enjolras was thoroughly confused by women. They surrounded him, babbling about the weather and food and all kinds of stupid things, until he was quite beside himself as to how he should escape from their chatter. There was, to be truthful, only one woman he had come across who did not fall all over him, more a girl, in truth, than a woman. 

Every day, for the past few months, he had seen her, that unknown, troubled soul, sitting in the same area thrice or four times in a week. He would not really have noticed her the first time other than to nod his head politely if it had not been for her eyes. They were what captured his full attention. The instant she raised them to his face, he was struck by the sorrow of a thousand dead hopes, the agony of a life wasted by circumstances that could not be changed. In those half-veiled orbs Enjolras beheld everything he was fighting against: hunger, poverty, illness, life on the streets. 

He began to notice her more as he went about his weeks, getting into the habit of slowing his pace as he walked past her and nodding and smiling. He would have offered her money, but to him it did not seem that she was the type of person to accept charity. So he only nodded and smiled and went on his way, his thoughts occupied by the sadness in her eyes and the solemnity of her face. 

As time went on, Enjolras began to see in her all the people of France joined into one, a unity of suffering souls and silent cries for help. Before long, this girl, this stranger, began to represent, in his eyes, not just the people of the country, but France herself: glorious, sorrowful, and free. Patria. He began to call her that in his mind, to imagine what her voice sounded like. To him she spoke with rough music, not light and bubbly like decent young women but harsher, more free and careless, a voice stained by the hardships she had seen, tainted by all she had known. He began to be filled with a longing to speak with her, to see her in some other position than that which he viewed her in every day he saw her: feet tucked beneath her, arms clasped about her knees, her fragile soul portrayed in her eyes. He wished he could speak to her, but what business did he have? And what right? 

One day as Enjolras stepped from the cafe Musain, thinking these things over, he spotted Marius ahead of him. Marius, that somewhat skeptical, sometimes ridiculous young man, was striding towards...Enjolras froze. Curiosity, however, propelled his feet forward, until he stood unnoticed a few feet behind Marius. 

He was looking down at her. As Enjolras watched, a miraculous thing happened. She glanced up, and instantly the utter sorrow in her eyes was replaced by an unspeakable joy. A smile lit up her whole face, giving her a sort of glow, as she got to her feet and gazed at Marius, with her ragged brown hair tumbling over her shoulders. It was such a different sight from the sad, lonely waif who sat by herself that Enjolras’ knees felt slightly weak. Was she really the same person? 

He frowned suddenly. The light in the girl’s eyes was slowly fading, the smile sliding down from her face as she listened to Marius speak. He was currently saying, “—the most beautiful creature I think I have ever seen! Her hair, like gold, her eyes, like violets! She is splendid! Oh, if only I knew her name, where she lived, then I could summon the courage to speak to her!”

Enjolras continued carefully watching the girl. By now, all the joy was wiped from her face, and a new kind of sadness filled her eyes as she listened to Marius talk. Her head dropped slightly onto her chest, and her eyelids fell across her eyes, long lashes sweeping her cheek. Enjolras realized in that moment how blind Marius was to the obvious love this girl had for him. He wanted to shake Marius, to shout, “There is a perfectly beautiful creature before your very eyes! Do you not see her?”

Suddenly the girl did something that proved to the utmost her love for Marius. She glanced up, the flash of her eyes filled with a wound of mortality, and then she spoke. Enjolras gasped. Her voice was exactly as he had imagined it: rough, yet delicate, full of the trials of her life but lovely to listen to. When he focused on her words he was struck even more. 

“I can find her for you, Monsieur Marius.” Her eyes flitted downward again to the ground, and almost fearfully she backed against the wall and slid her hands along it. Her posture was slumped in a gesture of defeat, and tears sparkled in her emotion-drenched eyes, but Marius saw none of it. Instead he grabbed her by her shoulders and cried, “Will you?”

The girl looked at him, startled, and then at his hands resting on her. A strange sort of flush suffused each cheek as mildly she whispered, “If that is what you wish.”

“Oh, I could kiss you!” Marius cried, and Enjolras flinched at the effect his words had on the girl. Was Marius really so oblivious? How could he not see how madly in love she was with him? 

The girl looked up at Marius again, her eyes shimmering, and said roughly, “Well, I will find her. And I will let you know when I do.”

“Thank you, thank you, Eponine!” Marius said jubilantly. Enjolras paused. Was that her name? Eponine? It fit perfectly, better than any name he could have thought of. Eponine. It rolled across one’s tongue so freely and smoothly. He repeated it several times to himself so he would not forget, then looked again at the odd pair before him. 

“Of course, Monsieur Marius. Anything for you,” she answered, and Enjolras detected a faint stress on the last words. Marius did not notice, of course, and released the girl, turning away. 

“You don't know how much this means to me,” he said anxiously, a thrill of excitement in his tone, as he turned and headed in the opposite direction. 

“Don’t I,” she said softly, stepping after him and halting in the margins of the road. Her arms hung limply at her side, and her head slid downward. With an air of defeat she walked away, in the opposite direction, almost bumping into Enjolras as she did so. 

“Beg pardon, Monsieur,” she said in a low tone, continuing past him without a second glance. 

And Enjolras, the marble lover of liberty, he who advocated only the downfall of tyranny, stood staring after that symbol of tragic freedom, his mouth slightly open as though he had been about to call out, his eyes wide at what he had just witnessed, his heart aching for the lonely soul walking only a few feet away.

[kjack89]

Dancing

¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I was struck with a sudden burst of inspiration. Consider this a small piece of pre-Barricade Day sadness.

ExR, of sorts. Canon-era. Implied/referenced canon events (of the tragic variety).

Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.

The light in the Musain was brighter than it has been of late, the candles flickering cheerily amidst the crowded room. The roar of voices washed over Grantaire, but he heard none of it, leaning forward so that he could speak directly into the ear of the pretty grisette seated next to him. “And what of you?” Grantaire asked, too loud to be the flirting murmur he clearly intended, as much to be heard over the din of the room as it was because of the wine on his breath. “What do you do to please yourself?”

The grisette giggled, her cheeks coloring. “To please myself?” she asked coyly. “Surely I don’t know what you mean.”

Grantaire grinned. “For once, I was not making a euphemism,” he said, lifting the grisette’s hand from the table to press a kiss to her knuckles. “I truly want to know how you entertain yourself.”

“There are fewer opportunities for a woman to please herself than a man,” the grisette told him with a smile of her own.”But I do love to dance.”

Brightening, Grantaire stood, graciously helping the girl to her feet. “Then if it pleases you,” he said, sweeping into an elegant bow that still somehow managed to be filled with jest, “may I in turn have the pleasure of a dance?”

The grisette laughed and Grantaire took it as permission, pulling her close to launch into a waltz. “Why, monsieur,” she cried, still laughing breathlessly, “you surprise me!”

Someone let out a shout from the corner of the room and began a drunken chorus of one of the the bawdy songs common in the cafés late at night, but Grantaire heard none of it, moving to the rhythm of a song that only he could hear.

There is a rumble in the streets outside, the sound of cannons being brought to the ready position, the shout of soldiers falling into formation, but Grantaire knows none of it, his breath heavy and even.

And Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.

It was Courfeyrac who had convinced Grantaire to join the merry band setting out to the ball at Sceaux. Grantaire was more sober than he would otherwise wish, especially with the way Courfeyrac’s friend yearned.

As if he was alone in pining.

But where Marius, upon arriving at the ball, could not find joy in any of the young women there, caring only for his beloved, Grantaire knew he could find happiness, however fleeting, with any of the ladies who might give him a second glance.

And all the better if they were blonde.

When Grantaire spotted her, a blonde woman with sparkling blue eyes and a pink dress that flashed almost scarlet in the candlelight, he knew he would indeed find happiness that night. “May I have this dance?” Grantaire asked, when he had made his way to her side.

She laughed, but rather than duck her head, she met Grantaire’s gaze boldly. “You may,” she said simply, taking his hand and pulling him to the dance floor.

And there, with a pretty blonde in his arms, Grantaire again found himself, as much as any lost person might be found.

The sun has risen over the roofs that lined the Parisian street, the light glinting from the bayonets of the National Guardsmen as their blades find their quarry just as the cries of the men, dying for an ideal in which Grantaire has never truly believed, echo between the buildings.

And Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.

“Do you care to dance?”

If there are ever five finer words spoken by human tongue, Grantaire knows he will never hear them, staring up at Enjolras, whose hand is outstretched toward him. “Beg pardon?” Grantaire manages, two words ill-fitting the magical five Enjolras has uttered.

But Enjolras is not deterred by Grantaire’s confusion. “Do you care to dance?” he repeats, his hand unwavering where it remains held out for Grantaire to take. “With me, I should add, before whatever clever quip you might give to deflect an actual answer.”

Grantaire barks a startled laugh, staring up at Enjolras as if he has never quite seen him before. “But...why?” he asks, even as he is already reaching for Enjolras’s hand, his fingers already pressing into the soft flesh as Enjolras pulls him to his feet and tugs him close.

Enjolras shrugs. “Why not?” he replies, an answer that is not an answer. “I wish to dance, and you are a suitable partner. Is there any other reason needed?”

Grantaire sighs as Enjolras draws him closer still. “Say it again,” he whispers into Enjolras’s ear.

For a moment, Enjolras looks confused, but then his brow softens. “You are a suitable partner,” he replies.

“No kinder words could I have ever dreamed you to speak,” Grantaire sighs, and Enjolras laughs lightly.

“Have I been so cruel to give no kinder word than that?”

Grantaire shakes his head. “It is not a matter of cruelty,” he muses. “Though certainly, were you willing to spare a kinder word, I await with ready ear.”

Enjolras smiles and ducks his head so that his lips move lightly against Grantaire’s ear. “Wake,” he whispers.

“What?” Grantaire asks, his grip on Enjolras tightening.

“Wake,” Enjolras repeats. “Grantaire—”

The cries outside are fewer now, as the men draw their last breaths. The soldiers still shout, driving the last survivors of the barricade toward what structure remains that might provide some semblance of shelter.

There are few left, so few, compared to all who spent their last night on the barricade, who dreamed of a revolution whose time had not yet come, and whose dream had bled out by cannon and musket fire against the stones of the street.

But Grantaire dreams he’s dancing.

[cometomecosette]

“Dawn of Anguish,” “Second Attack/Death of Gavroche” and “The Final Battle.” Broadway, 2014. Kyle Scatliffe as Enjolras, Andy Mientus as Marius, Nathaniel Hackmann as Jean Valjean, John Rapson (?) as Grantaire, unknown Gavroche.

An excellent performance by everyone. Kyle’s Enjolras is fierce, caring and majestic all at once, John Rapson’s Grantaire (I don’t know for sure if it’s him, but I’m fairly positive) is heartbreaking, and the uncredited Gavroche is excellent too.

I’d also like to take some time to appreciate the effective details of the 2014 Broadway staging. I know I tend to talk like an old fogey when it comes to Les Mis productions, waxing on and on about how magnificent the classic Nunn/Caird staging was and how the Connor/Powell staging never quite equals it, but the Connor/Powell staging is effective and moving in its own right, and I’d like to give it some praise for a change.

Grantaire’s close friendship with Gavroche is one of my favorite aspects of this production. I’ve seen Nunn/Caird Grantaires try to send Gavroche away with the women and fathers too, but never take a moment to talk to him and hug him goodbye first! <3 <3 And then we have Grantaire frantically trying to climb over the barricade after Gavroche when he goes to collect the bullets, but protective Enjolras stopping him! Oh my heart!

I’m so grateful that the Broadway revival (and subsequent tours) altered the 2009 staging so that instead of dying offstage, Gavroche makes it back to the top of the barricade only to be shot down into Enjolras’s arms. I’ll admit I like it just as well as Nunn and Caird’s classic staging. Arguably it gives his death even more heartbreaking emphasis. While the Nunn/Caird staging does depict the killing itself more intimately and brutally, the turntable instantly sweeps his body out of sight afterward. But here we can’t look away from the dead boy as Enjolras hands him down to Grantaire, and as Grantaire carries him toward us, screams over him, and keeps on mourning over him even as the battle rages around him.

The staging of the moment when Marius is shot is like a cross between the traditional version (Enjolras and Grantaire run to his side, then share a moment) and the 2006 Broadway version (Grantaire and Valjean run to his side, Valjean gently dismisses Grantaire – e.g. “I’ll take care of him, you’ve got a battle to fight” – then gets down to the business of rescuing him). Here we have Enjolras and Valjean at his side, with Valjean directing his “I’ll handle this, son” gestures to Enjolras, who then meets Grantaire as he charges toward the barricade and shares a moment with him. This is a good combination, I think. It suits Valjean’s dedication to protecting Marius, but also has the Marius/Enjolras friendship reinforcement and the E/R moment of the original staging.

It’s always good to see an E/R hug. <3 <3

I’ve noticed a very small difference between Nunn and Caird’s handling of the two big symbolic gunshots and Connor and Powell’s. In the original production, the first one kills Enjolras, while the second kills all the others and leaves them to collapse in slow motion. In the Connor/Powell version, the first shot wounds Enjolras and makes him drop the flag, but he still stands tall in defiance, while the second shot kills him, with all the others quickly dying afterwards in a volley of more realistic gunfire. Both variations I think are effective; I can’t say which one I prefer.

Either way, I think it’s interesting that in both stagings, Enjolras is the first of the barricade boys to die. It’s just the opposite of Hugo’s version, where he and Grantaire are the last to go. But I suppose it’s effective symbolism onstage. The death of Enjolras equals the death of the rebellion; the doom of all the revolutionaries is sealed when their leader falls.

The wounded Marius briefly regaining consciousness as his friends fall and trying to climb back up the barricade while Valjean tries to wrangle him to safety is another touch I’ve never seen before. I think I like it. First of all, it makes it obvious that Marius isn’t dead; secondly, it highlights his sheer courage and loyalty to his friends; and third, it might allude to the novel, where Marius is aware of Valjean taking hold of him from behind (although he doesn’t know it’s Valjean) just before he loses consciousness.

[emptymasks]

How can I live when you are gone?

so this is what happens when you don't watch or listen to les mis for seven years even though it's one of your favourite musicals and then you watch the all star cast recording and empty chairs gets you as much as it did the first time you heard it and you instantly have to write this as soon as the musical is over. because it would seem all i am able to write now is angst.

and it's in first person? and present tense?? i gave in and wrote first person for that and then idk i got so into marius' head that this just came out in both first person and present tense. writing friends don't shoot me for writing in present tense, i never do and i don't know what happened this just came spewing out without my even thinking about it.

warnings for: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD | Night Terrors | Nightmares | Anxiety Attacks | Survivor Guilt |��Heavy Angst

I awake in a sweat. This is the usual way I awake now.

The guns echo in my ears: hold, fire, hold, fire, hold, fire, fire, fire. The air is sawdust and gunpowder as everything splinters to fragments. Splinters of wood and bone. And they fall like hail from the sky and then from all sides.

And everything runs red. Red, our desire and our love now running and trodden through in the gutter, between the cobblestones. Red: the flag is torn to shreds. Red, the blood sweeps through our waistcoats. Red, Enjorlas topples lifelessly over the barricade. Once so full of life, glory and determination never leaving his eyes as his hair bounced in the wind and his smile was wild and inspired every one of us. Enjorlas, my dear friend... my friend... my friends...

Enjolras, Grantaire, Feuilly - their names are a mantra in my head that will not be forgotten - Joly, Courfeyrac, Combeferre - they will not be forgotten - Jean, Bahorel, Bossuet - I can not let them be forgotten - little Gavroche, Epoinine...

My fingers clutch at the sheets and pull them to my chest, against my skin and ribs and my heart beating out of my chest. And I curl in on myself. My legs thrash. The sheets are too white, too clean. Everything is too clean. Too clean and too soft.

Soft. Soft hands, softer than sheets reach for me and try to hold me, but I shake. I shake violently and sob. I weep and weep and the bed is too soft and I all but crawl out of it and fall to my knees on the floor. The painful thud against my knees is something to cling too.

Her soft hands are there again and she is on her knees too, kneeling before me and beside me like a saint. Her hands sooth my forehead. She does not try to touch my body as we have both learnt how I react to that when I’m in this state. Hands, even as gentle as hers, once upon me feel like the bodies and the rubble and the sheets over me feel like the stinking water I can scarcely remember in the day but in the hours of the night creep in like the chill of the wind through an open window; I cannot see it but feel it in my bones.

"Hush, Marius," She whispers and sings a vibrato through my nerves. Her thumbs sweep the sweat from my brow, down my temples, my brow, my cheekbones. Fingers flutter against my eyelashes as she pulls me from myself and draws me to look at her.

And when my eyes can bear to move and let her face grace them, she smiles.

I do not deserve her.

My Cosette, sweet Cosette. Mine and I am hers, and was hers since our eyes first met. But I am not that man, not now, perhaps not ever.

Though through my broken spirit her smile lights up every dark corner. How could it not? I cry and I scream and I shake and she is patient and kind.

And she loves me.

Despite it all, she loves me and praises me each, looks at the small things I barely manage to do and sees some triumph in them. That as if for me to merely get out of bed is a great feat.

Well... isn't it?

I have heard of men ending their lives who've less death than I. Not that I blame or judge them. But she reminds me to think of what I have lost, and that by still being here it only shows how strong I am.

I think it is she who is strong, to be thrust into my pain after hardly knowing the world at all, and taking it all in her stride. She's so graceful with it, as if everything that should cause her doubt and turmoil only makes her hold her head higher.

And I love her.

I love her, I love her, I love her.

And my breathing slows as her fingers ripple through my hair and she coaxes me back onto the bed, doesn't force my body under the covers nor my head under the pillow. She lets me fall onto her lap as she hums song old familiar tune.

I will fall back to sleep again soon and I will not wake until morning.

And tomorrow night this will happen again.

But she will be there, ready to hold the pieces of me together until I find the strength to do it myself.

also the 'enjorlas falling over the barricade' comes from the musical and in particular i was thinking about this performance with drew sarich as enjorlas (i love him as enjorlas i don't care if he was an understudy) in the 2006-2007 broadway revival where instead of the set parting to show enjorlas' body on the cart, the whole barricade spins around and shows him fallen and laying on the otherside of the barricade's wall (video link in the replies to this post if you’re interested) is the clip that inspired the enjorlas description. marius in this is inspired by rob houchen in the 2019 ' all star' concert.

it's also been brought to my attention by an american friend of mine that the enjorlas/grantaire interactions are played down in the broadway versions compared to the west end so i'm sorry you guys don't get to see them hug every night.

also while i was writing this i got slight marius/enjorlas vibes and i have no idea if that is a ship or how popular it is if it is one but i sort of like it? the idea of determined enjorlas trying to get this hopefully romantic to not get himself killed. idk.

just searched around and found only one post for marius/enjorlas and it was someone asking if anyone else shipped it. well done beck you’ve done it again, gotten into a ship with zero content

*big sigh* i guess now that means i have to make said content don’t i

[ao3feed-lesmiserables]

The Remnants

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2ORbJkC

by alousette

In the ashes of a broken world, humanity is shielded from the dangers of the outside world - and from itself - by unscalable walls and a militant regime that rules with an iron fist and nobility revered as gods, while a majority of the population lives in poverty.

This sweeping reimagining of Victor Hugo's Les Misérables tells the story of young woman Cosette, who lands in the middle of a past long forgotten as a web of family secrets is suddenly unraveled. As she finds her fate intertwined with the grandson of one of the most powerful lords of the first district and a secret rebellion out for his head, Cosette is caught in the midst of a war long overdue, as dawn breaks for a world lost in the ashes of tragedy.

Words: 1257, Chapters: 1/?, Language: English

Fandoms: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Categories: F/M, M/M, Multi

Characters: Cosette Fauchelevent, Marius Pontmercy, Jean Valjean, Enjolras (Les Misérables), Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Combeferre (Les Misérables), Grantaire (Les Misérables), Éponine Thénardier, Azelma Thénardier, Gavroche Thénardier, Javert (Les Misérables), Fantine (Les Misérables), Feuilly (Les Misérables), Jean "Jehan" Prouvaire, Joly (Les Misérables), Bossuet Laigle, Musichetta (Les Misérables), Bahorel (Les Misérables), Les Amis de l'ABC

Relationships: Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)

Additional Tags: Modern Era, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Revolution, Eventual Romance, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Science Fiction, this is chaos but it's a vibe, Angst

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2ORbJkC

[kcrabb88]

In a Mirror Dimly

Summary: Enjolras and Valjean bond at the barricade, discussing love and something they share in common. Written for Ace Mis Week 2019. 

Note: Aromanticism and asexuality definitely overlap here! That’s my personal experience/orientation, so that comes naturally for me when writing about ace things. Also, the title is a reference to a verse from 1 Corinthians. Thanks to @aflamethatneverdies and @librarianladyx for beta’ing! 

Valjean knows he shouldn’t get attached to these boys.

Because these boys will probably be dead soon.

Young men, he corrects himself, because they’re not children. But he has a habit of making any youth a child in his head.

He can’t help but feel fatherly toward them.

Perhaps he can convince them to run? Then again, maybe not. And how could he lead them through the dark of Paris unnoticed, even if he got them out?

Surrender? He flinches, digging his fingernails into his palms. That might mean prison. He swallows, unwilling to imagine these vibrant young men under that weight.

He looks over, seeing the one called Enjolras whisper something in Combeferre’s ear, a soft smile sliding onto the chief’s face.

He remembers seeing the tear running down the lad’s cheek after he shot the artillery sergeant. He remembers watching him step away for a moment and take a deep breath, because there isn’t time for grief.

Not here.

Enjolras brushes a stray strand of astonishing fair hair out of his eyes, not yet noticing Valjean studying him. Paris feels dark in this space before true daylight comes, clouds sweeping across the sky as a slice of blue edges into the black night, just a hint of red lingering on the horizon. There’s no light from the usual window lanterns, the few they have near the barricade emitting a dull yellow haze. The scent of gun smoke lingers in the air, never allowing Valjean to forget where he is.

He’d sensed the revolt in the air for weeks, months, before he heard news of the barricades today, but France has been roiled so many times since his birth that he can never tell when a spark will turn into something or when it won’t. The revolution was in progress when he was shipped to Toulon, and he remembers hearing news of the changes inside France: the revolution ending, Napoleon’s coup, and years later, his disastrous defeat in Russia. Then, Waterloo.

Nothing changed inside the bagne.

Valjean’s surprised when he glances up and sees Enjolras looking at him.

Then walking toward him.

“I was grateful for your help with the mattress to block the grapeshot, citizen,” Enjolras says as he approaches. “And for your bravery in giving your uniform to send another man away. My friends and I are thankful.”

Always citizen, rather than monsieur. Valjean’s intrigued again, even if he doesn’t quite know what to say. He can’t really say why exactly he’s here, though he’d heard Marius say I know him, so what might the other men here suspect? Perhaps nothing. Perhaps that Marius has only seen him in the street.

He realizes how much he’s used to keeping secrets. Always secrets, because he carries Toulon with him everywhere. The secrets grew heavier when he tore up his yellow passport and became someone else, when he took the bishop’s silver and started a new life. But with his secrets he also gained a sort of freedom. The freedom to be someone other than Jean Valjean and the damage that name carries with it. He’s only Jean Valjean at night, when he’s alone with his scars. Wearing another name gives him the chance to help others. It gives him the chance to love his daughter.

Valjean folds his hands together, praying he can get Cosette’s young man out of here even as the National Guard gets closer and daylight breaks into the night, the first hints of dawn reaching the barricade. He recalls Enjolras’ words from the speech he gave not long ago, the words cutting into Valjean’s heart because he doesn’t want these young men to die.

We are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn.

Enjolras sits down on the paving stones, the first strains of morning light creeping toward his feet through the shadows as if drawn to him. The glow casts his youth into relief and washes the gravity from his face, the knowledge that this lad might perish—and soon—making Valjean’s chest ache. Smudges of gunpowder stain Enjolras’ hands black in places, but he’s bafflingly free of even a small injury.

“Do you have anyone worrying over you at home?” Valjean asks, because he doesn’t know what to say. He so often feels like he doesn’t know what to say, only what to do.

Enjolras pulls his gaze away from the sunrise. “My parents are at home in Marseilles, but hopefully they aren’t worrying yet because news won’t have reached them.”

“No wife or children like those men you sent home?”

Valjean wonders if there’s any way he might convince Enjolras to go home. He looks barely more than seventeen or so, even if he must be a good bit into his twenties. Valjean isn’t opposed to the politics, because he knows just how desperate so many people are, right now. How desperate they’ve been for years. He understands the inequalities and the cholera and the poverty. Those were the things he was trying to fix, in Montreuil, before it all went wrong. Those are the things he wants to help alleviate now, where he can, person by person.

But he doesn’t want these young men dying over this. He wants them to find another way, because there’s enough death in these streets already.

Enjolras smiles, possibly catching onto to Valjean’s motives. “No. I have never been very interested in romance or the…” red creeps into his cheeks, and Valjean suspects he doesn’t blush often. “…the other activities my friends occupy themselves with. So no mistress waiting, either.”

Valjean shifts the gun resting between his knees. “Too busy wanting to change the world?”

Enjolras runs a hand through his over-long fair hair, and the small movement makes Fantine appear in Valjean’s mind with a flash of vibrant, tangible memory, her golden hair cut short and ruined by the cruel edge of a knife. All these years later and he still aches over the fact that he couldn’t save her.

He probably can’t save all these boys either, only the one he’s come for, the one his daughter loves, and it hurts.

Truth be told he doesn’t even know if he can save Marius.

Even in the last excruciating moments, there had been hope in Fantine’s eyes, hope that she might see her daughter again. Even as she died, Valjean saw the life in her bursting at the seams with nowhere to go. He never had the chance to know Fantine, just as he won’t ever know Enjolras, but despite their differences in circumstance and age and gender, he recognizes the same radical, indestructible hope in both of them. In Fantine’s last days he sensed that she was never just surviving, but always looking for the tiniest fragment of joy in the dark, even if she was only holding on by her fingernails. He senses that same spirit in Enjolras, watching it shimmer in the air around them like a living thing.

If he could, he would give some of his years back to Fantine, so she could see her daughter again.

He would give some to these lads, too, and save them from the bullets awaiting them on the other side of the barricade.

But he can’t.

Enjolras’ voice draws him back toward the moment at hand, every second feeling precious, because death’s shadow creeps over the barricade even as the orange-red glow of the sunrise bursts over the Parisian skyline. “That is always time consuming, but my friends also find plenty of hours in the day for both their mistresses and their politics. I suppose I never felt the impulse.”

“I thought I heard one of your friends teasing and saying you were rather intrepid for a man who had no woman he loved,” Valjean says, finding himself talking more with Enjolras than he does with most people other than Cosette. “But I thought perhaps they just might not know that you did.”

Enjolras laughs softly, but there’s grief within the sound. “Oh, no. I keep no secrets from my friends. We are a family, after all. Bound together by love of the same cause, and years of friendship.” Enjolras’s voice cracks ever so slightly, his words growing heavy.

“You’ve lost good friends today.” Valjean almost clasps Enjolras on the shoulder, but he isn’t sure if the touch would be welcome, so he refrains, for now. “Not just compatriots.”

“Two of the best men I knew.” Enjolras glances over at Courfeyrac, Feuilly, Combeferre, Bossuet, and Joly, who stand nearby, a gleam of deep love in his eyes. “Bahorel and Prouvaire. Bahorel had a laugh you could never forget, and a formidable loyalty to those he chose as his own. Prouvaire had an absolutely astonishing soul, and poetry that could make any man cry, even if I don’t understand the finer points of the art form.” Enjolras touches his undone cravat, a bright-red against the more muted colors of the rest of his clothing. Perhaps a gift from the friends he mentioned. Then, his voice goes deeper, a dangerous anger puncturing the words. “Some of the national guardsmen executed Prouvaire point blank. It’s why I’m afraid the police inspector inside will meet his end here.”

Valjean tenses at that, Javert’s presence is a problem for him in a million ways even as he wishes to get him out of here unscathed. Javert is a thorn in his side. Javert could turn him in. Javert keeps turning up, and yet Valjean doesn’t want to see him killed. A strange sympathy for the police inspector wells up in Valjean’s chest, a sympathy of which he doesn’t entirely understand the root.

“I’m sure some people find it odd,” Enjolras continues, his words holding the ring of a confession. “My lack of a mistress or interest in marriage. But I have all I need with my friends.”

Valjean pauses, hesitant to share anything about himself with anyone, the instinct ingrained so deeply within him he doesn’t know how to undo it. He’s afraid to undo it.

“I understand.” Valjean speaks the words before he’s ready, but he does understand, and it’s almost a relief to hear Enjolras make his own admission. Their lives are very different, but that feeling is the same. “I have a daughter, you see. Not my blood, but…” Valjean trails off for a moment, an image of Fantine coughing until her whole body shook overtaking his memory. “…but my own nevertheless. The life I’ve led has never truly offered me the opportunity for marriage and the like, but then again I also haven’t found I desired any of that. So I don’t find it odd at all, if you want the opinion of an old man.”

Concern floods Enjolras’ face, his eyes widening in alarm. “You have a daughter and yet you gave yourself up for another man to leave? I didn’t know…I…” Enjolras is inarticulate now, and it’s a far cry from the beautiful ease of his earlier speech, the words he spoke to the crowd like a hymn caught in the wind. Valjean remembers how those words sunk into his old soul, watching as the flames of hope came alive in the eyes of the men surrounding him. Not hope for their own lives, necessarily, but hope for the future they all believe in.

Valjean does clasp Enjolras’ shoulder now. “Easy, lad. I know what I’m doing. I’ll be all right.”

Enjolras frowns, the earlier gravity returning. “I am far from certain that any of us are going to be all right, I’m afraid. I hate to see your daughter lose you. I’m sure she needs you.”

“I’ll be all right,” Valjean repeats.

He cannot say I faked my own death to escape a prison ship. He cannot say I once snuck into a convent by hiding in a coffin. He cannot say I have been through stranger things, and somehow survived. He’s honestly not sure if he will survive. But he has to try. He has to try to get Cosette’s young man back to her. Even if it means losing her, Valjean wants her happiness. She deserves her happiness. She deserves more than an old man like him.

Valjean’s eyes flick to Marius for the briefest of moments, and it doesn’t go unnoticed by Enjolras. Enjolras looks at Marius and back at Valjean again, some kind of recognition flashing in his face that he doesn’t voice.

“I don’t suppose there’s any way I can convince you and your friends to leave the barricade?”

Valjean speaks before Enjolras can, hardly knowing what he’s saying.

A sad smile graces Enjolras’ features as the sun comes up fully over the barricade, gold dripping from the ends of his hair when the light strikes him.

“We will not surrender. My friends and I will do this together as we have so many other things in our lives these past years. We will survive together, or we will not.”

There’s a finality in Enjolras’ words among the grief and the hope and the unshakeable love Valjean hears.

“That kind of family is a beautiful thing to possess,” Valjean says, his words turning tremulous, and he clears his throat against the wave of emotion crashing over him. “That kind of family, and something to believe in.”

Enjolras blinks, wiping away a stray tear falling from his eye. “Those two things are all I have ever needed. Perhaps some might say that my lack of a mistress means I do not love, but that is not the truth.” Enjolras glances over at his friends again, and then at the sun casting the barricade in a golden glow, the light of a new day dawning. The dawn of the sixth of June. “I love so much I feel it might burst out of me at any moment. And sometimes it does.”

“I understand.” Valjean stands up at the same time as Enjolras, putting out his hand for the lad to shake. “I truly do.”

Enjolras accepts the handshake, his hand warm with life and kindness. “I hope that you find your way back to your daughter, citizen. Her name is?”

“Cosette,” Valjean says, something powerful filling him up as he says his child’s name, even more determined to get the Pontmercy boy back to her. He has never felt the kind of romantic feelings for someone like she possesses for that young man, but he does know what it is to deeply love, because she taught him.

“Cosette,” Enjolras repeats, handling the name with care. “Thank you for sharing a piece of yourself with me. It’s always nice to share something in common with someone when you didn’t expect it.”

Valjean nods, letting go of Enjolras’ hand. “It is. Thank you for talking with an old man.”

Enjolras smiles again before going back over to Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who each put an arm around him.

There’s still the matter of Javert inside the Corinthe. There’s still the matter of getting Cosette’s young man out of here. There’s still the matter of surviving long enough to do that. But Valjean marvels at the life on this barricade that is so obviously destined to end in death.

He marvels at the love all around him.

More words from Enjolras’ speech echo in his head, louder than the footsteps of the soldiers and the cannon fire on the other side of this chaotic, mismatched pile of wood that is the only thing standing between them and eternity.

Whence shall arise the shout of love, if it be not from the summit of sacrifice?