#I HOPE??? THIS IS OKAY DEAR FERRE

[jeoseungsaja]

A ball of fog expands into the air after a trembling breath takes place; long fingers of one hand latched onto tubes painted aquamarine. The other hand is busy fiddling with what rests in his breast pocket, making sure, for the nth time, that the small box is still there, ever so present to the point that it's left a temporal dent on the fabric of his shirt. Teeth bite on his bottom lip --- once, twice; enough to leave an edge of mouth with a small peel which represents nervousness.

He doesn't even remember the last time he was with these many knots in his stomach; a collection of butterflies and twists alike, finding a home in the ever so chaotic depths of the detective. Hyuk takes another deep breath; grabbing his cellphone and glancing at the last text message received from his dear friend ('I'll be there').

It hasn't even been that long since the last time they saw each other; his brain still replaying that last meeting at the beach, when the calendar marked his birthday and his best friend etched a new feeling into his heart. It was brief but undeniably dulcet (and unconsciously wanted, too, that he figured out with time) moment; where time sweetly froze and he was able to decipher, with surprise and warmth, how well the lines of Patrick's lips matched his.

Oh, boy. Just thinking about it sends spirals of temperature up his neck. He truly hasn't been the same ever since --- in a good way. Even his co-workers wonder why he's been more lenient than usual. And, well...whatever this might be, he likes it. Just as much as he likes him. Patrick.

Regardless of feelings bubbling up, this isn't much about putting those puzzle pieces together (they will fall into place with time, won't they?), but about a special occasion; a special day: His best friend's birthday; a mark Hyuk never misses, no matter where he might be or what he's doing. It's why he's decided to take, once again, a plane all the way to Europe --- because a videocall won't do, nor a text message with those exasperating emojis that the detective can't even use properly. Patrick deserves more than that, and he can argue all he wants; Hyuk will not be convinced otherwise.

And so he's here, asking Patrick to see him at the London Bridge, at the time where is dark enough for the towers and rails to lit up and reflect their lights upon the dancing waters. It's a way to reminisce the past, about those days where they'd escape social events just for them to walk all the way here; about those days where Patrick would talk about the stories written behind the bridge and Hyuk would listen intently; about those days where they'd laugh and chat whilst living their adventures of youth.

It's a way to reminisce the past. And connect the present. Much like the bridge links one point to the other.

He waits, patiently so, actually. Knows that Patrick barely gives time for himself even when being a special occasion; prefers to carry on with his endless duties as a responsible professor and doting father. That's Patrick Myungdae Grace for you: A gentleman who often puts loved ones first before even thinking about his own self.

After a few minutes, Hyuk hears hurried steps on the humid ground; such a sound making him turn at once. There he is; the tall man with the kind face and soft eyes, a few strands of hair being blown by the biting, Londoner wind. He looks beautiful as ever, especially when his eyes crinkle due to a smile pulling his lips.

The detective's heart is singing. Loudly. He almost feels his rib-cage is going to explode.

Before Patrick could possibly voice any kind of apology about being a few minutes late (Hyuk doesn't care --- he just cares that he made it in one piece), an impulse makes Hyuk throw his arms around his best friend to wrap him into a tight, affectionate hug; the type only Patrick gets (otherwise Hyuk is too emotionally stiff, as some say). When he pulls away, his fingers remain clasped onto his dear friend's forearms, thumbs unconsciously rubbing the space there as a grin stretches his mouth.

"You look tired. Have you eaten anything? Don't tell me you're only running on tea and the birthday breakfast Hiro and Elise made you--" He scowls, before his features slowly turn softer. "I...wanted us to meet here because I thought...maybe we could, walk a little and..uh...eat at that place we used to go to...when we were younger. The one with fish and chips? I checked and they close until late---"

Since when is he a rambler? He stops himself, awkwardly clearing his throat whilst hands slip away from Patrick's body. "Oh," he quickly goes to fetch the box he's been guarding all this time and hands it to his dear friend. It's small, long; dark green. "For you. I also...wanted to see if they fit you right, could you...open it to check?" Hyuk tries to not rush Patrick into opening the gift, his fuse very short in comparison to his dear friend's. Once it's open, a pair of Rubik's cube cuff links is found inside. The little cubes even twist some, in case Patrick needs a distraction while wearing them. Of course Hyuk had to get them for him.

"Let me," Hyuk grabs one of the cuff links and then takes a careful hold of Patrick's wrist; turning it so his palm is exposed. At first, the detective's focused on putting it on, eyes even narrowing as to look at the shirt's hole under the shadow of artificial lights. But then, he realizes how close he is, how Patrick's wrist is exposed to him even if the rest of his shirt hugs his arm effortlessly. Suddenly, he can feel his heart in his throat and there's the need to---

Just do it, Lee Hyuk. For once, follow that voice. And he does it. He gently kisses the center of Patrick's wrist.

Even if heat crawls all the way to his cheeks, he pretends that what he did is casual; fingers stumbling a little but finally managing to keep the cuff link on place. "There. It--It looks nice. Let's see the other---" And he does the same thing: grabs the cuff link from the box, and then his dear friend's wrist.

He kisses that one, too. The mark tender. A honeyed whisper of utter affection. I'm here. I'll always be here. For you. Just for you.

A clear of his throat; a little, bashful side-smile as the detective attempts to gain his usual composure and peeks to see Patrick. He doesn't apologize for what he did, nor does he try to quickly change the subject. There's no ounce of regret in that body of his and, besides...at this point, that wall where the awkwardness of sentiment was stored is slowly but surely crumbling down, isn't it?

Slow but steady steps.

"I--also got you another thing, but I'll...give it to you until we get to eat." A rainbow fountain pen, that's neatly wrapped in the oh so famous newspaper wrapper he uses. It's saved in the pocket of his trousers; awaiting for the right time to fall onto Patrick's hands.

Hyuk's hands, which rested right under Patrick's wrists, move so they can meet his dear friend's shoulders. He pats them, then pretends to accommodate the lapel of his shirt, when in reality he's getting his palms ready to climb up. And they do, rise and a little timidly; fingertips daring to reach his dear friend's face. The detective's fingers are calloused, but his touch tries to be soft; caring --- loving.

He gives him a smile. One that, he hopes, tells Patrick how proud he is. Of him, his best friend (and something more). Of who he is, who he's become. And how he still holds gentleness and mercy by his hand, despite it all.

"Happy birthday, Dae-yah."

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE MOST WONDROUS PROFESSOR @ofgentleresolve 🥺🎂

[clemencetaught]

FERRE; SWEET, WONDERFUL, DEAR FERRE!!!! HAPPIEST OF BIRTHDAYS TO YOU 🎂🎉🥳🍰!!!!

May this day be full of fantastic moments, pleasant surprises, good company, delicious food and everything great that the world has to offer 💖 I hope this new year for you is covered with happiness, success, good health, memorable experiences and heartwarming situations 😊✨️!! I'm wishing you the best today and ALWAYS!!!

You are such a supportive, understanding, creative and marvelous soul;; your presence is a bright light that brings comfort, ease and joy 🥺 I thank you IMMENSELY for your friendship, for all those lovely chats where we freely go back and forth with our thoughts (I LOVE!! READING ALL YOU HAVE TO SHARE!! I'D READ ENTIRE BOOKS OF THAT!!); for all the stories we've written and developed together (ALL THOSE MARVELOUS PLOTS THAT BRING ME BOTH JOY AND PAIN ((but its okay, I signed up for the wounds 😭😂)), I KEEP THEM ALL IN MY HEART AND I AM CONTINUOUSLY THRILLED TO WRITE AND CREATE WITH YOU!!!) and for!! Giving my muses and I a chance 🥲

It's been nothing but AN HONOR, to get to know you, chat and write with you, and I hope we continue to do this fOR MANY MORE YEARS (I mean…you're stuck with me, THE RECEIPT IS LOST SO YOU CANT RETURN ME HSOWAKBAAJ 😂)!!

It also makes me very happy to celebrate your birthday once more, I HAVE MY PARTY HAT ON AND I'M THROWING HEART-SHAPED CONFETTI ALL OVER THE PLACE 🎉🎉🎉🥳🥳🥳❤️

THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING, PLEASE HAVE A FANTABULOUS DAY!!! I CARE YOU AND ADORE YOU HEAPS, MY FRIEND!!!!

HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!! ✨️✨️✨️✨️

@jeoseungsaja alex has me like:

ALEX!!!! 🥰🥰🥰😭😭😭💕

you know nowadays it’s so weird to me?? To remember when there was a time where I wasn’t writing or plotting with you- it's hard to believe that we started writing together about two years ago...which is why i am SO GRATEFUL that you gave me the chance to not only write and plot with you but also be your friend 🥺🥺🥺 you are a SUCH a kind and thoughtful person and i'm sure everyone who is lucky enough to be mutuals with you can testify in my favor here and the judge is also biased towards me, sorry folks, the right to a fair trial in this case?? no such thing fjksldjf 😌

ANYWAYS i can only say i have such wonderful and intricate characters and plots on here because of my wonderful and creative partners such as you and all of our lovely mutuals 🥺🥺🥺 any day i get the chance to interact with you always is a good day in my book!! I always feel like a dash of dophmomine when I see u around 💕💕💕 and you know i am ALWAYS an excited puppy for our plots and  your characters ( and even MORE PLOTS….we could have 1923947373 and I would be down for more still DHDJDJD 😂😂😂 )- I also v sorry for the pain i gib u ( black knight verse )and for the pain coming in the future too ( thg verse WHICH ALSO THANK YOU JUMPING IN THE HOLE AND DRAGGING HYUK AND HAE GEON AND WILDER AND JAEHWAN AND ALL UR OTHER CHARACTERS IN TOO, it’s big enough for everyone 😌 )….if it helps it gives me pain too and any pain u gib me I shall take stride….I’ll also pay u ( and ur charas, hyuk especially )back with happiness I swear ( + tissues and consoling too 🥲🥲🥲 ) 💕💕💕💕

but thank YOU for your sweet, sweet message- I will admit when I woke up on my bday I wasn’t in most amazing of moods but reading ur message put a huge smile on my face ☺️☺️☺️ you are such a bright spot on this hellsite and most certainly a ☀️ on my dash and I am very thankful to have met you- I’m always in awe that I get to be able to interact with someone who is not only an excellent writer with characters that jump off the page but also a decent and genuinely all around good person 🥲🥲🥲 this is all to say just like you said, unfortunately for us both I will be stuck to u like superglue even after this hellsite dies 😂😂😂 not even returning the receipt will help u there!!

all in all though, thank you SO MUCH for the birthday wishes ( and YOUR GIFT DONT THINK YOURE GETTING AWAY WITH ME NOT NOTICING 🤩🤩🤩 )!! care you so much and I know for sure that this year will be as wonderful as the last since you’ll be there 🥰🥰🥰

[ofgentleresolve]

@jeoseungsaja​​ sent:

"It's you, isn't it."  At this point, it's no longer surprising to catch a shadow plastered on the dilapidated wall. At this point, he can recognize said shadow; take note of the outline of unmistakable hat. There's a long pause after something that might sound like a revelation; his back facing the vigilante as fingers carefully graze long leafs of Lily of the Valley. A little, saddened smile tugs at his lips, before letting out an elongated sigh. "The one who puts water in this plant once in a while." Touch releases itself from the damp green, turning about so he can address the Black Knight.

He doesn't understand. Doesn't understand why the masked vigilante does these things: comes around whenever he pleases, for as long as the door remains with that shabby lock (a lock Hyuk himself hasn't even changed due to a million penurious excuses; it almost feels like the detective welcomes him through actions, even if his stubborn words might say otherwise) and, on top of that, is observant enough to tell when this plant needs water.

Hyuk knows Nakamura uses the watering can to give the Lily of the Valley much needed showers whenever he forgets to do so, but it's almost impossible for the plant to remain this damp after hours of its last round of water. Plus, he doesn't think it's a coincidence that the leaves have fresh droplets of liquid on occasions he's found the Black Knight inside his office. Truly? He could question him about it, be relentless and ask why he's doing this, why does he even care; continue with worded brawls until one of them lurches forward.

But he doesn't. Instead, he looks down, pretends that he's busying himself with something else as he walks to his desk and takes a paper crane that wasn't there earlier. Suki must've folded some papers around here. Again. He's too tired to mind tonight.

"Thank you." He finally says, in the shape of a whisper more than anything else. "That plant...the--flower---" What is he doing? Is he about to tell him what it symbolizes? God, he must be losing his mind now. Head lifts, looking at the Black Knight and those eyes that unnerve him.

 A hand waves in dismissal.  He can't. He'll be too vulnerable.

 "Nothing. Just...thank you."

(IDK WHAT THIS IS BUT KASHDIUWEDH PLS TAKE IT, I HOPE IT'S OKAY; AS ALWAYS PLS FEEL FREE TO DISMISS IF YOU'D LIKE, HAVE A FANTASTIC DAY FERRE C:!!!) || flowers!! + pain ( unprompted. )

For once, he does not flinch when the detective calls to him. How strange it has become, this ritual between the two of them to convene in Hyuk’s rundown office when the city trades its certainty for the illusion of peace. They both know better; a single lock, even one sturdier than the one Hyuk still has not replaced ( perhaps Patrick should nag him on it although most things roll off his dear friend’s back like water, irritants included. Inspector Im would know; Miss Nakamura would too ) doesn’t guarantee any safety. The best mechanism against danger is AWARENESS.

And yet, here the Black Knight is again, slipping through a window into the office awaiting one exhausted, bitter detective who has lost the plot according to his former co-workers, maybe even the public in general. He winces, a twinge of pain shooting up from his back, where the sutures he received the last time they spoke haven’t quite dissolved, the thread, pulling the skin there taut.

And yet, the Black Knight knows this tenderness isn’t only a physical sensation. Sometimes when he looks at his dear friend, it makes Patrick ache. The source of the pain is never clear in those instances and while he can pinpoint his back as one of the sources this time around, the whole picture remains blurry. The line between tangible and intangible blurs.

Sometimes, Hyuk reminds Patrick of an old wound, crusted from the passage of time. And yet still raw even after all these years: the way phantom limbs will ache even when the said ligament has been severed years ago.

Patrick remains leaning against the wall, the shadows obscuring half of his face, where his hat will not. His gloves are slightly damp from handling the watering can. If Hyuk were to check, there would be reminiscences of warmth wrapped around the handle in turn. The soil seemed on the dry side when he had slipped in through the window. Winters are never kind of flowers such as these. Patrick follows Hyuk’s gaze.

He hadn’t noticed it the first time around, that pot of flowers. He had been too busy, too focused on taking that USB Drive to pinpoint the source of that scent in the office. But it made sense the second time around, that coy scent of spring, lemons, and REBIRTH. A fragrance brave enough to make its presence known, but humble enough to avoid saccharinity. Coy, but not cloying. It settles over the office the same way the grief has settled over Hyuk in a heavy coat.

The Black Knight should be practical. He should tell Hyuk to get rid of that pot- doesn’t he realize it gives him away? Not everyone smells like a lily of the valley, this mute flower that not even the deftest of perfumiers can replicate. To keep such a plant in the vicinity will only invite more danger to Hyuk. And his colleagues.

And yet.

And yet.

“If you’re going to take care of it, do it right, or don’t try at all,” he says, half-heartedly. Perhaps in their earlier days, there would be more bite behind those words. And besides, Hyuk would most likely know better than anyone else how difficult it is to protect someone.

The flower jostles gently under Hyuk’s coaxing. The buddings rustle the way bells might and for once, he imagines something pleasant to accompany it- something like her laughter. Or maybe Hyuk thinks of him. Not the Black Knight, but of a Patrick Grace long since buried.

Patrick hasn’t seen one in years; his favorite flower- a native wildflower to the English countryside that signal the start of spring, a symbol of starting anew. And yet there is one more reason, in a box of memories he stashed away, he can recall for adoring this meek blossom-

“…Do you know you what it’s supposed to represent?” He pushes off the wall and approaches the pot as Hyuk takes his usual seat at his desk. A light scent washes over the smell of smoke and burning for the briefest of moments as his thumb grazes the top of a leaf. “The coming of spring. Humility. Purity of heart. A return to happiness.”

In other words, starting over. Coming to terms after mourning.

Moving on.

( That’s not something Patrick deserves, but he knew that when he put the mask on. The greatest mercy he can ask for is sweet oblivion in the end. )

Hyuk gives something akin to a smile and something in Patrick clenches. ( If it feels something like guilt or regret even, he won’t acknowledge it. ) He lets his hand drop and turns away from his beloved friend, sharply.

“You should take a lesson from it.”

[speciosuspoematis]

@kitty-highball asked: [ SHIELD ]: + “ it’s okay. i got you… “ From Ferr <3

MEME: [ SHIELD ]:          sender deliberately stands in front of the receiver to protect them from a targeted attack (verbal or physical).

It was naught short of his worst nightmare. The loud conflict between himself and his ailing father that morning was vicious at best, the spat vulgarities in which the poet had received many times before only grew worse by the moment - and yet he never gave any back, he never rose his voice but continued to offer only reason.

It was not unheard of for Euphort to raise his hand to Cyvel and he had been quite ready to do so again ere Ferrien stepped between the two.

Cyvel's dear heart leapt into his throat, hands reaching for the others shoulder and arm in the hopes of silently persuading him out of the way ere it sparked further conflict. In fact, he would rather the both of them retreat before the consequences grew too great - he could not bare to see Ferrien cast out of their home out of spite for he was the only comfort he had...

"Ferrien... Let us go to the library, please--"

[ofgentleresolve-a]

@jeoseungsaja​ sent in:

"I have a question." He starts, looking a bit uneasy even if they're currently communicating through a screen. Fingers absentmindedly scratch his cheek and teeth vaguely bite his bottom lip. If anyone can tell how he's currently feeling, that's his best friend. He doesn't even have to say anything for Patrick to be aware of his slight agitation, does he? "Uh...the semester's almost over, right?" From what he can remember, these are the times where Patrick's workload gets heavier due to last tests and assignments, but it holds a reward: Holidays; much needed vacations. "I was wondering if..." He clears his throat. Why is he being so...bashful? He's usually the contrary. "If you'd like to..." Just let it out, Hyuk. It's already halfway there. The detective looks down, as if that could help with his string of words.

"If you'd like to come to Jeju Island with me." There it is. "I was planning to, uh...to go to Seogwipo this summer." It's one of the few things he allows himself to do once in a while when it comes to having some free time; a rare thing for the stubborn detective. "Maybe...Elise will like it...Hiro, too, if he'd like to come." He finally looks up to see the screen and address his dear friend, a little smile lifting a side of his lips. (u said unprompted asks aND HERE I AM WEIDHWIUEDH, might send more if you don't mind 👀!!! HOPE THIS ONE'S OKAY, THOUGH, PLS FEEL FREE TO IGNORE IF IT'S NOT FITTING OR SOMETHING, CARE YOU HEAPS FERRE!!!) || anything hyuk asks of him will always be a yes 🥺 || ( ft. unprompted )

So technically he should be grading right now. Most times when they get to this time of the year- the fifth month of the Roman calendar, their daily video calls get cut down to text messages as Patrick watches the level of the papers in his bins grow at the rate of bacteria reproduction.  It’s the bane of his existence, really, these three weeks of hell where the only way to crawl out is to wait it out, like watching the sand in the HOURGLASS run out.

If Patrick had it his way, there wouldn’t be any kind of evaluation at the end of the semester. Education isn’t meant to be a series of tests or grades and really, the evaluations, the GPA value only brings on unnecessary stress for both him and his students.

( Of course, he isn’t going to voice that, considering this has been the system for years. He wonders if Hyuk would though. )

But for today, he’s video chatting with his dear friend, even if there is a boatload of ESSAYS waiting for him at the end of the call. The professor ( and the responsible parent too ) in him says he should probably be getting off this call, work on whittling down that pile, at least to the point where the level of the pile matches the rim of the containers, and save the video call for when the last paper has been graded as a reward of his hard-earned labor.

But how can he do that with his best friend on the other end of the screen? His hair’s gotten even longer from the last time Patrick has seen him ( still through a screen ) and from the way Hyuk keeps having to brush a strand away from his eyes, Patrick knows to expect a fair bit of grumbling on Hyuk’s part. Perhaps a haircut would be useful in this case although Patrick refrains from suggesting it. Hyuk might not care much for his appearance, but Patrick likes to think long hair suits his dear friend, how it frames his face, smooth lines along with the scent of his shampoo and conditioner clinging to every strand, thanks to Hyuk’s bi-daily showers, in contrast with the sharp angles of his expressions. Although if it is that BURDENSOME to his dear friend, maybe the next time Patrick sees him in person, he can trim his dear friend’s bangs himself. He’s done it for Hiro before to save money that way.

( So Patrick is being SELFISH, for once there. But he can be so, right? Along with procrastinating his responsibilities like this; besides, Hyuk is so much more than a reward; he’s a necessity. One that Patrick is very much grateful for and one that Patrick is more than willing to ditch any grading for in a heartbeat...that doesn’t make him a very good professor, does it? )

“What is it?” He sets his coffee mug filled with, ironically tea ( and Red Bull too- mostly Red Bull actually but Hyuk doesn’t need to know that. Patrick dreads thinking about the papers he’ll have to see to after the call ends. ) to the side, leaning in a little closer to the screen. It feels a little silly, doing so, considering that it isn’t actually his dear friend he’s leaning into. But then again, it’s Hyuk and he must have noticed it by now, hasn’t he? How there’s something…different, new, even between the two of them. Something fragile that they’re both nurturing so very carefully.

But more importantly, Hyuk looks…unnerved. In a way, it’s ENDEARING- his dear friend isn’t one to resort to bashfulness usually although Patrick supposes Hyuk does a good job of hiding that most times. Patrick knows simply from years of observation: Hyuk bites his lower lip when he’s nervous; Patrick nods slowly; yes- in two weeks, the spring semester will be over, which means, since he’s not teaching any courses for the summer, Patrick will have at least a month’s straight worth of vacation. Still, Patrick can’t help but frown in concern as his finger twitches almost moving to tuck the loose strand hanging by his dear friend’s eye- only to realize yet again that there are at least a thousand, if not even more miles between them. Nevertheless, Hyuk knows should he ask Patrick something, he knows what Patrick’s answer would be:

Yes. Yes. Anything.

It’s been that way for years. And even more so now.

And the question finally comes out: If you’d like to come to Jeju Island. Seogwipo. Oh. Hyuk is asking him if he’d like to spend his VACATION with him. Granted, there is still some work Patrick will have to do, research-wise, but most of it is generally reading. And lesson planning for the new class he’ll be teaching in the fall. But the important part is that if he takes the offer, they’ll have free time to spare together. Free time to spend around one another. Just like the old times when they would go to the water.

Elise, he imagines would be more than happy to come along. After all, she’s known Hyuk for only a little less than she has Patrick, another reminder of the long years of friendship they’ve shared. That and there’s only so much she can explore in London as a privately tutored child.

As for Hiro, well, Patrick can’t tell for sure. He’s always been the surly one, a bit like Hyuk in a way. But if Hyuk is an open book, then Hiro is more of a mystery. Unpredictable- Patrick wants to think it’s because he’s still a teenager ( well…kind of ), but deep down, he knows it’s more than that. But regardless, Patrick can’t see why Hiro would say no. At the very least, he could come for a week or two before returning early for his summer internship.

But aside from his kids, there’s so much to start planning for then, like booking plane tickets to packing bags, enough clothing to last them at least two weeks, and not to mention he’ll have to go to the currency shop for enough won ( even if Hyuk insists on paying, that isn’t going to stop Patrick from at least covering for Hiro and Elise- ) and he’ll have to do all of this while exams are still in full swing and-

His dear friend grins. It’s a small, if not shy one, a rare sight, even for Patrick, who knows he is the main recipient of such expressions from his dear friend. And yet, it takes his breath away, his train of thought coming to halt. It makes his heart race ( a sensation he’s only recently become accustomed to, these days ) too, and all Patrick wants to do now is cup his dear friend’s cheek, if not bottle that smile and save it for a gloomy day. Cheeks warm, Patrick suddenly feels bashful as he looks his dear friend in the eye. His dear friend who becomes SOFTER by the water.

“When should I book flight tickets?”

[eight-bullets-for-you]

Grantaire was having a bad day. He had just barely passed his college chem test, Courfeyrac had been bugging him all morning about finally going grocery shopping, and he had run out of colored pencils last night. At this moment he was walking down the sidewalk to the grocery store, hoping to grab things from the list Corfeyrac had given him. He was so busy examining the list, and trying to figure out exactly why Courf wanted sesame seeds and lavender essential oils that he didn't see the man walking towards him.

"Oh, sorry, watch where you're going." The man laughed.

"Yeah, sorry!" Grantaire muttered, looking up.

The man in front of him wasn't so much a man, as an actual angel. Within seconds Grantaire had memorized his face, he knew that face would stick in his head for days, even weeks to come. The man, however, obviously didn't feel the same connection and he nodded at Grantaire and kept walking. Grantaire sighed and kept walking, he pocketed the list and shook his head. Why would this man, who was the most beautiful creature he had ever laid eyes on, think twice about Grantaire. Grantaire stopped at a craft supply store, where his friend, Jehan worked.

"Ah, my dear R, and what can I get you today?" They asked.

"Hey Jehan, I just need colored pencils. Like, a whole bunch of colored pencils, because I have worn them all down." Grantaire explained.

"All of it? You burned through your supply of colored pencils in a span of two weeks?" Jehan questioned.

Grantaire nodded and went to walk around looking for the pencils. He kept thinking about the god he had seen on the sidewalk and found himself picking out colors that matched what the man was wearing. He paid, said goodbye to Jehan, and decided to stop for a coffee. The grocery list was now completely forgotten. Grantaire walked into his favorite spot, the Cafe Musain. He got his usual order and sat at a table in the corner, watching all the people. The bell on the door jingled and Grantaire looked up. His jaw dropped when he saw who walked through the door.

"Hey, 'Ferre!" The man said to the barista.

His voice sounded like music to Grantaire's ears, it was beautiful. The voice fit the man's appearance perfectly. As he stood at the counter ordering, Grantaire began to sketch the man on a napkin. He tried his best with the delicate napkin and his dull #2 pencil. Grantaire wasn't satisfied with how the drawing looked as he finished his coffee, so he left it on the table. Grantaire threw his cup in the trash and walked out of the cafe.

Enjolras thanked his friend Combeferre for his coffee and walked towards the door. Something on a table caught his eye. Enjolras walked over and picked up the napkin. Sketched onto the piece of paper was a wonderful drawing that looked familiar.

"Ooh, that's you!" Combeferre said, peeking at the napkin.

"What? No, it's not. Why would it be me?" Enjolras asked.

"I don't know, Enj. I think I know who drew it. He always sits at that table and he just left." Combeferre muttered.

"Who?" Enjolras questioned.

"I think his name is R, he's in here a lot." 'Ferre replied.

"That's literally no help. Okay, I should head out." Enjolras told Combeferre, pocketing the napkin.

Combeferre smirked as Enj left the cafe.

When Grantaire got home he flopped on the couch, groaning. Courfeyrac walked out of his bedroom.

"You are lying on the couch, there's a bag of art supplies, but no bag of groceries. What happened, R?" Courf asked.

"Ah, shit. Sorry, Courf but I saw the most beautiful angel on the sidewalk!" Grantaire exclaimed.

"And how did that stop you from getting a list of seven things from the store?" Courfeyrac asked.

"I don't think you understand! He looked like...Apollo! He was glowing Courf! He was beautiful." Grantaire replied, a bit of sass.

Grantaire was afraid that Courfeyrac was not grasping the attractiveness of the man on the sidewalk.

"Okay, I'm going to the store, since you did not. Try not to fling yourself of the balcony while you lust over this mystery man." Courfeyrac said, grinning.

"I'm not that dramatic!" Grantaire defended.

Courfeyrac shook his head as he walked out the door. As soon as the door shut Grantaire leaped off the couch and grabbed his sketchbook from his room. By the time Courf had gotten home, Grantaire had almost filled up the rest of his sketchbook with drawings of 'his Apollo'. Each was drawn in detail and showed the man perfectly. His golden hair, his deep blue eyes, cerulean, Grantaire corrected himself. He perfectly resembled the god, his lips, his nose, the light freckles that peppered his face, all of it was perfect. He was so entranced in what he was drawing he didn't notice Courf peeking over his shoulder.

"You weren't wrong, he's very good-looking." Courfeyrac stated, startling Grantaire.

"Yes, he is, but you shouldn't scare me like that, I thought you were a murderer." Grantaire scolded.

"If I was a murderer you'd be so dead by now."

"Ever the realist, aren't you, my dear friend."

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and went to prepare a meal. Grantaire continued filling up his sketchbook. The book was full before long with pictures of the sidewalk angel. Courfeyrac called Grantaire to the table and made sure he ate. To say Grantaire was distracted was an understatement. After Courfeyrac made him do the dishes Grantaire confined himself to his room. He was tormenting himself about the beautiful god, but a god would never look twice at someone like Grantaire. He fell asleep after spending a long time looking out the window.

The next morning Grantaire woke up and had to get out of the house. He packed his spray cans into his backpack and took off out the door. Grantaire wasn't sure if he even wanted to paint something, maybe the inspiration was just for last night, it might not have carried over. He walked past an alleyway and turned around. Grantaire went into the alley and set up his stuff, looking at the wall, his blank canvas. The entire idea seemed to appear on the wall, ready for Grantaire to bring it to life. That's exactly what he did, he took out his cans and began to create.

Enjolras had been on his way to the Cafe Musain as he walked past an alleyway. Something bright and colorful in the otherwise plain alley caught his eye. He took a few steps backwards and saw a beautiful painting that looked quite familiar. Enjolras then spotted the man hunched over his backpack under the drawing. There were words on the picture too, 'Apollo'.

Grantaire put all his cans back in his backpack, zipped it up, and turned to walk away. He stopped cold in his tracks when he saw the same beautiful man from yesterday. His beautiful cerulean eyes scanned the picture and Grantaire felt nervous. He was prepared for the man to yell at him, or call him a creep. Grantaire had, after all, painted this random man in a very public place. The golden-haired angel pointed at the painting, trying to speak.

Oh god, he's so mad he can't even speak, Grantaire thought.

"Is...is that me?" He finally managed.

Grantaire looked where Enjolras was pointing and looked back at him, then Grantaire nodded.

"You painted...me?" Enjolras asked.

Grantaire nodded again.

"Apollo?" Enjolras questioned, pointing at the name.

"The Greek god, god of music, dance, truth, the Sun..." Grantaire started.

Enjolras cut him off.

"I know- I know who he is, is that...why did you...um...sorry, just- it's really good. You're a really good artist!" Enjolras stuttered.

"Thank you! It's easy when your subject is a living work of art. I'm Grantaire." Grantaire said, he was thrilled the god wasn't mad.

Enjolras blushed.

"Oh- I don't...no, that's not-" Enjolras stuttered.

Enjolras suddenly remembered the napkin and pulled it out of his pocket.

"Did you draw this too? I found it at the Musain. If you didn't that's fine, it's just that the styles look similar..." Enjolras quietly questioned.

Grantaire looked at the napkin and then at his feet, he nodded. Enjolras smiled. Grantaire was in awe, he didn't think Enjolras could become anymore beautiful, but his eyes were actually twinkling.

"I was going to the Musain for a coffee...would you...um, would you want to come with me?" Enjolras asked.

Grantaire nodded.

"I'd like that."

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

jesus this is complete shit because i wrote it two years ago but i needed to post something right? do people still ship enjoltaire?

[enjoltaire-is-canon]

For writer's block: Grantaire is good friends with Combeferre (who Enjolras lives with), and it's kind of driving Enjolras insane that R can have really deep, interesting conversations with Ferre and not him.

I Can Listen too, You Know?

***

I’m sorry for the delay, honestly. I’ve been working on this fic (Rise, like the sun, and burn) and well... I got distracted. This is probably not what you wanted, but I hope you like it. 

Five time Grantaire had a deep talk with Combferre and one time with Enjolras.

***

The apartment was dark when Enjolras entered, the only light source being the bathroom’s lamp at the end of the hallway. Confused, he carefully made his way to his bedroom. Combeferre usually left the lights on for him, but if he didn’t, then he must have a reason.

He tried to walk quietly to not wake up or disturb Combeferre, but when he passed by his room, he heard murmuring coming from within it. At first he thought that Combeferre was on the phone, but then he heard another voice -Grantaire’s. Since when did Combeferre and Grantaire have sleepovers? Sure, they’ve always been close, going to each other for everything, but sleepovers? That was a start.

He knocked gently on the door. The voices on the other side stopped, and a moment passed before he heard Combeferre’s ‘come in’. He opened the door and from the light coming from the bathroom, saw Combeferre sleeping on his bed and Grantaire on an air mattress beside him.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Said Grantaire, his eyes widening. “I didn’t know you were out, I would’ve left the lights on.”

“Grantaire,” groaned Combeferre. But Enjolras shook his head. “It’s okay, it’s just… Since when do you guys have sleepovers?”

Grantaire laughed at that, and Combeferre snickered. “Why, do you want to join, dear Apollo?”

He rolled his eyes and stepped back, closing the door behind him. He hated it when Grantaire did that. Whenever he tried to ask him a question, the artist would turn into a joke. He didn’t understand why. He couldn’t even come up with a reason.

Sighing, he resumed his way down the corridor, making sure to turn off the bathroom’s light before he went to his room.

-

As soon as the meeting was over, the amis broke into conversation, gathering in groups beside the bar or at tables to study. Enjolras was talking with Combeferre when Grantaire came, a grin plastered on his face as he pulled back a chair and seated himself beside Combeferre.  

“By all means,” said Grantaire when they paused mid-conversation. “Continue.”

Combeferre smiled and turned back to Enjolras, but he was looking at Grantaire. “No,” he said. “If you want to talk to Combeferre then go right ahead, our conversation can wait till later.”

When Grantaire continued staring at him, Enjolras pulled out his laptop and started working on an assignment, hoping that Grantaire would get that he was minding his own business and continue. But when he talked with Combeferre, they were discussing some movie that had come out recently and Enjolras had to bite back a cry of frustration. He knew that that wasn’t what Grantaire had wanted to talk about, but because Enjolras was there-

“I’ll go to the bathroom,” he said, excusing himself. Combeferre nodded, but Grantaire just looked at him strangely.

Annoyed, he strode to the bathroom with more force than necessary, but he stopped when he reached it, choosing to stand beside the door and strike up a conversation with Feuilly, who was sitting at the table with Joly and Courfeyrac, studying for an upcoming exam. From the corner of his eye, Enjolras saw Grantaire’s expression turn serious as he talked with Combeferre and wanted to thump his head against a wall. Why just why did Grantaire think he’s not trustworthy? Did he think he was going to spill his secrets to the world and advertise them to help the cause?

-

“Hey,” greeted Enjolras as he took a seat the lunch table, placing his backpack on the empty chair beside him.

“Hey,” answered Combeferre, a small smile playing on his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing,” hummed his friend.

“Combeferre.”

“What?”

Before he could say anything else, the chair on his left was pulled back and Grantaire slid in. He tried to smile at Enjorlas, but he looked like he was about to cry. “Is everything okay?” He asked.

“I’m okay, Apollo.” Answered Grantaire, but his tone was hushed. “Never been better.” 

He opened his mouth to respond but saw Combeferre gesture at him to not to from the corner of his eyes. So instead he said: “Great. I, uh, have an assignment to turn in.” And he fled. 

Once he was out of their sight, he leaned against the English department’s well and slowly exhaled, trying to stop his own tears from flowing. He knows that Grantaire will never talk if he was there, hence why he fled. It pained him to see the artist in this state, it’d hurt him to see any of his friends in this state. But it’s different with Grantaire. He doesn’t know how to explain it; he’d seen Courfeyrac crying before and no matter how hurt he’d been at the sight of his friend’s tears, it was different with Grantaire. He wants to hold him in his arms and comfort him, tell him that it’ll be alright, only if Grantaire would tell him what the hell was wrong. 

Was he really that bad of a listener?

-

“Coming!” Cried Enjolras as he closed his laptop. With a sigh, he pushed back the chair and got up, making his way to the door. Who the hell comes at one thirty in the morning?

He opened the door and found himself face-to-face with Grantaire. 

“Apollo,” said Grantaire, a sly smirk on his face.

He resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Grantaire. What do you want?”

Grantaire leaned against the wall, his arms folded on his chest. “And what makes you think I want something? Maybe I just came to check on you. See if you’ve finally worked yourself to death.”

Enjolras raised his eyebrows. “At one thirty in the morning?”

Grantaire relented. “Faire enough.” Then, “I came here to talk to dear Combeferre actually. I didn’t call him beforehand though, so he won’t be expecting me.”

“Combeferre is out of the city,” he said, surprised the Grantaire hadn’t known that. “Something about a study group. Why? Did you want something?”

Grantaire shook his head, making to leave. “Nah, I just wanted to talk. By all means, don’t let me hold you back from whatever revolution you’re planning. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, he turned to leave, but Enjolras stopped him.

“I don’t have anything to do actually. Well, nothing that can’t wait,” he added at Grantaire’s raised eyebrow. “We, uh, we can talk if you want.”

Grantaire smiled, “no, Apollo, it’s okay. Go sleep, heaven knows you need it.”

“No, real-”

“I insist.”

He glared at Grantaire before closing the door and going straight to bed.

-

“He doesn’t like me, I know he doesn’t,” Moaned Grantaire against Combeferre’s chest.

“Have you asked him?” Asked Combeferre.

Enjolras was watching them from an alcove in the Math department’s building. He’d wanted to sit with Combeferre, but saw Grantaire approaching him, so he hid, not wanting to push the artist away. 

A twinge of jealousy twisted in his chest at the sight of Grantaire hugging Combeferre, but he ignored it. He’ll figure out why Grantaire doesn’t talk to him if it’s the last thing he does.

“What are you doing?” Came a hushed whisper from his side and Enjolras let out a yelp of surprise. 

“What are you doing?” He hissed at Courfeyrac, but it was too late. Combeferre and Grantaire have already spotted him, the latter waving them over. He glared at Courfeyrac before going to join them.

-

“Combeferre is not here,” said Enjolras by way of greeting. “But he will be soon, so you’re welcome to wait if you want.”

“You can’t just invite people in,” said Grantaire as he entered. “They could be vampires for all you know.”

Enjolras let out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been here before.” He pointed out.

“That’s not the point.”

He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You can wait in the living room, I’ll be there in a minute, I just need to get my laptop.” He needed to tell him to make himself at home, because he knew he would.

Enjolras frowned at the TV screen when he came back. “What’s that?”

“Oh, my” said Grantaire, one hand clenching his heart and the other draped over his forehead. “There is something the mighty Apollo doesn’t know.”

Enjolras merely looked at him, unimpressed. 

“Rocketman,” said Grantaire. “It’s a documentary of Elton John’s life.” He said, not looking away from the screen.

“It’s a musical.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire handed him the remote. “I’ve watched before, feel free to switch the channel.”

But he shook his head. “No, I have an essay to finish.” He held up his laptop.

Grantaire nodded and settled back, returning his gaze to the TV. Though he wasn’t really looking, no, his eyes were glazed over. Something was clearly bothering him, and as much as he wanted to comfort him Enjolras knew that Grantaire would never really talk to him, not when it was serious.

So he slid into the chair facing the desk and powered up his laptop, pouring his attention into the essay.

Enjolras took a break half an hour later, standing up to stretch and grab a cup of coffee. He turned to Grantaire to ask him if he wanted something only to find him in the exact same position from thirty minutes ago. 

“Grantaire?” 

No response.

“Grantaire?”

Again, no response.

“Grantaire!”

The brunet let out a startled cry, looking around with wide eyes. He relaxed when his gaze fell on Enjolras, though he was still panting as though he’d ran a marathon. “What can I do for you, Apollo?” He said with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I was going to make a cup of coffee and was wondering if you wanted anything.”

Grantaire shook his head, “thank you.”

Shrugging, Enjolras went to make his cup of coffee.

When he came back, Grantaire had returned to his zoned out position. “Okay,” he said, setting the coffee mug on the table. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Huh?”

“Something is clearly wrong,” he said, sitting on the chair. “And Combeferre won’t be here for another half an hour at the very least. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Grantaire shrugged, “nothing’s wrong.”

When he didn’t respond, Grantiare’s shoulders slumped. “Do you think I can make it?” His voice was hollow.

“What do you mean?” Enjolras’s tone was gentle when he inquired, not wanting to scare Grantaire after he’d finally started talking.

“In life. Do you think I can become an artist? Get into exhibitions? Sell paintings?”

Enjolras was shocked by the sudden question, it took him a moment to respond. “Of course,” he said. “You have the potential, Grantaire. I’ve seen your paintings, they’re breathtaking to say the least. You have a captivating art style, a wonderful way of portraying your subjects. You bring out their best features, make them glow from within. And you’ve already participated in multiple exhibitions. You’re one of the best artists I’ve ever met, and trust me, Feiully has dragged me to enough exhibitions to make my opinion trustworthy.”

Grantaire laughed at that, wiping a stray tear. “Of course he has.”

Enjolras smiled and got up to join Grantaire on the catch. “Who told you couldn’t?”

Grantaire looked down, seemingly shrinking on himself. “It’s not one person. More like the opinion of multiple seniors.”

“I’d love to see their art,” he muttered darkly, not meaning for Grantaire to hear it. 

But of course he did.

“You don’t want to, trust me.”

A smile broke on his face again and he leaned in to hug Grantaire. “Don’t listen to them,” he murmured. “You’re amazing and you’ll make it.”

Grantaire smiled and- joined their lips. The kiss was everything he hadn’t realised he’d wanted. It was warm and comforting and, at the same time, passionate. Grantaire knew what he was doing, seemed to know his way around Enjolras’s mouth, covering up his own inexperience. 

They were both smiling shyly when they pulled back for air. “So, uh, do you want to continue the movie?” Asked Grantaire, biting his lower lip and nodding towards the screen on which Rocketman was still playing. 

“There was actually a movie I’ve been meaning to watch,” said Enjolras. “Aladdin? There’s a screening tomorrow night, at eight p.m.”

Grantaire broke into a full grin, his confidence returning. “Is that a date?”

“Ugh, you just broke the moment.”

“It’s a date, isn’t it?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes, getting up to get his coffee, which has probably gone cold now. “Tomorrow, seven thrity, the mall.”

He took a sip of the coffee and pulled back with a grimace. It was ice cold. 

“Coffee gone bad?” Asked Grantaire from behind him. He wrapped his arms around Enjolras’s waist and rested his head on his shoulder. “There is a coffee shop just around the corner. We can go now if you want.”

Enjolras set down his cup. “Yes please.”

[tired-enjolras]

Enjolras Needs a Roommate: Part Two

LINK TO PART ONE

•in the two weeks since Grantaire moved in, things weren't so bad.

•if he was being honest, he expected the house to be in flaming shambles within a week without 'Ferre.

•('Ferre did also)

•Grantaire did an awful lot of keeping to himself.

•which was totally fine, don't get Enjolras wrong, but he was used to having Combeferre, the overly affectionate, mother hen roommate.

•but he missed Shark Tank Saturday, and he felt like he didn't know a thing about the guy living in his extra room.

•Enjolras walked down the very tiny hall from his room to 'Ferre's 'Taire's one day, after a particularly boring lecture and before a particularly long shift.

•then he knocked.

•the soft guitar inside the room stopped and Enjolras already regretted knocking. he would rather have never knocked and just stand there listening to that guitar.

•again.

•the door swung open to reveal Grantaire's unkempted everything.

•"what can i do you for?"

•Enjolras hadn't really put any good thought into what he was going to say. he's been told he's a powerful speaker or some shit, but he knew, deep down in his heart, that he was a flounderer.

•a flounderer with a grand total of three friends and know idea how to make new ones.

•"so, erm, how're you? your guitar... you're really good at guitar."

•oh dear god.

•Grantaire leaned up against the door frame. everything he did was effortless, which grandly pissed off Enjolras.

•"thanks, man."

•"ha, yeah, anytime."

•"so..."

•"so... shit, right. can i make you a cup of coffee or something? i realized i know, like, nothing about you, and i mean, we live in the same place, so let's talk. if you're busy, or don't want to that's—"

•"yeah, okay."

•look at you!! a d u l t i n g

•Enjolras wasn't one to brag, but he worked at a café for a reason, he made a decent café latte so, that's just what he did.

•Grantaire wondered if this deal could get any better. dirt cheap rent (because the place was a shithole. you take what you can get), quiet, hot roommate, hot roommate who can make good coffee.

•he couldn't stop staring at Enjolras. steaming milk wasn't the most interesting task, but Enjolras' bone structure, and the lip biting.

•fuck.

•Enjolras opened with: "so, did you hear about the plot to assainate Macron?"

•"as a citizen of France, i did."

•"ha, yeah."

•well, this was awkward.

•"so, what're you at school for again?"

•thank god.

•"oh! I'm a poli-sci major. and working towards being pre-law."

•"fancy."

•"not really, just expensive."

•it was quiet again, but it was less weird this time.

•Enjolras set down the two cups of coffee.

•"how long have you been playing guitar for?"

•"fuck me, uh... forever and a day?"

•"you're really good. do you play shows? because you absolutely should."

•"shut up. selling my art already makes me feel like a sellout, but that? too much for now."

•"so, you paint?"

•"and sketch. and sculpt. whatever."

•i hope he doesn't ask to see my art.

•"could you show me your art sometime?"

• G O D D A M M I T

•"maybe."

•the next fucking day, Enjolras had gotten up, showered, gotten dressed, and ran down the hall, trying to leave for school, when he saw it.

•above where the TV, and the TV stand used to be, across from the couch that was no longer there, in place of the former Kingcade painting

•was a Grantaire original.

•it didn't have a frame or anything, but it was beautiful.

•late for school, or not, he stepped in to examine it.

•it was signed with a capital R, and dated yesterday. the title was also written in the bottom right corner.

•Brutus at the Pulpit or Twink Speaks his Mind in oil and charcoal.

[eponineinthebarricade]

Notre Dame de Paris au/fic Enjonine

@viridescentlights This was an abandoned project before you urged me to work on it and I thank you Enjolras. It may seem like a bizarre fanfic but i know you’ll like it. Beware it is quite long. 

Chapter 1-

Javert was a gypsy.

Bare-footed, his brown hair wild in the wind, his grey eyes surveying the street. His tambour in his hand, he swayed his hips back and forth. His movements graceful, captured the attention of parisiens.

One stomp two claps, one turn, an arch of back and a split. By the time he was done, his cap where he had thrown in front of him to collect coins were full. He straightened his back and bowed down before reaching down and taking his cap.

He smirked.

A patter of feet drew his attention away from the coins. Two small arms wrapped around his leg. He bend down to look at the small brunette girl.

"Hello Éponine."

She looked up to him with her big brown eyes and smiled.

"Hi dad."

Javert wrapped his arms around Éponine's waist and lifted her to rest on his shoulders.

"Are we going home daddy?"

"Yes we are my darling."

And they started to walk towards their lair, a lair where all gypsies went, a secret lair where miracles happened.

***

Five years ago during a particular winter's night, a child's sob echoed through the streets. This sob was shaking her whole frail little body.

By chance a young and a dashing lad, only nineteen years old was hurrying to get to his home when he was struck by this sob. He turned his back and started following the voice. His speed increased as he became closer and closer to the source.

He turned the corner and froze. There was a little brunette girl, no older than five. She was clutching a boy and a girl, far more little than herself. Two adults were lying near her. All of them, dead.

He approached the girl slowly, not wanting to frighten her. His footsteps made the girl look up. She made a futile attempt to back away from the lad. Javert raised his hands in an attempt to show his innocence.

"It's alright. I am not gonna hurt you."

The little girl was glaring at her, defiance shining in her eyes.

"Stay away from me." Her voice was raspy from crying, her eyes red.

Javert stopped in front of her and crouched down, careful not to crush the dead children.

"Who did this?"

"Why would I tell you?"

"Because I am your only chance at surviving."

"...It was judge Felix Tholomylès."

Javert gasped, his eyes widening as he took in the massacre Felix had ordered to be committed. He reached down to brush the golden locks of the dead boy away from his forehead.

The girl grimaced.

"He was only three."

Javert turned his sad eyes to the girl.

"How did you survive?"

"I ran away fast enough. I couldn't protect them. I lost every member of my family."

"Well now you have a new family, I am going to take care of you. But tell me your name first."

After some hesitation the girl opened her mouth and two words left her mouth:

"Éponine Thénardier" .

That night Javert brought Éponine to his lair, gave her food and shelter. Poor child traumatised, curled up to Javert.

The first night passed with nightmares,then the second and the third. Before he knew Javert grew fond of Éponine, and after their first year together, Éponine started calling him "Dad".

This was all five years ago, now Éponine was ten and Javert was twenty four. They passed their days on the streets of Paris, gaining coins to get by. Occasionally in poor days, they resulted into stealing, these were the days where Javert would be grouchy; gypsy or not he was still respecting the laws.

They didn't have a clue that their whole life would be a lot more different after their last mishap.

Chapter 2-

Seasons turned from autumn, to winter, winter to spring and finally summer. The streets were buzzing, Paris was alive. The voice of people from every kind, from beggars to riches were all resonating from the city.

The church bells were ringing, the cobblestone roads were vibrating from the stomp of every feet. The doors of Notre Dame opened and out came the bishop, Jean Valjean. Like everyone, he decided to savour the sunlight and take a walk. As the whole city knew him he was met with smiling faces.

He purchased some baguette and some madeleines, he had a sweet tooth after all. As he turned back to smell some flowers and give some charity to the beggars, his eyes caught of a movement in his peripheral vision.

A young lad with chestnut hair and grey eyes was dancing. No not dancing. He was almost floating. Entranced by his movements, he approached the lad watching him. That's when he saw the little girl next to him, dancing, trying to keep up with the rhythm. A soft smile grazed Valjean's lips as he watched the pair. Javert knew the bishop was watching, he met his eyes and winked at him playfully. In return the bishop shook his head, heat rising to his cheeks.

That's when he heard horses galloping towards them and voices of the fellow guardsmen.

"Gypsies! Get them!"

Javert stopped dancing and grabbed Éponine, throwing her over his shoulder. He met the Bishop's eyes and dashed not looking back. Valjean, scared for the pair managed to distract the guards long enough so they could flee.

In the evening, he saw the pair again, this time dashing towards the cathedral. Felix Tholomylès himself was behind them. Now we all would expect a bishop to be a slow and calm fellow but Jean was no ordinary bishop. He grabbed the hems of his robe and ran after them with surprising speed.

Javert pushed opened the doors with his shoulder screaming for sanctuary. The nuns scrambled to his aid, pulling him inside while Valjean blocked the door from Felix.

"Get away Felix! He has sanctuary!"

Judge Felix sneered at Jean, a scowl permanently etched onto his face.

"He can't hide there forever, I will get him." then he left just like that.

Jean Valjean went inside to see a crying Éponine who was clutching Javert's shirt.

"Daddy I thought I was going to lose you!"  

"Darling you will never lose me, I will always be with you." the little girl continued to sniff and cry. Unbeknown to them, she still had flashbacks from her family's slaughter,and seeing the judge again she was afraid that she would lose this man she has come to know as a father.

Jean's heart broke as he heard the child's broken voice. He went over them and crouched down their level. Javert turned his head to him and smiled.

"Thank you father. We owe our lives to you."

"No need to thank me monsieur, everyone has the right for sanctuary."

"Not us gypsies."

"Why not? You are humans like us, you deserve this, especially earning your lives on the street, you need more protection than us."

Javert was touched by the bishop's words. He reached out and patted the guy's shoulder.

"You are a kind man monsieur."

"It is best that you lay low for a while, he can't touch you here."

"Our house is close to suburbs, it is impossible to go there without getting caught."

At this Jean blushed because he had thought of their solution.

"How about living here?"

"Here?! Wouldn't it be a problem for you?"

"Not at all. The bell tower is available. Only a girl is living there."

"A girl... in a bell tower... It could be alright for Éponine. Anything for my darling's safety."

At that Jean smiled.

"Welcome to your new home, the cathedral of Notre Dame."

          ��                                                       ***

A small boy ran down the streets, looking over his shoulder from time to time. He was carrying a loaf of bread on his small hands. He hid in a corner as he watched the guards passing by. He was late. He had to go to meet his friends Grantaire and Combeferre. He ran and ran and ran until he was at the suburbs where their meeting place was. He crouched down and slipped through the entrance where he saw his buddies huddled in a corner playing with marbles.

-I'm sorry I was late!

-Where were you?!

-I had to lose some guards on the way Ferre!

-What about food?

-Don't worry R it's fresh.

They sat together, dividing the loaf evenly between them. As they were munching their food Combeferre spoke up.

-Did you hear what happened today?

-No what happened?

-Javert and 'Ponine almost got caught.

-WHAT?!

-Calm down R, they are okay. They are in Notre Dame right now.

-Sanctuary?

-Yup. The best thing is father Jean Valjean defended them.

-You are kidding.

-Nope I am not. The whole town is talking about it.

-Felix Tholomylès won't leave them.

-Do you think...we'll see Ponine again?

-I don't know R, we might not.

They were approached by the leader, Lamarque, a man in his fifties with shining eyes and a gentle smile. He sat down next to the three kids whom he considered like sons. He wrapped his arms around them.

-Don't worry my little lion cubs... we will get them back.

                                                                        ***

Jean led the pair through the cathedral towards the bell tower. Éponine was still clutching at her dad tightly. Climbing the steps, they came face to face with a wooden door. The bishop opened the door and held it out for them to come in.

-Fantine? Where are you darling?

A beautiful girl  with blonde hair and brown eyes came in from the balcony. She gasped softly as she took in Javert and Éponine.

-Guests?

-No my dear, your roommates.

She approached them cautiously, frowned when the girl turned away from her.

-Ponine be nice.

Fantine smiled as she detected the gentle tone of the young man towards the child.

-Pleased to meet you Monsieur...

-Javert. Enchanté.

Jean cleared his throat,

-I hope you will get along fine. I am humbled to host you here.

They truly got along just fine. As they learned, Fantine had to leave her child in the hands of a man called Lamarque. She was shamed for having an intercourse before marriage so the only thing she could think of was hiding in the cathedral. No matter how much they pressed, Javert and Éponine couldn't learn who the child's true father was.

As the years past, Éponine grew closer with Fantine as did Javert and the bishop. Fantine now considered her as her own daughter, just like the Bishop. The girl was surrounded by love in the tower. As much as she yearned to get out of the tower, she knew they couldn't. But for how long? She was a free spirit after all. Not to mention she missed her friends.

Chapter 3-

After seven years of confinement in the bell tower it was safe to say that Éponine was going crazy. After that faithful day, she didn't set one foot outside from the church.

Solitude was not kind on Javert either. He was more snappy, bitter, longing to dance again. Although the  company of Fantine, Valjean and his daughter was making it easier.

Just like every year, the people of Paris gathered around in an important day to choose the king...of fools. The festival of fools was on it's way yes.

-Papa can't I just go?! Come on for one day. I promise I won't get into trouble!

- Éponine you know how I feel about the outside world.

-I know but, that day was seven years ago! Who's to say that judge Felix Tholomylès remembers us?

That's when Fantine chirped in;

-You know I wouldn't agree normally, but Javert give the girl a break. She needs some fresh air and ...friends.

Javert sighed and pinched his nose bridge.

-Let me think about it, alright?

Éponine nodded smiling gleefully. Now she was a woman, and had the body of a woman, no longer a child.

Now she was leaning over the city from the balcony. Just like every other girl, she had dreams but hers was more exploring the city than meeting boys.

-You can go.

Éponine whirled back and jumped to embrace his father as a thank you and decided to get ready.

                                     ***

Enjolras was a charming man, capable of being terrible. He had long blonde locks and striking blue eyes. He was a soldier, Captain of the Guard to be precise. He was just promoted to a job in Paris, to serve under the judge Felix Tholomylès. His first job was to maintain control during the Festival of Fools.

He was on his horse, surveying everywhere his eyes could while the place was crammed with crazy parisien folk. A loud ruckus was present as jesters entertained people, magicians fooled people and gypsies danced.

A sneer planted itself on his stoic face as he observed perverted people sneaking into tents. Where has gone their dignity, he thought as his eyes fell into a beautiful brunette. Her hair was cascading down her back like a waterfall and her red outfit made her stand out. Her cleavage was moderate, and her deep red skirt was flowing as she walked. No. she looked like she was dancing while walking. Enjolras had to keep himself intact as to not to think revolting ideas while working.

The said brunette had seen Enjolras but she had turned her head as more pressing matters were at hand. Mainly finding her childhood friends. She spotted a curly haired lad, trying to woo a lady. It seemed like it was working. His features were elvish and joyful. She sneaked up behind him and tapped his shoulder. He turned away from the woman to see the beautiful brunette.

-Well hello there, mademoiselle.

She curtseyed a bit before talking.

-I am sorry to disturb you monsieur but by any chance you might be Courfeyrac?

At this the lad scrunched up his face as if remembering a vague memory.

-Well, oui that is me. Have we met before citoyenne?

-You forgot your childhood friend, Courfeyrac?

Before she knew it, she was in the arms of Courfeyrac and was being twirled around.

-PONINE IT IS YOU!!

-KEEP IT DOWN WILL YOU!

Courfeyrac released her as the two friends smiled at each other. They had both missed each other.

-Please don't tell anyone I tried to woo you.

-I won't my dear Courf.

Enjolras watched the pair with gritted teeth. Of course she was taken. How couldn't she? She was practically radiating! Such enchantress.

He turned his attention towards the spectacle which Jehan the poet was announcing. Now it was time to crown the king of fools. But before that Jehan decided to randomly pick two girls from the crowd to dance. His pensive look landed on the brunette beauty and a blonde girl.

Both of them were beautiful, one was clad in red while the other was clad in pink. After exchanging their names, Éponine and Cosette started dancing to the beat. Their movements synchronized as they moved elegantly but captivatingly.

Enjolras felt a familiar tightening sensation in his lower parts, mostly due to that brunette's movements. He had to meet her! Her brown eyes landed on him while she danced and if possible, her movements became more sensual. She winked at him as he struggled to breathe under his armor.

Enjolras was not alone in this endeavor. The judge, he would never admit, was entranced by this spectacle. Never in his life had a woman who could set his insides on fire by just dancing! Every time she lifted her leg or arched her back, he could feel his skin setting itself on fire. Who was this brown haired witch?

Although he won't be present in this story until later on, it is essential that the reader should know about Baron Marius Pontmercy whom was unable to divert his gaze from the blonde dancer, Cosette. Same for the blonde girl. His green eyes had enslaved her heart immediately.

Much sooner their dance was over and they were soon engulfed by the crowd. Now it was really the time to choose the king of fools. That's when Enjolras was ordered to catch the brunette silently. Felix Tholomylès gave him a direct but silent order: -Capture her.-

He mounted down his horse and approached the young girl. Her sweet scent engulfed his nose as he wrapped his arm around her waist and covered her mouth with his other hand. God she felt indescribable pressed against him. Thank god for the armor. But Éponine wasn't going to surrender easily. She bit the hand that was holding her to release a deafening scream before kicking the captain right between the legs. She turned in disbelief as  her gaze hardened when she saw him.

-You!

She called angrily.

Enjolras hissed in pain and recoiled backwards as the king of fools himself, Grantaire, we call him, came in to help his old friend whom he recognized from the scream. He pushed Enjolras and grabbed Éponine running towards the cathedral. Enjolras attempted to follow them but the crowd pushed him back. The last thing he saw before mounting his horse was the cathedral’s doors slamming shut. He swore that he would have her one way or another.

Chapter 4-

Since the construction of the majestic cathedral, Notre-Dame has witnessed many things. But never before she has seen two old friends embracing each other as they cried into each other's shoulders.

-Oh Grantaire, how have I missed you.

The said man was caressing Éponine's dark tresses as he cried. Probably from too much wine and his emotions.

-Ponine, my beautiful Ponine...

Then there he was kissing her cheeks, her nose, her forehead as footsteps echoed in the cathedral. From the staircase emerged Javert and Valjean.

-Éponine! Are you alright?

He crouched next to her and pushed Grantaire away as his fatherly instincts kicked in. He rocked his baby girl back and forth until she stopped her outburst.

-Papa, do you remember Grantaire?

-Yes I do, cute kid. Why do you ask my dear?

-I happen to be the said kid Monsieur Javert.

-GRANTAIRE!

Not letting go of his daughter, Javert wrapped an arm around Grantaire and pulled him close.

-I've missed you son.

Three of them were wrapped up in a bundle together, not wanting to let go of each other for a long while. Valjean watched them from afar with a fond curl on his face.

Meanwhile, in front of the cathedral Enjolras paced back and forth. He was at loss. He couldn't touch her when she was inside, she had to lure her out. But how?Then a small thought found itself in his mind.

-Why don't you befriend her?-

He would never admit that he was entranced by her. He desired more than friendship of course.

After much pacing and a lecture from the judge he decided to enter the cathedral. To his surprise it was empty. Silence engulfed him as he closed the door behind him. No one in sight. He walked down the aisle, just below the heavenly light and bowed his head.

-I didn't take you as a spiritual guy at first glance.

Enjolras whipped his head towards the source of the voice. There she stood, the original sin, embodied by this woman.

-Although I am curious as to what the Captain of the Guards has anything to do with me?

Enjolras quickly regained his posture and his stoic face.

-I was doing only what was ordered.

-Didn't look like that when I was dancing.

Damn it, she was clever. If only he could control the heat rising to his cheeks.

-Well.. that was.. nothing.

She advanced towards him, swaying her lips slightly. Enjolras gulped and tried to distance himself. That's when he was least expecting he was against a column with a knife pressed against his throat.

-Under normal circumstances I would love to be pressed against the wall-

-Shut up you basta-

-No no watch your mouth, we are in a church.

-Were you always this charming or is it my lucky day?

Éponine sneered at him, at his boldness. He had scared her earlier that day so this was her small revenge.

-Don't ever try the same thing you did today, are we clear?

-You are threatening a soldier you know that?

She pressed the tip against his throat.

-I don't think it is a time for you to be cocky.

They stared at each other's eyes for a while. Both feeling a strange pull against the other.

-You fight good for a girl.

-I was going to say the same thing for you.

Éponine let go of his throat and stepped back.

-What's your name?

-Enjolras. Yours?

-Éponine.

-Énchanté mademoiselle Éponine.

-Bohémienne Éponine.

Éponine fought the urge to blush and after one nod she gathered her skirts and disappeared going up the staircase leaving a flustered Enjolras after her.

-Éponine, Éponine... I have to visit the cabaret Valley of Love. I can't be taken with her.  

Off he went.

Chapter 5-

Life was never easy for the judge Felix Tholomylès. Growing up inside the walls of Notre-Dame, he never had an interaction with a woman sauf one. It was only when he was young and foolish, disregarding his God for one night. It almost cost him his life.

He had sweared off of women and men for years. Then in an ordinary festival, she came along. Her brown hair turning red in the sunlight, those hips moving from side to side.

He shook his head. His insides were on fire again, with just the mere thought of her arching back. But he couldn't shake the feeling that, he had seen her before. Her brown orbs were very familiar. This thought was tearing him apart. No matter how much he prayed, Ave Maria refused to help him ease is mind.

He felt the walls closing in on him, inside the Palace of Justice. He had to get away. He seemed refuge inside the only woman who would accept him again. The cathedral Notre-Dame.

As he walked towards the aisle, he heard an angel sing. He turned his head towards the Virgin Mary. He bowed under her heavenly light. The soft was still present invading his thoughts. Shortly a male voice joined the angel. Felix turned his head towards baby Jesus, overcame by the emotions, he felt a tear escape from his eyes.

The harmonies mixing in his head, he felt as if he saw heaven right there. The gates of heaven went through Éponine's skirt...

He shivered and crawled back from the statues. He tried to block out the voices with his hands. They were not stopping. He was drowning. Drowning in ecstasy and pain. Before he could stop a cry of anguish escaped his lips. It drowned out the heavenly voices as they abruptly stopped, followed by an echo of footsteps.

It was Grantaire who emerged first, followed by Éponine. They gasped as they saw the judge on his knees. Éponine shrank back, her days of trauma coming back to her. She was again that defenseless little girl. Her brown eyes wide, her lips trembling. She grasped Grantaire's hand tightly who proceeded to envelop her in a protective hug.

At this point the judge raised his head to see the witch before him. He searched her brown eyes which projected nothing but... fear to him. He studied her face as he addressed to his feet. The pull was back, he knew this girl, he could swore to Jesus. Grantaire hid her behind him and snarled at Felix.

-Get away from her.

That's when he understood. He had seen the same act being done years ago, by an another gypsy lad. Javert was his name. The one who stole bread. The one the Bishop protected. It was his daughter! His little daughter! Not so little anymore. He had fallen in-love with a gypsy girl! Much younger than him!

He staggered backwards and hit a column. Having the breath knocked out of him, he coughed.

-Ponine hide.

Grantaire whispered. She grabbed his hand one more time just before bolting for the bell tower before the judge could notice her slipping away.

Finally catching his breath, Felix looked around to find no one but Grantaire staring at him. Horrified that he had dreamt the whole confrontation, he turned and ran. Ran like there was no tomorrow. Away from the haunted cathedral, away from those haunting brown eyes.

After running deliriously, he found himself face to face with Seine. He put his hands on his face and cried. Cried from the emotions, cried from the pain, cried from pleasure, cried from confusion but mostly cried from helplessness. He loved her. In his own twisted way he loved her.

We can positively say that Felix was disgusted with himself. He practically loved a child! But love had a way of making you a prisoner, of killing you until you became a hunter, ravishing your prey. At least that's how he saw it.

He didn't care if anyone saw him at this point. The moonlight shone on his black robes and his clear tears that were cascading down his face. He couldn't go on like this. He would go insane! He had to have Éponine!

-She will be mine or she will burn.

He mumbled into the river as if promising an oath. He once let the woman he loved go. He wouldn't do the same thing again.

                                                                     ***

There is no surprise that humans experience the same night in various different ways. In our case we have Enjolras, not fully enjoying himself in the cabaret.

He was surrounded by girls, all trying to get in his pants. He had to admit the girls were lovely but none were like Éponine. They were too easy. Éponine never flung herself at him, she had dignity, an appeal. Damn it, he wasn't supposed to think about her. She had to leave his mind.

But would she leave his soul?

No. Never.

Enjolras, who was only a mere soldier, his only love was his Patria. The only goal he had in life was to serve his country. Then in one swift movement, she clouded his mind. But she was the Patria herself. Clad in red, dancing on fire, independent, the voice of people. She was his mother earth. She was his goddess.

Men are weak. They are vulnerable. Present them a luscious body and they are putty in seconds. Enjolras used to think he was different from them. In a way he was. Only one woman managed to melt his marble façade. He could still feel how her body felt against his. She fitted against him. If he imagined hard enough, he could feel her silky tresses.

His eyes opened wide as cold sweat coated his forehead. He had fallen for the gypsy. There was no turning back now. He remembered how Marius used to tease him, how he was so stoic he would scare any women away. Boy was he wrong. He chuckled as he thought of this. At this very moment, a girl pressed her bosom against him. Reviled, Enjolras got up and without even a glance, dashed out of the cabaret.

At night the streets of Paris were like a cage to the inexperienced. But Enjolras was intelligent, he knew his way around...more or less. After dodging a few gypsies he found himself next to Seine facing Notre-Dame. His eyes were shining from the moon as he observed the graceful cathedral. She was in there somewhere. His Patria. He leaned back on the bridge as he felt his thoughts wandering.

She was an angel. No she was human, but her soul was angelic. He bit his lip as he imagined her dance again. Those movements was enough for him to crouch on his knees and beg for her.

He couldn't hand her to the judge. No. He couldn't. She deserved to be free. She deserved to live her life.

He shook his head to relieve himself from these invading thoughts. He had to save her, before the judge got her it was certain. He needed help from inside and her origins. It was time to go to the Court of Miracles.

                                                                   ***

Everything was good yes alright but what was our lovely heroine was doing tonight?

We all saw how she reacted to judge but to understand her emotions let us go to the moment just after parting with the handsome Enjolras.

After her, bizarre encounter with Enjolras, Éponine found herself smiling for no reason at all. She felt this certain pull in her stomach and she often sighed. Javert picked up on his daughter's odd demeanor and decided to ask Fantine.

-She is in-love.

-WHAT!!!

-Javert calm down it is quite normal for a girl her age to fall- in love.

- BUT MY BABY GIRL-

-Will be just fine. Give it time.

She wasn't getting any better. Grantaire wasn't helping either, always making her talk about the blonde soldier. Who started singing I won't reveal but the cathedral was resonating with their voices. They sang from afternoon until night, until they were interrupted by a scream of anguish. Both of them, curious, descended the stairs to find judge on his knees.

As the readers what went down at this moment I would like to take them to the moment when Ponine escaped upstairs. She cried and her family listened to her. Grantaire joined them just as she finished talking.

Javert was scared for his daughter. She was in dangerous waters. They needed to get away from the judge at all costs. But he couldn't bear separate Éponine from her love. He had to think something fast.

Éponine was a pensive child. She loved to gaze at stars and just think. Her wonder always got the best of her and shattered her boundaries. She had to meet with that soldier again. That cocky soldier, who became flustered when she was near. She needed to learn more about him.

She missed her home. The home where her dad and she was walking freely. The Court of Miracles as he called. She missed Courfeyrac. They had to escape from this cathedral-prison. She had to find her love. One way or another.

As three lovers stared as the sky, heaven's light descended on Éponine and Enjolras. Even though they were both lost in their own world, the Heavens had already made their decision and the Fates would act accordingly. But fate is ever-changing. Every decisions we take shapes our destiny. The Heavens may have decided on something but it rested on both Enjolras and Éponine, more so on their connection. Love, my dear readers, is worth fighting for.

Chapter 6-

Lamarque, in his long life has been the leader of gypsies as long as he can remembers. He was the father of gypsies. He was there when they went into Paris, when they demanded sanctuary from the cathedral, when massacres were committed by the judge. Terrible years they were. He witnessed the helplessness of his people. So when a soldier came for asking help he was surprised for sure. Though not just any soldier, Captain of the Guard Enjolras himself.

-The judge is after Éponine. He wants her.

This troubled Lamarque. Both Javert and Éponine were very dear for him and even after all those years, he was still sorry because of their separation.

-How can I help you my boy? I can't march into Paris with gypsies. They will slaughter us.

-You have to eliminate the judge. He can't have her.

-Because you can?

-No because she is an individual who deserves her life.

-And the gypsies who will die for her, they don't?

Lamarque clasped a hand on Enjolras's shoulder and frowned.

-We have to be discreet if we want to rescue her. We have to have them out of the cathedral.

-No it won't work. Tholomylès has eyes everywhere. We need to be impulsive.

-Then count us out, my boy.

Dejected and solemn Enjolras left the place and wandered to the heart of Paris. It was time to visit an old friend and a former colleague.

He crossed the streets in the dark until he came face to face with a fan shop which was still open. There inside he observed a brown haired fellow painting a fan. His hands and face were smeared with paint and his brows were furrowed in concentration.

Feuilly was an old friend of Enjolras from way back. He was hard-working, he had to be, to live. His job had an utmost importance to him. That's why he was one of the few people who had Enjolras's undivided attention and respect.

Feuilly shivered as he felt someone gaze at him. His mouth broke into a smile when he saw his old friend in-front of him. He stopped working on his fan and went around his bureau to hug his old friend. Enjolras gladly reciprocated the hug.

-It's been too long my friend.

-I agree. But I need your help.

Feuilly frowned at this. He had heard a nasty business concerning a gypsy girl and the judge. He hoped his friends concerns didn't include this. Of course he was wrong.

After much hesitation, Enjolras revealed his hidden feelings for the gypsy girl, how he had treated her and most importantly the judge's intentions with her.

-Mon ami, what can I do to help you?

-We need to attack Tholomylès, before she is caught.

-But it is impossible! He has many men, Enjolras I implore to you, think this through.

-What if... we use a live bait to lure him out?

-If you are implying, you want to endanger the life of the girl you love, I am rather concerned for your mental health.

-No no no would I be that terrible, Feuilly really? I had someone different in mind. Someone Felix Tholomylès hated since their arrival to Paris.

Realisation etched on Feuilly's face. This would be hard and a dangerous mission.

-And how will you manage this?

-The king of fools.

-You know his name?

-No. I have never met him.

-His name is Grantaire. Don't ask me how I know him.

Enjolras nodded his thanks before turning back and striding out of the shop, leaving an anxious Feuilly behind. Enjolras turned back at the door,

-Inform the others. We'll need them for the final battle.

***

His long legs helped Enjolras reach the Notre-Dame cathedral in no time. He pushed open the door and caught his breath. He lifted his head to see a woman, clad in white descending the stairs.

-If it isn't the cocky monsieur Enjolras.

She approached him. Her insides were yearning to touch him but she had to refrain from doing so. She didn't even know if Enjolras felt the way Éponine felt for him.

-And if it isn't the beautiful Éponine.

She blushed under his intense gaze as she was right in-front of him. She was not so confident anymore.

-Tell me monsieur, do you believe in love?

-Never did until I saw you dance.

She narrowed her eyes as she looked at his blue eyes. He saw a few emotions flickering there but a tender fondness was the most obvious one. She smiled and leaned in. Enjolras, taking the hint leaned in as well and their lips met in the middle. A soft cry emitted from Éponine as his lips caressed hers delicately.

All too soon she leaned back. Afraid of the holy spirits, afraid of prying eyes.

-That was my first kiss monsieur.

-I beg you, call me just Enjolras.

He moved a lock of hair from her face and curled it behind her ear.

-I will save you from this prison.

The brunette's morose eyes found his clear irises. She shook her head as a single tear escaped her eye. Enjolras found himself caressing her cheek.

-Please don't die.

Of course Enjolras didn't know her trauma, her panic. But he read between the lines this time.

-I won't. But to help you, I need to speak with Grantaire.

Éponine arched an eyebrow, but nodded. Before leaving, she pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, a promise of what may come in the future.

Soon, a shuffling feet can be heard as the usually drunk artist stumbled down the stairs to meet with the marble man,Apollo. His mop of dark curly hair was messier than usual and his clothes were shabby.

Enjolras stiffly nodded at him. For some reason, Grantaire was smirking at him. It set his demeanor  of a bit.

-You love her.

Enjolras was taken aback. How could this drunkard know his feelings?

-Don't bother to hide, I smell love a mile away. Question is what do you want from me?

-Simple, I need your help.

-I'm listening.

-We need to lure out Lamarque to distract Tholomylès while Ponine escapes.

-What is my role in this?

-You need to be in danger. We are going to hide you.

***

Chapter 5-

Cosette and Marius were madly in-love. Love in first sight, they say. The booby baron was in-love with a gypsy girl and he could care less about his rich background. Almost immediately they started living together. Cosette never broke her relations with her roots. She was raised under Lamarque, she was practically his daughter. Lamarque had approved of this relationship as long as his baby girl would be safe. That's why when Cosette came rushing to him, saying that Grantaire was in danger, he couldn't refuse. He left Jehan in charge as both he and Cosette rushed through the streets.

True to her word, Grantaire was indeed in danger. He was bound with harsh ropes, kneeling in front of the judge. The judge had a sword on his hand. He slowly raised his arm. Enraged, Lamarque staggered forward to block the sword and to the utmost chagrin, the sword was impaled right through his heart. The light faded from his eyes as the judge stumbled back. Just then a cry of defiance escaped from a girl.

The girl was alone, her dad, her lover were all captured silently by the soldiers. She had tried to ignore the unfolding scene but she couldn't contain herself when her dear Lamarque that she remembered barely was killed.

Before anyone could comprehend, a brunette flung herself on the dead body and sobbed. Her wailing wrecked her body as she screamed for Lamarque. The judge was taken aback by this display of emotion. He knew Éponine was standing just before him yet he couldn't do anything. Éponine slowly unsheathed the sword from Lamarque's chest and faced the judge.

-YOU MONSTER! YOU DESERVE TO DIE!

Too deranged Éponine didn't notice how Felix called for the guards. She approached him threateningly, swinging the sword back and forth. Only when she saw how the soldiers handled Enjolras, her dad, Fantine and now Grantaire did she faltered in her steps. In the blink of an eye she was restrained by other soldiers. The sword was taken away from her. She looked back to see if Cosette was safe. The golden haired girl had vanished the moment Lamarque was dead.

The captured were all taken to Notre-Dame to remain as prisoners until their execution. They were all in cages, separated from each other. Enjolras was panicking, Javert was crying, Fantine was having a panic attack while both Éponine and Grantaire knew there was no hope. They finally bowed to the hands of destiny. There was no escape from death, which was the clutches of Felix Tholomylès.

There are numerous ways to die in this life. Poisoned, executed, suicide, illness, natural disaster, coincidence...but they all have something in common; the helplessness. No matter how much you resist, this sentiment engulfs you. In our case, Éponine surrendered herself to death. She knew she would soon join her family in heaven. Same for Grantaire. He was a depressed cynic, he had no hope to live for. He would soon die, like his best friend. In Heavens only will they dance together.

While these thoughts was engulfing our dears, outside Cosette with the help of Marius was forming a crowd to save them during the execution. Marius had informed Feuilly, who in return had reported that he had already gathered a crowd thanks to the Les Amis de L'ABC which was a group led by Enjolras before he was the Captain of the Guard. Each of the free members; Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Bahorel, Feuilly had united with gypsies led by Jehan and Courfeyrac and they were marching down to the execution place.

The executioner was ready, so was the judge. He had a plan. If Éponine was intelligent,she would live but others? They would die either way. But the judge was uneasy. He could feel a storm was coming. Judging by the stomps of feet, it was coming quite quickly. He decided to get this over the sooner the better. He ordered for the cages to be carried down to the courtyard of the cathedral.

Éponine felt tears streaming down her face as she faced the crowd. She noticed Cosette, hidden. She nodded at her, before her cage was opened and she had to step up to the podium. A rope was waiting for her. She visibly chilled, cold sweat bids formed on her forehead as the rope was now on her neck.

This was the moment Felix was waiting for. He approached the beauty who was glaring at him. He leaned down to whisper in her ear.

-I can save you...if you marry me.

He leaned back to look at his future wife's face only to see pure disgust. Then the little ungrateful child spit on his face!

- Hell is waiting for you.

Furious, the judge signaled for the executioner to pull the rope and that's when all hell broke lose.

***

Chapter 6-

-YOU TOOK MY DAUGHTER FROM ME!

Have you ever heard of a woman's battle cry? Bone chilling. Men tend to present their rage with their strength while women, they scare you. That's what Felix Tholomylès heard just before his life was violently ripped away from him. So this was his end. His life of oppressing others, his unsatisfying life was over. You see while he was distracted, the crowd had freed the remaining prisoners. Guards were taken down silently. But to everyone's surprise it was Fantine who broke free first. She grabbed the sword of the nearest fallen guard before impaling his stomach.

Felix choked on his own blood before exhaling his last breath. Fantine extracted her sword from his body as she surveyed the battlefield. The soil was littered with corpses. Both gypsy and soldier. But it was all still now. The only thing people could see was their fallen comrades.

Éponine was freed from her rope thanks to Enjolras. She turned towards the crowd that were gazing at her.

-The people of Paris! Today you have eliminated an oppressing figure. Said figure tormented you, tortured you, massacred your brethren for years. It is time to stop fighting. Now it is time to mourn and heal.

To her relief, her loved ones was alive. She wept. She wept for the fallen. She fell on her knees and released cries of anguish that would shatter the skies. SO much that the God took pity on her and wept with her. Paris was getting cleansed with those rain drops. This one simple gypsy girl, who was a nothing, suddenly became everything in people's eyes.

Javert knelt next to her daughter. He kissed her brow as they wept together. The whole Paris was crying. Some shed the tears of relief, some from anguish. It was such a sight to behold.

A few minutes later, Javert was replaced by Enjolras. He embraced his love tenderly and kissed her forehead. He knew they had hard days ahead, but he knew as long as he continued to love her, they would overcome anything together. Or anyone for that matter.

[sicklylittlesnowflake]

Hi! I'm sorry this might be a little strange but I remember you said you've done some theatre and I really love the setting. I wondered if you'd be up for a LesMis theatre AU sickfic? I love the Ida of E nearly losing his voice and R forcing tea on him to get through the show. Then E crashing when it's over and R taking him home and E feeling like he late every one down and R having done of it. Thank you sweetie ❤️

(Strange?! This is not strange at all anon I lowkey wanted to write this and I’m so glad I have the excuse to lmao..theatre au les mis is my fav and the multi part fic I’m working on is actually an actor!e and struggling musician!r so..YES. I LOVE THIS. HMU WITH ALL UR THEATRE AUS. Ok so for background the Les Amis are doing a production of Next to Normal and E is Gabe and R is the head of the tech department!! Tbh R is on tech bc it reminds me of that tech girl I had a crush on when I did Les Mis :“) )

Theatre was the art of losing yourself and taking on a new soul.

Enjolras loved theatre and acting since he was a child. There was something so enthralling to him about taking on somebody else’s skin and becoming a whole new person with their own individual thoughts and perspectives.

Enjolras finds human beings fascinating, at awe with how complex they were and how each person to exist had their own vastly different thoughts and a whole new perspective to his own. It is such a wonderful experience to see the world from different eyes.

He isn’t comfortable in his own skin. He can never feel like he is good enough, he always feels like something is missing inside of him, he doesn’t feel at one with himself and like he’s detached from his own body, hovering over it and wondering how he’s supposed to get in and understand himself. Enjolras plays other characters so he can learn from them, hoping that he can begin to understand himself by understanding others. It’s a euphoric escape to be someone else and get away from himself for once. Enjolras is pretty tired of himself.

That being said as Enjolras pours his heart and soul into bringing these characters alive, in the process he neglects himself. Sometimes he forgets he’s real.

Enjolras blends away at his stage makeup tiredly, feeling exhaustion basically seeping into his bones. The lights fade in and out of his vision, he feels heavy, and too weak, and fevered. He sniffles, and continues to pat the concealer on top his darkly coloured under-eyes, trying to hide his true state beneath all this makeup.

His throat itches, and he turns away from his mirror and coughs violently into his shirt sleeve, tearing up as his chest aches from his chesty coughs, spluttering. He blindly grabs for a glass of water, and gulps the little that remains down hungrily. He groans, looking back to see his watery, red eyes and reddened nose.

He rolls his eyes at himself as he tries to carefully dab away at the wetness of his face, as not to ruin the makeup that’s already there, and nearly messes up the whole thing as he jumps when someone suddenly bursts through the door.

"Fuck!” Enjolras croaks, his voice raspy and all sorts of husky. He cringes, and clears his throat to fix his horrendous voice.

“Didn’t know Gabe was a heavy chain smoker,” Grantaire teases, a mug of tea and strepsils in his hands.

He’s a pain in the ass, but Grantaire is one of the reasons Enjolras wants to be comfortable with himself, because in this world, Grantaire is in it. It’s the only bad thing about theatre, because despite how amazing being in a different world is, Grantaire isn’t in it. That is a world Enjolras doesn’t want to live in, a world without his sunny, shining smile is already a little bit darker.

Enjolras rolls his eyes, opening his mouth to shoot back a snide remark when his nose is suddenly twitching and he’s turning away from Grantaire and retreating into the crook of his arm to sneeze twice.

Slightly embarrassed and not wanting Grantaire to worry about him, he clears his throat and bounces back, “Sorry, I’m just allergic to your bullshit, ‘Taire.”

Grantaire searches for a comeback, but he comes empty and he sighs in defeat, “Okay, that was a good one.”

Enjolras smirks in victory as Grantaire shuffles towards him and shoves the mug of tea into his hands, and presses a sweet little kiss on to Enjolras’s nose.

“You’re losing your voice, dear,” Grantaire frowns as Enjolras slowly takes sips of the hot tea mixed with lemon and honey. He lets out a small sigh of relief as the warm liquid soothes his throat a little.

“No I’m not,” Enjolras insists, although he’s not really sure if he’s trying to convince Grantaire or himself. He knows deep down it’s for himself, but Enjolras can’t let this bring him down, and all his friends.

The Les Amis have worked to the bone for this little off-broadway show. This show that spoke so beautifully about mental illnesses, and Enjolras was honoured with the opportunity to portray a personification of mental illness and perform to the best of his ability, and beyond that. He needed to be able to convey how it was like, to connect to other people through his performance so that they can begin to understand those with mental illnesses. Then he will be closer to helping create a kinder world.

Every show counted.

Each person in that crowd meant something, and if someone was out there and was touched by it, and felt a little less alone, or came out of it a kinder person, any sickness was worth pushing through. This was much bigger than him.

“Hm,” Grantaire huffs, clearly not believing a word he was saying.

“Don’t worry–"His words come out in a strangled noise that strains and pulls at the muscles in his throat. Enjolras turns away from his boyfriend and raises his elbow up to his face where he coughs harshly, the sounds resonating from his chest.

Grantaire frowns and leans in to rub his back and coax the coughs out of him, and when Enjolras finishes he’s exhausted. He leans back against his chair and wipes away at tears, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath.

"That doesn’t sound too good,” Grantaire points out worriedly.

Enjolras opens his mouth to speak, but no sound comes out of his throat. There is only a light, raspy wheeze that escapes his mouth. His eyes widen, his blood running cold as he freezes in panic. He shakes slightly, his breathing picking up ever so slightly. He clears his throat aggressively.

Grantaire notices this, and he is just as alarmed and fearful as Enjolras but somehow he manages to keep a level head. He wraps his hands around Enjolras’s and intertwines his fingers with his, to keep Enjolras here with him and grounded. So he doesn’t float away.

“Enj, don’t panic. Have some more sips of this tea,”

Enjolras nods frantically and begins to drink more of the hot tea, and when he’s done he puts down the mug on his dresser. He clears his throat.

“Hi, is my voice back,” Enjolras croaks out, his voice is rough and husky but its there.

He clears his throat again, popping a strepsil into his mouth and lets out a shaky sigh, “That’s better, I guess.”

Grantaire looks a little more at ease at that, Enjolras’s voice is better then, with a rough edge to it.

There is a small silence that begins afterwards. It is calm, but suddenly Enjolras says quietly, sounding so small and afraid.

“I don’t want to mess this up.”

Grantaire softens, cupping Enjolras’s face and then presses a loving kiss against his cheek, “You won’t, baby. You never do.”

Enjolras manages a weak smile at him, “I love you.”

A blush dusts Grantaire’s face and a smitten smile spreads across it. They use the word sparingly, not rarely, but not excessively. It’s more special this way.

“I love you too,” Grantaire says softly, and then his radio is crackling to life, Bahorel’s voice calling Grantaire over.

Grantaire chuckles and confirms that he is coming, and looks back at Enjolras, “Bossuet probably fucked something up again. I’ve gotta go save their asses now–but good luck baby, drink up. You’re going to be okay.”

With that, Grantaire leaves the door and Enjolras is left staring at the door, unable to wipe the smile off his face.

“All cast members please report to Val Jean’s dressing room for a warm up in 10 minutes, you have 10 minutes,” He hears Feuilly say over the intercom.

Enjolras nods, letting out a small sigh before he finishes up his makeup and hair.

When Enjolras walks into Val Jean’s dressing room, everyone’s eyes widen and jaws drop like they’ve seen a ghost.

He smirks, and sings softly, “I’m alive I’m alive I am so alive~”

He clears his throat and smiles at them reassuringly, “’Im fine. My point is I’m not dead, because you’re all staring at me like I am.”

Marius shakes his head, “Your voice is as angelic as ever, it’s just..”

Eponine clears her throat, “You look like shit, E.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes and laughs, “Oh well, the show must go on, as they say.”

Fantine frowns and walks up to him, and before Enjolras can even decipher what she’s doing her hand is placed gently on his forehead. He tries to squirm away, but she’s strong.

“You’ve got quite a fever, sweetheart,” She says gently. She is just as motherly to him on stage as she is off stage. Hopefully, off stage he’s a slightly better person than Gabe.

“It’ll be fine,” Enjolras says coolly, but Marius is trying to secretly text someone. He raises an eyebrow at the younger boy, slightly amused as Marius seems so sure no one is noticing him.

“Pontmercy, what are you doing?” Enjolras sighs.

“..Uh…” He says awkwardly.

Combeferre bursts through the door shortly after, and crosses his arms, clearly not very happy.

Enjolras turns white, “..uh..”

Combeferre basically slaps his hand onto Enjolras’ forehead and his frown is further deepened, and a few various pills are being shoved into his palm, as well as some more tea.

Enjolras groans, “I am drowning in tea, Ferre, I–”

The way Combeferre is glaring at him shuts him up and he’s popping the pills into his mouth and downing them with the tea.

Enjolras coughs, and he thinks it’s just a single, one off thing but the next comes spilling out of him, and the next, and the next. He’s coughing and he can’t stop, and it stabs at his chest and at his lungs. He’s expelling so much he’s not taking anything in, he can’t breathe and his body needs to. He feels faint, his vision darkening as the coughs force their way out of his chest.

He feels weak and faint, trying to reach for a wall or anything so his body doesn’t collapse in on itself, but he one powerful cough sends him toppling over, his body light as it free falls.

But thankfully Valjean is quick and there’s a strong arm around his waist, supporting him, and lifting him back to ground. When Enjolras looks up from his feverish, blearily haze there is a soft, concerned gaze looking down on him.

“Are you sure you’re up to this, kiddo? You don’t have to if you’re not feeling well,” Jean says worriedly, as he balances Enjolras back on his feet.

Enjolras rubs at his nose, stifling two sneezes before he responds, “I’m fine. Tonight is important. I can’t miss it.”

Everyone in the room looks extremely concerned, but when Combeferre sighs, not pleased but approving, they all straighten up to start working on warmups. As he turns around to leave, he suddenly leans forward and gives Enjolras a hug, rubbing his back lovingly and ruffling his golden hair.

When Combeferre pulls away his gaze is kind and caring, “You’re going to be amazing, E. You always are, please take care of yourself out there. Gabe is cool, but so are you, okay? I feel like you forget that sometimes.”

Enjolras’s eyes prick with touched tears, and he bites his lip to stop himself from crying any more. He smiles weakly at him, letting out a shaky exhale, “Fuck off, Ferre, you’re ruining my makeup.”

Combeferre can only laugh at that and ruffle his hair, before turning to leave through the door. He can’t help but spare a glance at Enjolras worriedly, wishing and praying that he would be okay, and he leaves through the door.

“Are we all ready?” Javert asks.

Everyone nods in agreement, and Marius starts to play the piano as they all harmonise and warm up their voices.

Grantaire finishes his double checks on all of the sound tech, and he sighs in relief. He’s done all he could possibly do. All he can do now, is relax and hope to whatever higher being out there that everything goes well.

He keeps his headphones in his ears and picks up a small cup of tea and makes his way to the left wing, where Enjolras is waiting at his five minute call to start the show. Fantine is already on stage in the dark, curtains still close. Grantaire is not an actor, but he is still always so fascinated with how when an actor steps onto stage, they are immediately a different person.

Grantaire carefully makes his way past and finds himself in the wings, and he finds Enjolras standing in the wings. He looks tired, sick, worried.

He approaches him slowly, gently tapping him on the shoulder, “Hey baby.”

Enjolras whips around and smiled at him, but a chesty little cough escapes him. He clears his throat, and he’s shaking ever so slightly and Grantaire doesn’t know if he’s nervous or just feverish.

“Hi,” Enjolras croaks out quietly, he looks down at Grantaire’s hands and takes the small cup of tea from Grantaire and sips at it slowly. He looks a little more relieved.

“Better?” Grantaire says softly.

Enjolras nods lightly, and tiptoes to kiss Grantaire’s cheek. Grantaire thinks this is the cutest thing.

“I’m scared,” Enjolras admits, his voice low and shaky. He’s trembling slightly, his voice cracking with vulnerability. He looks a lot younger like this. It breaks Grantaire’s heart. Enjolras is rarely ever this vulnerable.

“I can’t mess this up, you know that there are–”

“Yeah, there are important people here tonight but you are going to kill it. I know you will, baby.”

Enjolras can only manage a weak smile.

“Mics are turning on,” He hears Bossuet through his headphones.

Grantaire nods, and whispers softly, “Mic is on, E.”

Silence.

“Curtains are opening. You are going to be amazing, E. Remember that. Good luck, baby. And you are on stage in 1..2..”

Enjolras closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. When he opens his eyes the light in them is different, shifting. He steps onto stage and when the light hits his face he’s a new person.

Any trace of Enjolras is gone, he has somebody else’s skin on and everything is fine.

Grantaire never doubted that for one second.

Every hair on Grantaire’s body stands with excitement and adrenaline, a exhilarating buzz boiling in his blood as Enjolras’s powerful voice booms across the theatre. His belt is as strong as ever, his voice so wonderful and satisfying, like the cold side of your pillow that feels amazing in the dead of night.

Enjolras is Gabe. He is perfectly portraying this complex character, the perfect embodiment. He has become this character, the way he looks at things is completely different. There is so much detail and depth behind every step he takes. He plays this character with this fresh nuance, played so lovingly and obviously painstakingly crafted. There is so much depth he embodies, a chilling performance that leaves Grantaire moved. Grantaire is unbelievably proud, it swells in his heart.

The act is coming to a close, and Enjolras sings. He’s so angelic and lovely, the light shining and framing him perfectly. But it is so chilling and eerie, his gaze is intense and bone chilling. His voice is this beautiful lyrical tenor and his vibrato is clear and satisfying, his voice steady and melodic in this incredibly angelic way.

Then the act closes, the curtains falling and the audience roars with claps and screams, whistling. Grantaire can’t help but try and peek through to see, and he can see people standing up as they cheer.

Grantaire awaits his star by the wings, and the moment the curtain falls he’s transported back into this world. He’s Enjolras, and he’s so weak. So sick.

He staggers weakly offstage, looking so weary and unwell that the moment Grantaire is in reach he collapses into his arms with exhaustion.

“Enjolras!” He exclaims as his boyfriend falls into his arms. Grantaire steadies him with some strength and pulls him into his arms. The younger boy weakly buries his face into Grantaire’s chest. He coughs harshly and sharply, his face scrunched in pain as he coughs.

Frantically, he feels his forehead and gasps at the intense heat radiating off of it.

“Fuck, E!” Grantaire hisses worriedly.

“Courf! Over here!” Grantaire calls over, and once Courfeyrac can see them his eyes widen and he’s running towards them. With his help, they manage to get Enjolras back to his dressing room.

“I’m so stupid, I’m so stupid,” Enjolras hisses to himself in self loathing, tears pricking at his eyes.

“No you’re not, E,” Courfeyrac reassures softly, trying to mask the worry in his voice.

Combeferre arrived shortly after with a damp towel and drapes it over his forehead. He is clearly shaken, very nervous and frantic.

“I failed you all,” Enjolras whimpers.

“What?! No you didn’t!” Courfeyrac insists.

“I can still perform, I promise. Just one more hour. I can do this. I promise, please,” Enjolras begs tearfully, stopping as Grantaire helps him drink more tea. He pushes Grantaire away shortly, to hack and cough powerfully, tearing up. He clearly looks like he is in a lot pain, and the sound of his coughing is awfully chesty and congested. It sounds horrible.

No one wants Enjolras to do this, but they all know Enjolras would never forgive himself if he couldn’t. They don’t want to see him in such a state. Courfeyrac and Grantaire look over at Combeferre for answers.

Combeferre looks conflicted, staring at Enjolras for a long time and sighs exhaustedly, “He can do it. But Grantaire, once you two get home you have to extensively take care of him.”

Grantaire nods determinedly, “Of course.”

The bright smile Enjolras gives them is undeniably precious.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac leave them alone, to which Grantaire sighs fondly and helps Enjolras drink more tea.

“You are a mess.”

Enjolras grins feverishly, “Your mess, though.”

Grantaire chuckles, and kisses his forehead, “Unfortunately. You are going to give me an ulcer, one day, you know?”

Grantaire doesn’t understand it–he believes it’s some type of magic or sorcery or witchcraft, the like–but when Enjolras is back on stage his symptoms disappear completely. He is energised and alive again.

Enjolras is so good that Grantaire forgets that just a short while ago Enjolras was breaking down backstage, sick as a dog. On stage Enjolras is at the best state he’s ever been. The audience could never have guessed he was running a borderline dangerous fever and what surely could become a chest infection.

The show comes to a close, and one of the last songs is this extremely powerful and moving exchange between Val Jean and Enjolras. They are both  talents, revelations, incredibly passionate. They are delivering a performance of a lifetime, pouring their hearts out to many. Grantaire can faintly hear soft sobbing from the audience. When they finish, the audience explodes into a series of claps, so touched and moved.

When the show closes, the entire theatre stands up and claps loudly. The theatre is exploding with cheering and whistling and clapping. Grantaire can’t hear anything but cheers. They can’t even start bowing because the cheering is lasting so long.

The small cast begins to bow, and Grantaire can’t help but start cheering too when Enjolras steps to the centre for his bows. He starts to tear up as the crowd goes wild for him.

When the curtains fall and the cast come out, they are bombarded by hugs by everyone backstage.

“You were amazing, 'Jolras! You’ve brought our show to life,” Courfeyrac cries, tears steaming down his face as he hugs Enjolras.

“You killed it!” Combeferre says proudly as he joins in the hugs.

But when Enjolras starts coughing again, bent over by the waist. His powerful coughs take what is left of his energy and he starts to tip slightly, and he’s leaning forwards too much and Courfeyrac is swooping in to catch him. That is when when everyone remembers that Enjolras is sick and needs to go home.

“We should go home,” Grantaire steps in, approaching his boyfriend and taking him from Courfeyrac.

“You’re right. You’ll inform us on how he’s doing, right?” Combeferre asks anxiously.

“Of course.”

“But Stage Door,” Enjolras says weakly.

“Oh my god, Enjolras. You are not in the state, everyone will understand. You need to go home,” Grantaire insists.

Enjolras becomes quiet and looks so miserable. Grantaire sighs and feels a bit guilty, helping him back to the car.

Enjolras sleeps the whole way back to their apartment. Grantaire’s glad, because Enjolras needs to recharge. Once he parks, he picks Enjolras up and starts to carry him up to the elevator. He finally makes it to their apartment, and immediately puts Enjolras down on their bed.

He is about to leave to get some supplies when Enjolras stirs and grabs for Grantaire’s arm.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras whimpers, his voice teary and obviously upset.

“Hey, baby, what’s up?” Grantaire coos as he sits at the edge of the bed to speak to him.

“I failed everyone, I did so badly, we’re going to get bad reviews and close early,” Enjolras chokes, a few tears beginning to spill from his eyes.

“What?! No! You were absolutely brilliant, baby. People were crying. Did you not see the standing fucking ovation at the end of the show? Fuck, there was one during your act closer! People loved it, Enjolras. Our message is getting out there thanks to you. So don’t you dare fucking tell me that you failed us. You’ve made us.”

Enjolras sniffled, inhaling sharply to sneeze harshly, then rubbing at his eye weakly, "I don’t believe you.”

Grantaire opens his mouth to bless him and to reassure him but his phone is beeping. Then again. And his phone is going crazy.

He pulls his phone out and quickly scans through the gibberish that is Courfeyrac’s recent texts, and when he scrolls to the original text his heart drops. Then it swells.

“Enjolras, do you want proof that you did not disappoint tonight?”

Enjolras only huffs.

“Enj, we’re going on Broadway.”

Enjolras eyes widen, and he starts crying again. He’s crying even more–but this time he’s happy. Enjolras forces himself up and throws himself over Grantaire and holds him close, hugging him tightly and continuing to cry. Grantaire presses a kiss onto the top of his head.

“We’re going on Broadway thanks to you, Enjolras. And I mean you. Not just the character you play. You. You made this all happen, and I know you aren’t always very happy with yourself and I hope this can help you start to see what I see in. I am so proud of you, and I love you so much.”

“It takes two, I thought one was enough, It’s not true, It takes two of us, You came through, when the journey was rough it took you..” Enjolras sings softly. 

“It took two of us. It takes care. It takes patience and fear and despair. To change.” Grantaire sings back. He’s a bit awkward, a little offkey, but to Enjolras it couldn’t have been more perfect.

[vivalamusaine]

Hello ^-^/ I've just fead your ace enj post and it's so amazing *-* Would you mind sharibg more ace Les Amis things? I'd be forever grateful

How about some lovely ace Combeferre headcanons?

GP Ferre is very patient with explaining sexuality to young people who are questioning themselves. He always keeps brochures (That he has definitely written himself) in his office on spectrum’s of sexuality 

Encourages parents to include a discussion on it and of course other sexualities when they decide to have “The Talk” with their kids because with societal and social pressure not enough kids know that it’s okay to not feel sexual attraction or to be repulsed by it

And whilst his patience for young people knows no bounds, his impatience for ignorance is even more so. The moment you suggest that asexuality is anything but valid you are in for the most subtle but soul crushing take down in the history of take downs. He will verbally destroy you.

Makes a lot of photosynthesis jokes to the absolute chagrin of Courfeyrac

Has written a lot of medical journals on asexuality and sexuality in general. 

Has a tiny ace of spades tattooed on his ankle

Owns this tee-shirt:

[jeoseungsaja]

Patrick Myungdae Grace. ( @clemencetaught )

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, DEAR FERRE ❤️!!!

[clemencetaught]

@jeoseungsaja sent in: things you said when the sun was shining (for any verse you'd like ;W;! I hope it's okay to send all of these IHEWIUDHWD pls feel free to ignore any that you might not be feeling! JUST HERE PEEKING IN TO SEND SOME MEMES AND STUFF IWUHEDIWHD hope you're having a fantastic day, Ferre!) || when the unspoken is named ( things you said prompt. )

18. things you said when the sun was shining

A few months following the 54th Hunger Games.

“I DON'T REGRET VOLUNTEERING. If it means you'll survive.” These are not words Patrick expected himself to say. But as Hyuk, in the light of the sun, pulls him towards the water, Patrick, in the shadow of the cliff side, takes Hyuk’s hand and gives a brittle smile. The shade covers it- makes it seem a tad more robust that he actually feels. It’s the closest Patrick will get to a real one these days.

Truthfully, there’s a lot of things that don’t feel real to Patrick since he’s returned to District Three. The Capitol says he won because of his intelligence and his cunning- his ability to outsmart the rest in a fight to the death. The districts say he won because of his ruthlessness and his deception- his willingness to make any and all sacrifices in the name of victory. And Patrick?

He didn’t win. 

Fingers creep into the crevices between Hyuk’s fingers. They’re callused, just like Patrick’s own, from years of handling wires and machinery. Sun falling into the water, orange splattering like paint on a canvas, Patrick can even see the silver scars from such experiences ( and ones outside of the factories too ) pepper Hyuk’s hands. Maybe they are hands that have been raised in self-defense, hands that push back against the peacekeepers and authorities any day of the week, but they are also hands that have never held a blade with the intention to kill.

Oh, what Patrick would give to make sure Hyuk’s hands stay that way- unblemished and kissed by the sun. “I know you’re strong, Hyuk-ah, but that doesn’t mean you would have won. It doesn’t mean you would still be here, not as you are now.”

The Games hollowed him out - scraped him from the inside out like a carved pumpkin before it spatting out the shell. And they called it a spectacular performance: a once-in-a-lifetime viewing. Patrick Grace, the tribute from District Three is not Patrick Grace, the 54th Victor of the Hunger Games. 

The districts can see it. They saw how his first instinct in the arena was to sock the tribute from seven in the jaw. How quickly he formulated the plan with Tellessa, setting aflame five tributes without hesitation. How he stabbed Remos in the chest over and over during the finale if only to ensure the tribute from District Two was dead once and for all.

Murderer, they say. Merciless, they add too.

It's no wonder his parents now keep their distance since he’s returned home, keep distance from their son who is a killer. This must be why so many of the victors choose to live in the Capitol.

But more importantly, Patrick wonders if Hyuk sees it. He wonders if what Hyuk sees now is repulsive, if the only reason he insists on staying by Patrick's side is due to obligation and guilt. 

“If it means making sure you wouldn’t have to go in, I would do it all over again.” It’s already too late for Patrick anyways. The blood is on his hands and the filth has already stained his name- there’s no other way to go but down now. But if this means he can watch his dear friend, who stands in the sunlight, in the light as he should be, then maybe, just maybe winning the Games will mean SOMETHING.

His feet are planted in the shadows of the cliff side. The corner of Patrick’s eyelids crinkle. “I wouldn't change a single thing, if it means you'll be somewhere brighter.”

[ofgentleresolve]

@theimpalpable sent in: Caradoc attempts to not be as loud as usual; he doesn't want to upset Lamon on his birthday by being too dramatically noisy. So he casually steps inside with Lexine by his side, both of them carrying different items. Caradoc is holding two gift bags, one from himself and another from Lexine; both destined to land on Lamon's hands. In the smallest bag, Lamon'll be able to find a box that contains a cat flower pot, along with a botanical-themed stationery set that perhaps could be useful for his classes. Upon the biggest bag, rests a succulent throw pillow and a plant plushie, these last two being Caradoc's idea.

"Happy Birthday, Lam!" Caradoc says with excitement, grinning from ear to ear. "Look what Lex made for you, ain't they cool?!" His chin tries to point at what Lexine is holding, which is a tray of succulent cupcakes. Worry not! She tried her best to make sure the ingredients were lactose-free. The girl smiles, shoulders gently lifting so the cupcakes can be seen better. "Happy Birthday, Lam."

(HELLO I come here to celebrate Lam's birthday IHWEDHWD, hope this is okay, dear Ferre!!! If not pls feel free to skip! Hope you're doing well, CARE YOU LOTS)

His birthday is, unshockingly, no different from a regular day off, sans the grading and lesson planning that always has an urgent deadline. Not that he minds it- it is rather peaceful and while he is, in all technicalities, alone for the day, he doesn’t necessarily feel lonely. It was his decision not to go home for the holidays. To be with his family mainly because his parents were taking a vacation to Europe alone. And his sister, well, apparently she has a boyfriend from France and he’s invited her to spend the holidays with his family. He didn’t want to third wheel either couple.

( He’s done that one too many times, if he’s honest. )

Henceforth why he spent December 25th in the diner with Ray, who strangely enough also decided he wasn’t going back to Singapore for the holidays. He should’ve known that Ray would have made an OCCASION out of it. And gotten their friends in on it too.

“How did you-“ A pointed ( but still half-hearted ) look on his face towards Ray behind the counter. “You told them, didn’t you?”

Ray shrugs, as if Lam were asking him about, say, the weather. “They’re our friends- of course they’ll wanna celebrate. Besides, you sure you want me in charge of making you a cake?”

Touché, although Lam doesn’t say that outright. He imagines that Lexine probably persuaded Ray to let her take care of providing the food. Between the two of them, she is the baker, after all. And the one with common sense too- no one wants a stomachache on their birthday anyways.

“What are you two- you didn’t have to do this much.” Getting a set of cupcakes is one thing, it’s another to get such a collection of gifts ( if he wants to take the succulent pillow out and hug it for the rest of his stay here, he won’t say ). Licking the icing off of one cupcake though- it feels a bit like a crime to do so- he glances over at Doc, who is being weirdly considerate…it’s nice, but also-

“Just say something. Please” He blurts out suddenly. It’s too weird, Doc not talking and well, being loud next to Ray. “You don’t- it’s weird when you’re quiet.”

The heat rushes to his face as the urge to hide his face suddenly grows. That’s just the kind of people they are, aren’t they? The kind to celebrate even the smallest of occasions, like HIS BIRTHDAY. “…Thanks. For celebrating.”

[obi-wan-kxnxbi]

Little bird.

I wrote @halpdevon a tender triumvirate fic bc i love her.

Courfeyrac was not having a good day, first he’d left his hat at home and the winter wind had howled and moaned about him; then it had started to rain on his way home, great fat droplets falling from the sky, soaking him to the bone with freezing water. His coat, wool and red, he’d stolen it from Enjolras that morning, was already completely useless; this only left his shirt and waistcoat to protect him from the heavy rain and they were less than useless. He shivered and clutched his books closer to his chest, as he plodded on down the street, his shoes splashing on the cobbles, the pavement was really more like a river now and the water was actually deeper than the height of his shoes. He grumbled softly to himself when he realised he still had another fifteen minutes to walk before he would be home. His hair was just another problem to add to the list, it dripped sullenly; it stuck to his scalp, with none of its usual curl. He shivered and drew further into himself willing his body to warm up.

The sky was a broiling mass of dark grey clouds; it was as though night had already fallen in Paris and all Courf wanted to do was to be home by his fire with Marius prattling on about whatever he had done that day. The rain fell heavier still, he was by the Seine and the river’s surface looked like shattered glass, all broken up by the fat droplets. His shoes were soaked now, and the cold had reached his feet. There was going to be hell to pay for his folly in forgetting his hat, he could feel it creeping up on him in the cold that was fingering it’s way down his back. He hadn't even thought to bring a scarf, truly, when he’d left the apartment that morning there had hardly been a cloud in the sky and yet now he was in the middle of a storm. The trees were shaking down to their roots as the wind threatened to rip them from their places; their branches shook together and their leaves were torn off. Courfeyrac was too busy looking at the trees to notice the uneven pavement, he only noticed it when he was on the floor, soaked and now bleeding as well. He really was not having a good day.

“Gabriel? Is that you?” Joly said, running up to him, a heavy bag thumping at his waist.

“Hi, Jolllly,” Courfeyrac huffed, and looked up at the medical student.

“You alright down there?” Joly smiled and offered him a hand, “what happened?”

“Thanks Joly,” Courf allowed himself to be hauled ungraciously to his feet, “I tripped is all, just the pavement sticking up.”

“Oh well, it could be because your humours are-“

“If you say that my humours are out of balance and you need to leech me, Joly, I swear I’ll sit right back down and let you go about your day.”

“For once in your life, Gabriel de Courfeyrac, I wish you’d listen to me,” Joly shook his head, “alas, if there is nothing that will convince you I’ll let the subject slide and merely suggest a bandage for your face.”

“A bandage for my- I’m not bleeding am I?” He said, touching the side of his face.

“Ah, tis but a small cut,” Joly smiled quickly, “Théodore will be able to patch it up, if you go are headed around that way?”

“Uh, no, no I wasn’t. I was planning on going to my apartment,” Courf said, scratching the back of his neck and shifting. “Should I?”

“I could fix it for you if you like, if Bossuet’s home, I’ll ask him to get Théo,” Joly smiled and gestured to his apartment, only a block out of the way, “we could hang your coat by the fire and dry it out for you.”

“That is the best suggestion you’ve ever had, Jolllly, my friend,” Courf could feel his mood improving even as he walked closer to the dry warmth of Joly’s apartment.

Joly’s apartment was on the third floor of one of the bigger apartment blocks around the Sorbonne; he lived with Musichetta, who quite frankly terrified Courf, and Bossuet, who though he was taller and broader than Courf, would never scare him. There was a wide hallway that lead in to the main room, with a few doors leading off it, though they were all closed. The ceiling were high than Courfeyrac had expected them to be, and he craned his neck to look at the small decorations on them. As the warmth returned to his body, he could feel the pain start to sneak up upon him, first his palms started to sting from where he’d hit the pavement; then his face started to burn. He wasn’t sure but he could feel something dripping in to his cravat; he hoped it was just water, he chose not to look down to check.

“Joly, what the hell is wrong with my face?” He said, turning to Joly, who was bustling around trying looking for something.

“A small cut, is all. Nothing major, look in the mirror in the bathroom if you feel the need,” Joly poked his head around the door.

“De Courfeyrac!” Bossuet boomed coming out of a door, “oh dear, what happened to your face?”

“I am going to be terribly scarred, Légle?” Courfeyrac sighed, though he was starting to feel slightly nauseous.

“Bossuet, can you run and get Théo?” Joly called, “Gabriel, could you come and sit down over here, please, by the lamp.”

“Aye, love,” Bossuet said, pecking Joly on the head as he grabbed a coat (and a hat) and ducked out of the door.

“Why are you getting Ferre, I thought it wasn’t serious,” Courf asked, eyes wide, “I wont need stitches will I?”

“That’s what I need Théo’s opinion on, he’s better at them than I am anyway. I don’t think you will need stitches but, it’s better to be safer rather than sorry,” Joly smiled, as Courf sat on the chair, he held a lamp up to his face, “I wish it weren't so dark today.” He mumbled as he held some tweezers in the flame.

“If those go anywhere near my face, Joly-“

“There’s bits of pavement currently stuck in your face,” Joly looked at him, one eyebrow raised, “if you wish to leave them in there then be my guest.”

“If you scar me-“

“Gabriel.” Joly looked at him again but with a sterner look, the tweezers still in the flame, “you need to let me get the dirt out of the cut.”

“Fine,” Courfeyrac muttered, rolling his eyes and steeling himself against the table top, gripping the edge of it till his palms sting again.

He saw the tweezers coming closer, he resisted the urge to twitch out of the way. He could feel the heat emanating off them and had to physically concentrate on not moving.

“Joly! Give the man a drink before you dig around in his face, wont you!” Musichetta bustled in, her skirts damp from the rain, her hair out of its customary bun.

“Thank God,” Courfeyrac breathed out a sigh of relief, “the thought that I would have had to have faced that sober was awful.”

“Not a problem, Courfeyrac, we’ve brandy or brandy or ah, brandy,” Musichetta held out a bottle, after taking the cap off it.

“My thanks,” Courf said, taking the bottle in his still shaking hands, cradling it to his chest.

“Joly, love, please get out of those clothes, you’re dripping all over the place.” Musichetta patted Joly on the side of the face.

“Courfeyrac!” Combeferre stomped into the apartment, calling out for Courf with a grumpy look on his face, “what did you do this time?”

“I tripped, Théo, there was a bit of pavement in my way,” Courfeyrac smiled when he saw Ferre’s shoulders slump.

“You tripped? You didn’t punch a fascist in the face again?” Ferre asked, coming forward to look closer at Courfeyrac’s face; Courf could definitely feel the blood dripping sluggishly from the cut, now that it was soaking through in to his neck tie. “Hmmm, shouldn't need stitches, and I doubt it’ll scar. It does need cleaning out, though.” Théo gently reached under Courf’s chin, tilting his head back to turn his cheek as far in to the light as he could.

“Thank goodness,” Courfeyrac sighed, feeling weight fly off his shoulders.

“Were you walking home? In rain like this?” Ferre asked, feeling how wet Courfeyrac’s clothes were, his eyes widening as he ran his fingers lightly over the sleeves of Courf’s shirts, “Gabriel.”

“I didn't have enough money for a cab, ‘sides, there weren’t any,” Courfeyrac muttered, looking down at the cracked tiled floor.

“You’ll catch the flu, then where will you be?” Ferre said, “we’ll see if Joly has any spare clothes.”

“I’m not gonna catch the flu,” Courf mumbled obstinately, his bottom lip sticking out. “Don’t need to borrow clothes, mine are fine.”

“Gabriel Éttienne de Courfeyrac, if you do not listen to me right now, I will walk out the door and let Joly leech you.” Combeferre said, stepping back and putting on his best stern doctor face.

“Théo-“ Courfeyrac begged.

“No, listen, if we don’t get you dry, warm clothes, you will get sick. So we’ll see if Joly has spare, cause I only brought change enough for two cab journeys.” Combeferre stepped out of the kitchen and into the main hallway, where Courfeyrac could hear him and Joly talking in hushed voices.

“I’m not going to get sick, I’m made of stronger stuff; it'd take more than being out in the rain to take me down!” He called out to the hallway.

“There you are,” Joly said, coming in with a pair of trousers, clean shirt and waistcoat. “Just bring them back when you’re done with them.”

“When have I ever not brought something back?” Courfeyrac looked at Joly, slightly scandalised. Joly just raised his eyebrow and left the clothes on the table. Courf had to admit that it was nice to be dry and warm again, he was starting to shiver slightly, his teeth chattering together. He felt so very tired all of a sudden, like he couldn't keep his eyes open, he sat down with only one leg in the trousers and stared in to space. His eyes wouldn't focus and his eyelids were drooping ominously, he took a deep breath and tried to focus, but instead let out a huge yawn.

“Come on Ga- oh, Gabriel, are you okay?” Combeferre was huffing grumpily before he walked into the room and saw Courfeyrac sitting in the chair; yawning.

“‘M tired,” he whined through his yawn.

“Come on, get those trousers on man,” Ferre chuckled a little, bending down and buttoning up Courf’s shirt and tiring his cravat for him, as Courf pulled on the trousers and stood to button them, pulling on his shoes without bothering to lace them. “You’re going to bed as soon as we get you home.”

“I was going to have dinner with Pontmercy today,” Courf yawned, “I haven’t been home in about a week, Ferre.”

“Yes, well, you’re certainly not going to your apartment now. I need to be able to keep an eye out for you, I just want to make sure you don’t get sick.”

“Ferre, you worry too much,” Courf mumbled as he was lead out of the apartment, with a nod to Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta. Joly threw his coat at him

It was still cold and raining when they got into the street, Combeferre insisted that he would get them a cab whilst Courf waited under the stoop. Sure enough, not five minutes after, Combeferre was directing a cab and driver up to the front door of Joly’s apartment block. The door swung open, Ferre leant out to help Courfeyrac in to the warmth of the cab, Courf leant his head against Ferre’s shoulder; soaking in his warmth. The rain lashed against the windows of the cab, it dripped in through a small gap in the ceiling and soaked into the back of Courf’s neck, getting his dry shirt wet. He had no energy to move though, so he let the freezing droplets make themselves at home. The cab bumbled its way through the soaking streets of Paris, the horse’s hooves sloshed through the deep rivulets that had formed along the streets. He felt the lurching rhythm lulling him in to a doze, the clip clop and the rumble of wheels drawing the black impenetrable curtains of sleep around him.

***

When he woke, it was to pain and cold. His whole body ached like he’d gone two ways with an angry bull; he was shivering though there were several blankets on him and a fire burning cheerfully in the grate. The sun streamed through the windows, and the clock on the mantle read ten past nine in the morning, he supposed he was missing his lectures today. He tried to speak, but it felt like someone had rammed sandpaper down his throat, it burned when he swallowed and the only thing he could do was let out a pained moan. The worst thing was, he could not breath, his nose was all bunged up and breathing through his mouth hurt his throat. He was so cold, like Jack Frost himself was sitting on his chest, he could not stop shaking, so much that the bed he was in rattled against the wall.

“Théodore said you’d wake up ill,” said a voice from the door, “here, he told me to make you drink this, it’s honey and lemon in warm water for your throat.” A gold head came in to view and Enjolras put the drink on the bedside table and fixed his blankets. “Really Gabriel, going out in the rain without a hat or an umbrella, what were you thinking?”

“Couldn’t-“ he coughed, the force of it wracking his entire body, he held out his hand grasping for a tissue, Enjolras obliged and thrust his handkerchief into Courf’s hand, “couldn’t find my hat, didn't want to leave you two without your umbrellas.” He said in-between coughs.

“You are a fool Courfeyrac,” Enjolras shook his head fondly at him, even as he tucked another blanket around Courfeyrac’s shivering body. “Rest. Combeferre made some chicken broth for you later, and-“

“Let me-“ he broke off as coughs shook through him, he could feel his throat burning even more, “shit. Let me guess, I’m not to leave this bed.”

“Exactly. I don’t have lectures today, so I’ve been charged with looking after you.” Enjolras smiled a little, before sitting in a chair by his bed, and pulling out one of his law books.

He could feel sleep pulling him down again, helped along by the noise of Enjolras turning a page every now and then, as well as the small noises he made when he read something he didn't agree with. The birds outside the window tweeted and chittered from their perches in the tree outside. Though he was being wracked with chills and shakes, and his body had decided to hurt him in every way possible, he fell asleep fairly easily. He tumbled into the black abyss, feeling the warmth of the blanket of sleep seep into his bones.

Enjolras watched as Courfeyrac fell into an easy sleep, he looked his friend up and down. Courf was paler than Enjolras had ever seen him, his cheeks were flushed with fever and his hair stuck to his head with sweat. He lay on the bed gasping and rasping for breath, his eyelids fluttering and his chest heaving, his hands gripped at the sheets as his legs tensed and flexed. He coughed even in his sleep, as the hours ticked past and Enjolras watched still, he became increasingly more and more worried. Courfeyrac did not seem to rest easy, he tossed and turned about in the bed, and as the hours drew on towards the evening, his breath grew even more shallow. He was seriously considering running to Grantaire’s apartment (it was the closest to his and Ferre’s) and asking him to watch Courf whilst Enjolras went to the doctor’s surgery to get Ferre. He walked into the kitchen to get a wet strip of cloth to put on Courf’s brow, his hands shook as he wetted the cloth, he hated the thought of Courf being sick. He has no idea what do to, there is nothing he can do, not really, nothing that would help. He doesn’t really know what’s wrong with Courfeyrac, he knows that it is worse than the colds they all get during winter; but he doesn’t know how sick his friend is. For all he could guess, Courfeyrac might not see out the week; that thought terrified him, and sent his brain in to a tumbling mess of terror. He thought about his life with Courfeyrac not being there, that is the worst image he makes up in his head. He hated the thought of not seeing his friend’s happy smile and hearing his jokes and teasing. Enjolras was just walking back into the room when he heard the front door slam.

“Julien?” Combeferre walked down the hallway, dropping his bag by the entrance to their small living room.

“Yes,” Enjolras looked up from where he stood, hands propped either side of the sink bracing himself against it.

“How is he?” Combeferre prompted, looking at Enjolras with searching eyes, stepping closer to him and laying a hand on his shoulder.

“I- I don’t know,” Enjolras stuttered, looking down and waving his hand a bit, “you’re the medic, I was just getting him a cloth.”

“Good. That’s good. Did he eat the broth?” Combeferre’s face was a mask, as though he was squashing the pain and fear he felt.

“No, he’s slept through most of the day,” Enjolras shook his head, his shoulders were slumped, “he’s worse, ‘Ferre, he’s not better. He’s so much worse.”

“Yes, most patients experience a worsening of symptoms before they get better, that’s quite normal.” Combeferre pushed his glasses further on top his nose before he took the cloth from Enjolras’s hands and, grabbing his bag from the floor, went into Courfeyrac’s room.

Enjolras stood where he had been when Combeferre had entered the apartment, he stood stock still staring in the direction Combeferre had gone in. His mouth was parted slightly in shock, he’d never seen Ferre so closed off, so blank. He had never been so clinical. Enjolras felt even more lost than he had done before, he felt like a little boy whose mother had him lost in a busy crowd; he stood staring and not really seeing anything. He could hear Combeferre’s low rumbling voice emanating from the other room, but it didn’t have the usual lilt and chime to it. Enjolras couldn't stand the apartment suddenly, he didn't want to be inside it, soaking in the atmosphere; he had to get out.  He grabbed his coat and took off out the door, letting the front door slam on his way out. His shoes echoed on the cracked tiles as he slipped and fell down the last few stairs, he couldn't see them because tears were clouding his vision. He picked himself off the floor, his palms stinging from hitting the ground, and swiped a hand over his red face and walked out of the apartment building.

The walk to Grantaire’s apartment was short, just a few blocks away, Enjolras had never been there alone before. He turned the collar of his coat up against the wind that was skittering across the pavement, blowing the leaves in to his face and hair. He picked up his pace, his shoes crunching the small stones that littered the cobbles. When he got to Grantaire’s apartment he really had no idea what to do, he didn't even know if Grantaire was at home. He decided on throwing rocks at Grantaire’s windows, standing halfway into the road.

“Julien, why are you throwing rocks at my flat?” A voice said from behind him.

“Oh, uh, I was-“ He gestured vaguely, “Courf is ill, very ill, and Combeferre, Ferre’s not… not himself. Ranae, I- I don’t know what to do. Yours is the closest apartment, I can’t do this alone, I can’t-“

“Okay, let’s go,” Grantaire said, hoisting his bag further on to his shoulder, looking like he was about to walk into a battle.

“Just like that? You aren’t going to ask anymore questions? You’re just coming with me?” Enjolras stared as Grantaire started to walk down the road, Enjolras jogged to catch up to him.

“You wouldn't have come for me if it wasn't serious, Julien,” Grantaire shrugged and kept walking, kicking a stone along the pavement as he went.

They heard voices as soon as they stepped through the door; Courfeyrac’s was weak and crackly, like he was speaking through several layers of cloth. He sounded so weak that Enjolras felt his heart break a little bit just then. It sounded as though each word he spoke took three times the effort that it normally did. Enjolras moved closer to the bedroom door to better hear what he was saying, Grantaire followed close behind, dropping his back on to the sagging sofa.

“You can’t just switch off on me like this, Ferre, I need my Théo; not this emotionless doctor, I know he’s in there somewhere,” Courfeyrac, coughed a wet horrible sound, leaving a ragged moan in its wake.

“Would you lie down, Courfeyrac, keep the cloth on your head, we need to bring your fever down,” Combeferre’s voice still sounded as though he was in the hospital, dealing with a stranger, even the way he said Courf’s name was wrong; Enjolras let out a distressed sigh.

“Théo, please-“

“Just lie down and save your strength, I think we should bleed you tomorrow if the fever is no better, I may need Joly’s opinion first though,” Combeferre said, his voice cold and completely void of emotion,

“You see what I mean? It’s like that is not Gabriel lying in that bed, he treats him like has never met him in his life,” Enjolras turned and grabbed Grantaire’s arm, “if there is anyone who can snap him out of it, it is you, Ranae.”

“Huh,” Grantaire scoffed, looking down at Enjolras’s hand gripping his arm, “I’m not so sure about that.”

“No, it is true, he respects you,” Enjolras nodded, blond curls bouncing in front of his eyes.

“I’ll see what I can do, Julien, but Théodore has always been a hard man to change,” Grantaire sighed, and scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to keep himself sane.

“Thank you, Ranae,” Enjolras seemed to relax a little more, his shoulders sagging less and his posture becoming less than despondent. “Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Ranae is here!” Enjolras called, walking into the room where Courfeyrac was lying flat on the bed, gasping for breath.

“R?” Combeferre stopped pressing the cloth on to Courf’s forehead, and looked up at Enjolras, his brow furrowing. “Why is R here?”

“I thought he could help, we all need breaks every now and then; besides, R’s good at cheering people up,” Enjolras shrugged, looking helpless, “how is he?”

“The symptoms have worsened; I believe he has pneumonia,” Combeferre said, scribbling something down in his notebook and pushing his glasses further on to the bridge of his nose. “There is not much I can really do, either he’ll be better in one to three weeks or he will die.”

“How can you just say that,” Enjolras looked at Combeferre, his eyes wide, tears forming in them, “I thought I was cold, but Ferre-“

“I was just saying that, if the symptoms have not improved at all by tomorrow or the next day, I will call Joly over to bleed him.” Combeferre said, “I need some water, would you keep watch over him please, call me if he wakes or coughs up blood again.”

“Coughs blood, again?” Enjolras stared after Combeferre as he left the room, he stood there for a few seconds, listening to the slow ticking of the clock that was sitting on the mantle. Courfeyrac chose that moment to groan and shift slightly, making Enjolras jump and grab his hand. “Courf?”

“Julien?” Courfeyrac mumbled, his head lolling to the side so his eyes made contact with Enjolras’s, “did ‘Ferre say to you what he said to me?” Courfeyrac’s voice was fragile, so weak it was like a pane of glass.

“What did he say to you, Courf?” Enjolras asked, pulling the chair closer to the bed and sitting down in it without letting go of Courfeyrac’s hand.

“He said, I’d be either better or dead in three weeks. I don’t like him when he gets like this Enjy,” Courfeyrac coughed again, his hands covered his lips; they came away stained red.

“Shit, Courf-“ Enjolras muttered, grabbing another cloth from the bedside table.

“Just, just tell him I want the Théo I love back,” Courfeyrac sighed, his head falling back on to the pillow.

“Oh Gabriel,” Enjolras leant his head on to Courfeyrac’s chest, listening to the crackle and pop of his lungs.

Combeferre left the room, not bothering to shut the door after him, Ranae was sitting on one of the living room sofas. The sun was streaming in through the blinds that hadn't been open that morning; the windows were open and there was an apple and a glass of water sitting on the coffee table. R was eating a bit of baguette and sketching something, the book propped open on his knee; his pencil skating over the page.

“Hullo, Ranae,” Combeferre said, sitting down beside him heavily.

“Hi, Théodore,” R stopped sketching and closed the book, sticking the pencil in his hair.

“Julien didn't tell me he’d gone out,” Combeferre sighed, and he leaned forward on his elbows, his hands coming up to scrub through his hair. “I yelled out for my stethoscope and he didn't come; he wasn't in here when I walked out and looked around. I-“ Ferre let out a sob, it escaped him almost involuntarily flying out of his mouth like a bird free from its cage.

“Ferre,” R began but it was no use, once the dam had broken, Combeferre sobbed freely, his face turned red and blotchy. Grantaire could do nothing but sit there and watch his friend fall apart; except, that wasn't like Grantaire. He shifted to grab Combeferre by the shoulders and shook him. “Listen to me, you’re going to go back in to that room and be a friend, or whatever you are to Courfeyrac. He doesn’t need the doctor right now, he needs you.”

“Yes, yes you’re right,” Combeferre sobbed, hiccuping and wiping his eyes, “I’ve been rather awful to him, haven’t I?”

“You looked at Enjolras and told him his best friend was probably going to die. Yes, you’ve been awful,” Grantaire said, raising an eyebrow.

“I just don’t know what to do. Everything we’ve gotten ourselves into, I’ve been able to fix, everything. Now, though, now I’ve got nothing. I’ve no idea how to fix this, I don’t even know if I can fix it at all.” Combeferre said, punching one of the pillows before wiping over his eyes viciously.

“If ever there was a time for cool-headed, calm Théodore Combeferre, now would be it. Because, goddamn Théo those boys need you. They need the Théo they love, and now would be the prime time to let him out,” Grantaire smiled, gesturing to the bedroom.

The door remained open from when Combeferre had left it, they could see Enjolras bent over Courfeyrac, smoothing down his hair and whispering to him. Enjolras’s face was so much more pale than it usually was, his cheeks and eyes were normally so full of life, now though he was white; his hands shook as they carded through Courfeyrac’s curls. They could see the tears fall, slowly at first then they were pouring down Enjolras’s cheeks. They could not hear what he was whispering but they could see as one of Courfeyrac’s hands reached up and stroked across Enjolras’s cheek; they could hear his gentle hushing noises as he stroked away Enjolras’s tears. Enjolras shook his head and wiped his eyes, they could hear his softly whispered words telling Courf that he should be the one sobbing, and Enjolras should be comforting him. Courfeyrac laughed a little, though it turned into coughing and gasping.

“I can’t do this,” Ferre choked out, tears still coming down his face. He felt like a church spire getting whipped around in a storm, two seconds from being blown away by fierce winds; he’d never felt so helpless, so alone in his life. There was nothing he could do, what he’d told Enjolras and Courfeyrac had been the truth, either in three or so weeks Courf would be better, or he’d be dead and there was nothing Combeferre could do to improve the outcome.

“Yes you can, you’ve done such a good job, Courf is strong. It’ll take more than this to bring him down, he’s got you and Enjy,” Ranae said, placing a warm hand on Combeferre shoulder, squeezing it gently. “You’ve kept him alive till now, keep keeping him alive, Ferre.”

Enjolras listened to this conversation as Courfeyrac seemed to fall back asleep, though it seemed he was to be in and out of a light doze for the foreseeable future. He kept his hands running through Courfeyrac’s now lacklustre curls, he pressed the cold cloth against his head as he bent forward and pressed soft kisses where the cloth didn't cover. He looked at Courfeyrac with watery eyes, placing his hand against Courf’s chest just to feel his heart beating, a solid reminder that his friend was still alive. He looked up at the appearance of Combeferre in the doorway, his other friend looked more deflated than he ever had. Combeferre shook his head.

“There’s nothing more I can do for him, Julien. I’ve tried everything  I know,” Ferre stood at the back of the chair; Enjolras stood.

“I know. I know you have,” Enjolras smiled weakly, facing Combeferre, “I love him so much, ‘Ferre.”

Combeferre had to physically refrain from stepping backwards, he gripped the chair and looked at Enjolras with wide eyes. “You?”

“Love him,” Enjolras turned his eyes back to Courfeyrac, “yes, I think I do. I know you do too.”

“I- I-“ Combeferre looked at Enjolras again, turning back to the man in front of him. “How did you-“

“I’ve seen the way you look at him. Like you feel the same way I do.” Enjolras said it with such simplicity, like everything was black and white, his usual no-nonsense tone creeping through even when it came to matters of the heart. “I was imagining us together, the way Joly and Bossuet were when they first met, but then I thought that there was something missing. It was you. We were missing you. The dream was perfect, except for there being something missing. Me and Courf, we need you, you are the thing that completes us. What I’m trying to say, is I think I love you too.” Enjolras fiddled with his hands in a way that was quite unlike him, he looked down at the floor and shifted from foot to foot.

“I was wondering when you were going to tell us,” Courfeyrac said from the bed, he didn't try to sit up, and the words were so quiet that Enjolras could easily have missed them, but when they turned around they could see Courf smiling a little. “Now do I have to make you kiss or are you just going to do it?”

Combeferre rolled his eyes and huffed out a laugh, from surprise if anything else, but he turned to look back at Enjolras who had the most peculiar look on his face. Enjy’s cheeks were bright red and he stared at Combeferre, his lips slightly parted; his blond hair all but gleaming in the sunlight that streamed through the windows. He paused for a second, watching as Enjolras’s eyes flicked from his eyes to his lips, then he was moving. He gathered Enjolras into his arms, and pressed their lips together, wrapping his arms all the way around Julien closing all possible space around them. Enjolras’s hands went straight in to his hair, threading through the tightly curled strands. He could feel the slightly tug as Enjolras played with them. Combeferre focused on the pressure of their lips as he traced his tongue across Enjy’s bottom lip. Ferre felt Enjolras smile into the kiss as he deepened it, tilting his head for better access. His arms were still wrapped completely around Enjolras’s middle, but he moved them so he gripped Enjolras’s hips leaving thumb shaped bruises there.

“Finally, I can’t wait till I’m better,” Courfeyrac smiled.

“I think, my work here is done,” Grantaire grinned from the doorway as he nodded to Courfeyrac, “it’s okay I’ll let myself out.” A few seconds later they heard the front door slam.

Combeferre pressed his forehead to Enjolras’s as he took in the sight before him. Enjolras’s lips were red and bruised from the pressure of the kiss. He was smiling though, his cheeks flushed red, like they normally were. His ears had turned a little red as well, Combeferre stroked a hand down Enjolras’s cheek, feeling the peach soft skin under his fingertips. Enjolras stood on his tiptoes to press a kiss to the tip of Combeferre’s nose, before he sat back down on the chair, and leant forward to place a gentle kiss to Courfeyrac’s cheek.

“Now, you have to get better,” Enjolras’s eyes flickered over Courfeyrac’s face. “You are forbidden from dying.”

“Yes, forbid me to die, that’ll work,” Courf coughed, “is my Théo back?”

“Yes, yes he’s back,” Ferre moved to sit at Courf’s feet.

“You must never do that again,” Courf whispered, his breath crackling as his ruined lungs tried to keep him alive.

“I won’t. I swear. Sleep, my love, we will be here when you wake,” Ferre let his fingers dance over Courfeyrac’s leg, just to have a part of him to hold and touch.

***

In the coming week, Courfeyrac struggled to stay awake more than an hour or so at a time, his symptoms doing exactly what Combeferre said they would do. He got worse before he started, slowly, but surely to improve. Two weeks after he had been struck down, he was able to walk from the bed to the living room, though he was swaddled in about four blankets whilst he sat on the sofa. His lips were no longer blue and he wasn't coughing up any more blood; Combeferre was fairly sure he would recover fully, and Courfeyrac could feel his spirits returning. His breath didn't crackle so much anymore and it didn't feel like he had an elephant sitting on his chest. He said as much to Enjolras, who was sitting by him, reading; Enjolras’s face lit up like a firework. His eyes grew bright and he pressed a kiss to Courf’s cheek. Courf smiled and leaned into the touch, until he leant a little too far and ended up with his head in Enjolras’s lap. He started to move when he felt a hand in his hair, keeping him in place.

“It’s okay, you don’t have to move,” Enjolras chuckled letting his fingers thread through Courfeyrac’s hair, enjoying the silky smoothness of the curls, “you’re warm.”

“That’s cause I’ve about nine blankets on me,” Courf groaned, “why do I have to stay in them?”

“Because, Gabriel, you just had a bout of pneumonia and you scared me; so we must do what doctor ‘Ferre says and keep you warm,” Enjolras smiled down at him, looking at him below the pages of his law book.

“Fine, but wait till you get me out of them,” Courf waggled his eyebrows and watched as Enjolras blushed from the tips of his ears to below his cravat.

“A date I am most certainly looking forward to,” Enjolras coughed, and shifted a little awkwardly.

Keys rattled in the lock and the front door flew open, revealing a very tired Combeferre, he walked in and wasted no time throwing his shirt to the ground, grumbling as he walked to the bedroom, rummaging in the closet for a clean shirt.

“Nice to see you too, love. Yes our day was wonderful, we went outside for ten minutes like you said, yes the sun was out. I had a great time with Joly whilst Enjolras was at his lectures, no he didn't bleed me, he didn't even bring his leeches.” Courfeyrac muttered, staring pointedly in Combeferre’s direction.

“If you are well enough to talk to me like that,” Combeferre faked a glare at Courf, “you are well enough to come here and give me a proper kiss.”

Courfeyrac didn’t need to be told twice, without further ado he let the blankets fall off him as he practically ran in to Combeferre’s waiting arms. Their lips met, it was like coming home, like Courfeyrac had been there the whole time, like he had already been a part of Combeferre, that in that moment had finally joined the whole. Combeferre held him closer than he’d thought possible, his arms big and warm making him feel completely and utterly safe. Then Enjolras was there, his hands making their way down his back and on to his hips, as his mouth pressed kisses on Courfeyrac’s neck.

The sun soon sank below the horizon, bleeding out its light on to the still waters of the Seine, Paris letting darkness flood her; becoming a maze of street lamps and darkened alleyways. The three boys noticed none of it, they let the change happen, let it slip past them in haze of colour and the last vestiges of light. They fell asleep in a tangle of limbs, worn out but in the best way possible. Courfeyrac snuggled into Combeferre’s steady warmth, burying his face into the other man’s chest; his hand was held tight in Enjolras’s right fist. They were in their own little cocoon of warm and safety, like nothing from the outside world could touch them, they were apart from reality.

[ofgentleresolve-a]

@jeoseungsaja​ sent in:

He's busy rearranging his brushes, taking note of which ones need some cleaning and which ones can be saved in the case right away. Hyuk only lets his gaze break away from items when he hears his dear friend coming into the small corner of his art space, eyes lifting to watch Patrick add some last details to his outfit. He's supposed to go to some sort of academic event, isn't he? Hyuk remembers Patrick told him something about it.

These last details are nothing out of the ordinary, really. Just Patrick buttoning the cuffs of his button down. Nothing out of the ordinary...and yet, Hyuk's heart skips a beat; enough for his movements to freeze and for the brush between fingertips to fall on the floor.

He blinks, gulping and coming to his senses; leaning down to pick up the brush in a hurry --- wrong move, because when he tries to lift his head, he hits it against the table.

"Yah-aish---" A low hiss before fully standing up, waving his hand in dismissal and placing the brush atop wooden surface. "I'm alright, it didn't hurt---" It does hurt a little, but he's willing to swallow the ache than getting all embarrassed about it.

It's when he fully adjusts that he notices something's off. "Ah, wait, your--"

The detective gets closer to Patrick, takes note of shirt's collar. It's crooked; part of it still oddly tucked under his sweater vest. Instead of verbally telling him about it, Hyuk takes matters into his own hands; fingers reaching out and carefully rearranging the professor's shirt. He even leans in a little, focused on the task; unfolding and pressing collar where it should be.

"There, you had---" Looking up, he notices how dangerously close he is. He can see everything better from here. Patrick's pleasant eyes, the details of his nose, the prepossessing and inviting shape of his lips --- why did his gaze stop right there? Why is his heart doing somersaults? Why is his mind wondering things that perhaps it shouldn't?

Hyuk clears his throat and looks away, temperature climbing up his neck as both of his hands get pressed against Patrick's shoulders; patting them both and unconsciously letting his palms affectionately slide down his dear friend's chest before completely letting go. He hopes Patrick didn't take note of him staring.

"Your collar was crooked. Uh...what time are you going to that thing again?"

(Now here's Hyuk, getting flustered over Patrick's attractiveness---IUWHEDIUWEHUEHD I HOPE THIS IS OKAY, feel free to skip this oR ANY ASK if it's uncomfortable or anything of the sort!! Please have a wonderful day, Ferre!! :D) || they keep toeing the line 👀 ( ft. unprompted )

This is technically the reason he’s in Seoul right now, isn’t it? A conference that his university’s sister school is hosting and therefore, as a representative of the Literature Department, he’s supposed to be giving a speech. Perhaps this is why he initially let Dr. Towell volunteer first, despite the desire that welled up to see his dear friend at that moment. Of course, the research component of his work is important and the main reason he became a professor in the first place, but between interacting with his colleagues and his students, Patrick has found the latter to be much more…pleasant in these recent years.

Never mind the prestige that might come with being nominated faculty member of the year or even head of the department, Patrick is more than CONTENT with his place in the pecking order. It’s not like any of these awards change the quality of his research or even how he teaches anyways. The title is really just a formal means of assigning extra if not superfluous duties.

Such as public speaking. Oh, put the good professor in a classroom and he’s golden- his students are more often than not sharper than given credit for. If they say they learn so much from Professor Grace, then Patrick may say the same about them. But put him in front of a crowd and well-

“You really don’t have to go, Hyuk.” He reminds his dear friend as he wanders into Hyuk’s art space. Perhaps he is being BIASED, but this little corner of his dear friend’s apartment happens to be Patrick’s favorite spot. For one thing, there’s a tad more sunlight that makes its way into the room, more sunlight to douse Hyuk in while he paints.

( And in Patrick’s opinion, his dear friend looks the most beautiful best in the sunlight. Why else would Hyuk be a SUNSET then? )

“I won’t be saying anything special- I’ll just be reading off of notecards.” Which should be easy enough. Not to mention he already translated Dr. Towell’s speech. Save for a few pointers of his own, most of these words are not his own. Nevertheless, it doesn’t stop the dread that gnaws on his nerves. He’s never been one for public speaking, truly. He might be good at it, according to his colleagues, but that doesn’t mean Patrick necessarily enjoys it, especially not the preceding moments.

Perhaps this is why he’ll never rise higher than a tenured professor.

But then again, he also rather dislikes formal events, such as the one he’s attending. He’s just lucky academic events usually don’t mandate black-tie formal attire. “I’ll have to be there for the lectures, but I should be able to duck out once we get to the reception.” Hyuk would understand, right? The formal functions he gets invited to probably aren’t much better…no actually, they might be worse considering that those are almost always black-tie formal. Hyuk can’t get away with not wearing a tie.

But then again, Hyuk’s never been one to go to such events out of OBLIGATION, is he?

Sleeves folded at the elbows, Patrick sets about unfurling them to button them at the cuffs. He peers up at his dear friend, who is currently reorganizing his paintbrushes, in between buttoning.

It’s such an ordinary act, really, and yet Patrick can’t help but smile softly, pieces of warmth blooming out of nowhere. That’s strange- it’s not like he hasn’t seen Hyuk do it before, but then again, anything Hyuk does these days ( outside of getting injured of course- Patrick would prefer not to have a repeat of two days ago ), Patrick can’t help but look on in fondness. He’s been doing a lot of that this week it seems- watching Hyuk when he thinks his dear friend isn’t looking. A guilty pleasure, perhaps, considering that it’s not something he can do all that often, but it makes him feel warm in all the right spots.

( Perhaps Patrick should ask himself why this has been the case. Or maybe he should look a little harder to notice his dear friend has been guilty of the same exact activity. )

With one of the sleeves down, he lets out a puff of annoyance when his fingers fumble with the buttons there. This is why he prefers folding the sleeves once or even twice. “Perhaps we could get bungeoppang from Mrs. Nam on the way back? Didn’t you also mention wanting to drop by their studio- we could get food for them too-“

He’s just about to button the cuffs on his other sleeve when he hears something clatter on the floor. And then something heavier bang against the desk. Patrick looks up in alarm to find his dear friend, crouching and clutching his head with one hand. He must have hit his head against the desk.

“Are you okay? Do you want me to get you an ice pack?”

And of course, Hyuk brushes his concerns aside, but that isn’t going to stop Patrick from gingerly running his fingers over the spot Hyuk hit his head. Despite the loudness of the crash, it doesn’t seem like Hyuk hit his head too hard- at the very least there doesn’t seem to be any bruising or bleeding of any sort. Without thinking too hard about it, Patrick lets his fingers comb through his dear friend’s hair. It’s slightly damp, probably from the shower his dear friend took the hour before, but SMOOTH. Very smooth-

And then the next thing he realizes, his dear friend is leaning into him and Patrick freezes, hand hovering where Hyuk’s head used to be. It only drops when he realizes Hyuk’s hands are pressing delicately against his shirt.

Patrick swallows, heartbeat speeding up. Oh, that’s NEW ( but wait, is it though? For some reason he feels a sense of déjà vu…of more than a few moments in these past few months- ). It’s not like they haven’t been this close in proximity before, but then why is he only noticing the closeness now? Why is he only noticing how gentle his dear friend’s hands are, handling his shirt? Those hands that have weathered more than their fair share of ( unfair ) violence, those hands that strike a delicate balance between justice and mercy, those hands that are almost always closed off to everyone else, choose to be TENDER with Patrick of all people-

And then Hyuk pulls back, face still close to Patrick’s, and Patrick still feels his feet planted in the same spot as he watches his dear friend’s face. His cheeks feel warm suddenly but Patrick can’t bring himself to look away, even if that means following the path of Hyuk’s eyes to- no. No, it can’t be-

Patrick’s breath hitches as his fingers twitch. He’s been OVERTHINKING this, hasn’t he, assuming he was the only one, the only one thinking and wondering if they really are only friends, if there’s been something else on top of twenty years’ worth of friendship.

But he can’t focus on that right now. Not when there’s also suddenly an urge to cup his dear friend’s cheeks and lean in and press his lips against Hyuk’s enticing pair- but wait, would that be too forward-

And then the moment ends and Patrick lets out the breath he didn’t even realize he was holding when Hyuk clears his throat. A crooked collar, he said- but then Patrick drops that line of thought for the same warm, tender pair of hands that slide down his chest, and god Patrick really doesn’t want those hands to leave again-

Before Hyuk can let his hands drop to his side, Patrick catches one with his own. His fingers cradle around Hyuk’s own before Patrick freezes. Wait, what is he doing-

He doesn’t let go. Patrick swallows instead forcing himself for once to keep eye contact. Even if he feels like he’s been set on fire.

“I-In an hour or so.” He answers. He notices the cuff of his sleeve is still unbuttoned.  “Um…Could you help me with the other cuff?” He squeezes Hyuk’s fingers. They’re WARM; how Patrick wants to press his cheek against them, perhaps something like the other day when Hyuk kissed him on the cheek. “I’m...I’m having trouble with getting the BUTTONS in…”