Les Misérables Prompt Fest

Les Miserables Prompt Fest: Reveals and Fanworks Masterlist

rueplumetmod — Mon, 23 Dec 2013 19:55:56 GMT

Hello everyone!

The mods of this fest would like to take the time to thank each and everyone of you who participated and made this fest possible. The fanworks that came from this are amazing and you should all take a look at any of the ones you missed. Thanks to the people who commented, to the prompters, the writers, the artists and to everyone who was a part of this fest. Seriously, you guys have been great.

THANKS SO MUCH!

Below you will find the masterlist of all the works posted, as well as the reveals.

Wanderer wrote Untitled (Combeferre, Enjolras, Grantaire; PG; 1.4k)
Read on LJ
Summary: Combeferre likes taking pictures.

Asselin wrote Honest Work, Just Reward (Javert, Valjean; PG; 1.4k)
Read on LJ
Summary: Javert finds Montreuil-sur-Mer a nosy and unfriendly place.

Wallflower wrote What Goes Around, Comes Around (fem!Javert, Valjean; PG; 2.9k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: Valjean's past comes back to haunt him.

Asselin wrote No Point in Waiting (Javert, Valjean; PG; 1k)
Read on LJ
Summary: Even a harnessed dragon when repeatedly abandoned might not trust forever.

Lauren drew Untitled Superhero AU (Joly, Bossuet, Grantaire; G)
View on LJ
Summary: OP asked for superheroes, I may have gone a little overboard designing a superhero AU (complete with obligatory Magical Girl pose).

mikkey_bones wrote Fatalitas! (Joly/Musichetta, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta; G; 2.6k)
Read on AO3
Summary: The year is 1905. Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire stage a robbery, and consider themselves gentlemen burglars; Grantaire considers the inevitable end of their professional careers.

Drunkpylades wrote Trinity (Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta; PG-13; 14.6k)
Read on AO3
Summary: She's there, with the smile he learned to recognize life after life, with her wild green eyes; she's there in front of him, shaking Bossuet's hand like it's not important.
She's there. And Bossuet is there too. This is new. This is bad.

She's not supposed to be there, not in this lifetime, not with Bossuet already here.

Enjolras/Grantaire

toastandbrokenpromises wrote I Thought Leaders Didn't Get Sick (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG; 2.3k)
Read on LJ
Summary: Enjolras is a nightmare when he's sick, and he can't stand burdening his friends with it. Naturally, they send new guy Grantaire to check on him. Unfortunately, he's the last person Enjolras wanted to see him like that.

skeletonsmama wrote To Catch a Thief (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13; 10.7k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: Enjolras has the best luck in the world; until he doesn’t. Now he has to find the mystery man he kissed on New Year’s Eve in order to switch their lucks back.
A Just My Luck AU

musamihi wrote The Best Part of Faith (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG; 3.9k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: In the grip of fever, Grantaire attempts to explain himself – and succeeds, through no fault of his own.

BlackWingBecci wrote 35 Black Marks: The Times it Happened That Led Us to This (Enjolras/Grantaire; NC-17; 8.8k)
Read on AO3
Summary: It happened 35 times. (Or, Enjolras and Grantaire are both idiots who can’t admit their love for each other, even when they’re having sex.)

Luchia wrote The Lightning Within Me (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13; 18.2k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: Ever since as far back as he can remember, Patrick Laurent has been angry. (Reincarnation AU)

standbymi drew I See You (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG)
View on LJ or AO3
Summary: Art fill for Mika's I See You.

eirenical wrote All of the Above, and Much More Besides (Enjolras/Grantaire; R; 12k)
Read on AO3
Summary: "I can't decide if you're as much of an elitist little shit as you're coming across or if you're just scared."

Written for the following prompt on Rue Plumet Fest 2013:
Enjolras works as a teacher at a highschool and Grantaire works at the AV guy and Enjolras is hopelessly lost among all the new technology and he has to call Grantaire in every other day to deal with problems and Grantaire being himself picks arguments with Enjolras’ powerpoints and videos that he shows and they argue but he helps out and fixes everything anyways and eventually Enjolras ends up just coming up with problems for Grantaire to help him with and Grantaire is all “i can fix that” and even the students ship them.

Emily wrote show me the glint of light on broken glass (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG; 8.7k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: Creative writing isn't Enjolras's best class. When he gets paired with Grantaire for a project, they have more than a few disagreements.

(Sometimes two wildly different styles can come together beautifully.)

kjack89 wrote Something Beyond a Coffee Cup (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG; 3.5k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: Enjolras is trying to protest Starbucks, really. It’s not his fault that the annoying barista named R won’t leave him alone and keeps bringing him coffee. Really. Not his fault at all.

Javert/Valjean

InvertedTurtle wrote To Hear and Not Understand (pre-slash/unrequited Javert/Valjean; R; 1.8k)
Read on LJ
Summary: Four people in Montreuil-sur-Mer who, for varying reasons, sat up and took notice when Javert spoke. Usually not because of what he was saying.

magnetism_bind wrote Alone at the End of the Day (Javert/Valjean; PG-13; 5.4k)
Read on AO3
Summary: After a car accident leaves Valjean in a coma, Javert is left to ponder the possibility of a future without him.

Leviafan wrote The Power of a Touch (Javert/Valjean; PG-13; 8.9k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: Madeleine intends it as a simple gesture, an attempt at conciliation; but it has very unexpected consequences.

chrissy24601 drew Real (Javert/Valjean; PG-13; 8 pages)
View on LJ or AO3
Summary: While driving to Montreuil-sur-mer one night, Valjean comes across a car that has swerved off the road and crashed into a tree. But when he goes to check on the driver, he discovers that the unconscious man behind the wheel is not just anyone.

Les amis/Les amis

theofficialbahorel wrote The Opera Ghost (Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire; G; 16.6k)
Read on AO3
Summary: “Now,” Joly calls, demanding the attention of the guests, “some of you may recall the strange affair of The Opera Ghost, a mystery fully explained-”

Before Joly even finished his summarized explanation, Courfeyrac has already gone – into the deep realms of his memories.

“We’re told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster—”

Courfeyrac closes his eyes lightly at Joly’s voice – and flashes of light, bright colors, elaborately painted sets, and that voice – his voice – comes to his mind.

[...]

Courfeyrac looks at the chandelier in all of its restored glory. It looked as good as that day, that not so distant day…

killhimwithyourawesome wrote Of Freckled Constellations and Words Written in Dust (Grantaire/Jehan; PG-13; 1k)
Read on LJ or AO3
Summary: Sometimes bad days are the best time to remember the reasons you have each other.

Everyone can now feel free to repost their work to wherever they like. And once again, thank you so much to everyone!

[FIC] I Thought Leaders Didn't Get Sick (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 09:10:07 GMT

Author: toastandbrokenpromises (tumblr)
Title: I Thought Leaders Didn't Get Sick
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire, Joly, Bossuet, Jehan
Rating: PG
Summary: Enjolras is a nightmare when he's sick, and he can't stand burdening his friends with it. Naturally, they send new guy Grantaire to check on him. Unfortunately, he's the last person Enjolras wanted to see him like that.
Warnings (if any): None
Total Word Count/Length: 2285w
Original prompt number: #21

There was supposed to be a meeting tonight, wasn't there? Grantaire surveyed the cafe. There were no soaring speeches or gathered crowds, only lame, overplayed indie-pop (a phrase Grantaire found to be telling) blaring over the speakers, to create "atmosphere". Not that Grantaire really came here for the meetings, anyway, only for socialization--and there was plenty of that to be done, particularly at this hour of the evening when the cafe had already started serving drinks that were a little more... fun. Grantaire spotted a bald head he recognized and instantly gravitated over towards what was present of those fun college kids he'd met about a month ago.

"Looks like the soapbox is unoccupied tonight," Grantaire said, leaning on his elbow and gesturing with his thumb to where Enjolras usually stood.

"He's sick." Bossuet gave him a sheepish smile. "I think it might've been from me--let's not talk about The Puking Incident from three weeks ago."

"I thought leaders didn't get sick. Jeez, it's like that moment of realization that even Beyonce poops."

Bossuet and Joly burst into snorting laughter at Grantaire's wisecrack, exchanging glances too subtle for Grantaire to analyze but not too subtle to miss, and Joly was still barely understandable through chuckling he tried to muffle. "No, really, this never happens. We've known him for almost four years now, and he's only ever gotten sick one other time. He can't stand going to see a doctor. Even with colds he just powers through and tries to work and speak."

It must be pretty dire, Grantaire mused, if Enjolras wasn't powering through it to carry on his business as usual. Masking his concern, he pressed on. "Why don't you hook him up with some pills or something, Joly? You're a nursing student, right? Practice is practice."

Joly covered his grinning mouth, shooting Bossuet another inscrutable look. "I would--I really would, but I've got lab tomorrow, it's a third of my grade in that class and I really shouldn't risk it."

Bossuet added, "Yes. A very important lab."

Grantaire's raggedy eyebrows went subtly off-kilter with suspicion. There was something they weren't telling him. "Is his roommate doing anything about it, then? I mean, I figure if he could leave the house at all, he'd sooner be preaching than buying some Tamiflu."

"Oh, he lives alone." Jehan chimed in from behind Grantaire, having been so lost in his writing that Grantaire had considered him part of the scenery.

"So... who's looking after him?"

Jehan rested his chin in his hands, smiling piteously. "You must be new here."

"What kind of friends have I made if you're all so quick to ditch the sick guy?" Grantaire's crooked mouth turned down at one corner.

"You've noticed how single-minded and stubborn Enjolras can be with his speeches, right? Take that, multiply it twofold, and add a liberal sprinkling of projectile vomiting. Of course I feel bad for him, but there's no avoiding that he's a nightmare when he's sick. And I don't use such words lightly." Jehan made a grave face before sitting back to illuminate the corners of his pages with little wilting ballpoint roses.

"Joly handled it last time. He came home and he looked like he'd seen some shit. It was the first time I'd heard him doubt he was cut out for nursing." Bossuet shook his head sadly.

"I really am busy, though, with lab tomorrow. Honest." Joly knit his fingers, looking guilty.

"You're just gonna leave him there alone, stuck in his house, though? Come on, guys." Grantaire folded his arms.

"Why don't you go check on him if you're so concerned? We're a group of activism, not standing around complaining."

Grantaire chugged the rest of his drink and set the empty glass on the counter. "Think of this as your hazing ritual for me. What's his address?"

As soon as Jehan had written it on the back of Grantaire's receipt and watched him leave, he turned to Joly and Bossuet. "Five dollars says R's crushing."

"Deal," both responded in unison.

---

There's a knock on the door. Enjolras nearly jumps out of bed at the sudden noise, gasping at just how much his joints ached when he was standing too quickly. He rubbed his forehead, trying to shoo away the ache and the fizzy, lightheaded feeling that swept over him before trudging over to the door. Who was bothering him? Certainly it wasn't one of his friends--he'd told them all not to bother, and those who dared try last time had learned their lessons. And he hadn't ordered any delivery recently. With a decidedly un-angelic squint, he pried the door open.

There, through the blurriness and haze of his sickness, stood the most beautiful man he'd ever seen.
Granted, Enjolras had some very strange and specific tastes, and it wasn't saying much when Grantaire was the only person whose physical appearance he'd been so struck by. The vast majority of people would consider Grantaire hideous. Even Courfeyrac--who he'd always thought could find attraction to anything with forty-six chromosomes--had responded to Enjolras's "Do you find Grantaire's appearance frustratingly distracting?" with a pursing of his lips and a "That's harsh, dude." Enjolras didn't understand how anyone could default to thinking Grantaire was ugly--to him, it was plain as day that the short, swarthy, stocky boxer with the scruffy chin and plump belly and the baggy brown puppy eyes and the big broken nose and dark curls all over his head and his ashy-pale skin, was nothing short of charming, like one of those cats with the smushed faces. He was not sure if the chill that struck him was from the fever or the reddening of his face.

"You're, uh, staring."

"I'm sorry, but--"

"No, it's cool, I get that a lot." Grantaire shrugged, as if he knew what Enjolras was going to say. "Can I come in?"

"Frankly, you're the last person I wanted to see tonight," Enjolras blurted out, rubbing at his aching, burning forehead again. Of course the frustrating yet charming newcomer was the last person he wanted seeing him vomitously ill and sleep-deprived instead of his usual composed and commanding self, but he probably could have worded it better had his mind not been so foggy with fever.

"Oh. I just heard you were sick and wanted to check in. I guess I shoulda called first." Grantaire did his best not to show how it wounded him, and he bit his lip, and Enjolras subconsciously did the same at the sight of it.

"...Really."

"Well, seeing as Joly's busy and you don't have a roommate, somebody had to."

Enjolras shuffled backwards, slowly pulling the door open. "I'd rather you not get frostbite out there, then. Come in."

Once Grantaire was inside, with his shoes and coat off, he took a good look at Enjolras. The tall, slim blond was hunched over slightly, his skin rosy and clammy with fever and his blue eyes heavy-lidded with exhaustion. Grantaire looked him over with a gentle smile--for the first time he looked human, not statuesque, and honestly, no less beautiful. Enjolras turned away--it was already unfair that Grantaire of all people had turned up, but now he was smiling and it was so wry and crooked and devilishly charming he couldn't stand to look at it for fear of that and the fever turning his knees to noodles. No, he had business to do, and no time for that.

"I'm sorry I'm in no condition to receive visitors," Enjolras said, shuffling back off to his bed and picking up his laptop again as he got under the covers. The only indication of care for his illness was a large metal mixing bowl set by the side of the bed--thankfully empty--for being sick into. Within minutes, Enjolras was typing away, finding work a welcome distraction from Grantaire's presence.

"Don't worry about it. Joly and Bossuet said it must be pretty bad if you weren't able to make it to the meeting." Grantaire sat with his back against the side of the bed, setting his bag beside him.

"I would have come, too, if I hadn't been struck with the need to vomit as I was trying to pack my bag."

"Has anyone else been by?"

"No, you're the first... Some people have texted me, but I told them I didn't need anything."

"In that case, I'm glad I came."

"I'm not at all pleasant to be around when I'm ill, you know. I'd rather not burden my friends with it."

"Yeah, I've heard." Grantaire rolled his eyes. "Still, alone for all this? Come on."

"I'm fine, Grantaire."

"When did you last eat or drink?"

"Six."

"PM?"

"...AM," Enjolras admitted.

"Good thing I brought chicken soup and ginger ale, then." Grantaire set two thermoses down on the side table, balling up the grocery bag he'd brought them in and pitching it perfectly into the trash can. "It's organic and free-range. The soup, not the ginger ale. I don't know how ginger can roam free, but whatever. It was expensive, so don't puke it up." He handed off the soup to Enjolras, who took it--and their fingers brushed on the side of the thermos, callused thick ones against slender soft ones. Both reddened and Enjolras quickly pulled the cup away.

"Thank you," he said curtly, and started on the soup. Neither spoke for what seemed like many minutes, with Enjolras trying his best to drink the soup quietly and politely and Grantaire staring at the wall, silenced by Enjolras's short tone.

Grantaire hated silence. Absolutely couldn't stand it. He was doing his best to make conversation, but every reply Enjolras made seemed to lead abruptly to it. To top it all off, he was staring. Grantaire was used to being stared at, to the point where it didn't even bother him--but Enjolras was staring at him in a way he'd never been stared at before, all fluttering lashes and rosy cheeks and attempts to avoid eye contact.

Grantaire thought he must surely be delusional from the fever--it was the only logical explanation. There was no way that someone as radiant, intelligent and dedicated as Enjolras could be seriously looking that way at an ugly, obnoxious drunkard like himself.

"Let me guess--you haven't been getting enough sleep."

"I sleep when I must. These e-mails and papers don't write themselves. I can't let illness interrupt my productivity."

"I could bore you to sleep just by talking, you know. Perhaps even to death, if you let me."

"I doubt that," Enjolras said, not looking up from his screen.

"You ever heard me when something gets me going?"

"I find your conversations interesting. Stimulating, if not frustrating. But you're clearly quite intelligent, even if you disagree with my politics."

It was Grantaire's turn to redden, and he shrugged and tried to play it cool. "Nah, I just like arguing for argument's sake. I'm just at the meetings to talk with people, you know. Politics aren't really my thing. I just don't give a shit."

Enjolras pushed on. He couldn't stand how quick Grantaire was to dismiss compliments, to deny his potential, another thing Enjolras thought should be plain as day but was apparently the only one to see. "You claim not to care about a lot of things, but here you are caring for a sick person you've barely done more than argue with."

"Funny, that. It's almost as if that's something friends do. Well, except for the rest of our little club."

"You were worried about me, weren't you." Enjolras hid the barest hint of a smile.

"Maybe."

"You're... interesting."

"I've been told I'm impossible. Your point?" Grantaire teased.

Enjolras shut his laptop and stared Grantaire down. "Would you stop?"

"Stop what?"

"Being distracting-- I can't concentrate on my work with you here arguing."

"I'll go if I'm not wanted anymore."

"That's not what I'm saying!"

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean that I'm spending more time listening to you and watching you than I am working or resting, because you draw my attention in a way that is unfair."

"Speak human, Enjolras."

"God! See, you do this--you argue, even when I try to compliment you--and I'm too flustered to respond properly, and it's particularly unfair when I'm sick and look it and can't formulate a proper response but what I am trying to tell you is that I find both your face and your personality interesting and I would perhaps like to spend more time alone with you when I am not running a fever."

"Gee, it almost sounds like you want to go on a date or something."

Enjolras pulled the blanket over his head and rolled over, his voice muffled. "Almost."

"Wait--for real?" Grantaire was glad Enjolras couldn't see the dumbstruck look on his face right now, because he was sure it was (somehow) even uglier than his default expression. "I mean, you'd still want to when you weren't sick, right."

"Yes..." Enjolras mumbled weakly. Why must Grantaire always be so argumentative? It was almost giving him a headache.

"I, uh, wow, look at the time," Grantaire projected, looking pointedly at his watch and standing up. Surely this was too good to be true. "You should get to sleep. But, how about I leave you my number, and you call if you need somebody over again?"

"I will." Enjolras rolled over and looked up at Grantaire.

"You promise? No working."

"I promise." He flashed Grantaire a very slight smile.

"Alright. See you tomorrow?" Grantaire hovered by the bedroom door, waiting for a response.

"I'll call you."

[FIC] Untitled (Gen; PG)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 09:01:35 GMT

Author: Wanderer (wanderer-of-fandoms @tumblr/ricky_phoenix)
Title: Untitled
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Combeferre, Enjolras
Rating: PG
Summary: Combeferre likes taking pictures
Warnings (if any): None
Total Word Count/Length: 1,460w
Original prompt number: #9

Combeferre likes taking pictures. He likes the feel of having the Nikon in his hands, snapping various pictures of his life with Les Amis. Jehan thinks it is rather artistic of him. Courfeyrac shrugged, Bahorel didn’t mind (when did he ever mind), and Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta had no qualms and just made him promise to delete every unflattering photo of them he happened to take.

Enjolras liked the idea of Combeferre’s camera. His initial idea is that a portrait of political idealism could be captured by Combeferre and his handy eye. Enjolras would pose proudly with whatever banners he made, and Combeferre would take his picture dutifully.

Sometimes he would take an amazing picture of Enjolras, one where his outline is haloed by a ring of light, and Enjolras looks powerful. He looks like Apollo leading his chariot across the sky in those pictures, but Combeferre never says a word about those photos.

Eponine thinks the idea is great. “We’re not going to be like this forever” she says logically, slipping an arm around Cosette (such sweet lovebirds) who giggles and agrees.

Marius is under the same school of thought as Bahorel. He would shoot sweet grins at the camera and is found with his head thrown back in laughter at a joke made from Courfeyrac.

Grantaire frequently, with his cynicism and newfound sobriety would tease Combeferre about his bringing the camera up to his eye and snapping a photo. In true fashion, Grantaire would make faces at the camera, resulting in silly and terrible photos of him. That is, if he didn’t have time to run out of the shot so he wouldn’t show.

He takes things harder now, seeing as he can’t bring a wine glass to his lips unless he wants to have a permanent chat with Death about mortality. Combeferre can tell when he’s hiding how much he’s hurting because his fingers begin to tremble and his mouth twitches down.

Combeferre decided not to tell Grantaire when he would take pictures of him. He had done it for a year and a half now, and one morning, while Enjolras is making coffee and bustling around in his morning routine, is when he stumbles on a drawer filled with every memory card he had filled in the past few months in plastic bags.

“What are you going to do with them?” Enjolras asks this, sipping a cup of black free trade coffee.

Combeferre shrugs, and is at a loss for words. “I think I’ll look through them and see what I can salvage. I don’t have any classes today, so I might as well do something productive.”

“May I join you?” Enjolras asks this again with his blue eyes curious, and Combeferre raises an eyebrow. “Mainly for political candids,” he adds hastily but Combeferre smiles slightly at this rare sight of normalcy from Enjolras. It was nice.

They sit down at the sofa, as Combeferre puts the first memory chip into the computer. It boots up regularly and asks if Combeferre wants to look at the files. He does want to do this, and clicks the button to view files.

The first photo that pops onto screen is a candid of Grantaire, and it’s possibly the best picture Combeferre has ever laid eyes on.

It’s very clear that Grantaire is drunk in this, and it is from a year ago. He has no idea of the camera, and is caught mid jump before he lands like a cat on his feet. Combeferre remembers this vaguely. Grantaire and Courfeyrac were arguing whether gymnastics and martial arts were prerequisites of a dance they saw on the X-Factor.

And drunk as a fish Grantaire does the same exact move they saw, and Combeferre remembers picking up his camera quickly and taking the shot.

The next picture is the one that comes after the mid jump shot, and it’s of Grantaire with his left palm in the ground, in a frog-style crouch that looks very Jet-Li with one leg tensed to action.

He looks beautiful. His curly dark hair is in his face, yet it isn’t obscuring the intense expression he has on his face and shimmering in his sapphire blue eyes. Combeferre was amazed at every inch of detail in this photo. Though his eyes were the best part, Combeferre thought.

They shone with a fool’s expectation, the shy uninhibited light brought out by wine and a very cherry tasting vodka.

Enjolras squeaked. “He looks…”

“Yes, I know.”

“If only he could see this.”

A sad smile formed on Combeferre’s lips. “You know Grantaire, he wouldn’t even believe it was him. Damn Photoshop. It takes all the magic in believing a good photo away.” Enjolras nodded, and urged Combeferre to keep looking at the photos.

There were several of Marius and Cosette, smiling shyly at each other like Cupid and Psyche. They had their hands drawn together, and in the corner, with a contented look of concentration, sat Grantaire with a sketchbook and a pencil.

He was in the middle of drawing the two lovers, that much was visible. Combeferre couldn’t remember when this was taken, he could only look at Grantaire, and imagine what he was thinking. Maybe he was drawing them a wedding present to frame. There was a twist of Grantaire’s mouth, a slight smile looking concept that you had to be lucky to see. He was happiest when drawing, and Combeferre thought he was at his most beautiful.

The next photos were Combeferre, Enjolras, and Courfeyrac all situated on a tree trunk they found up north in the country. Everyone but Enjolras (who had a modest, but lovely smile) grinned stupidly at the camera.

Combeferre remembered this photo. Grantaire had gone with them, and he was the one that took the photo. Despite being the cynic, he could bring out a smile on anyone, including Enjolras (such a lovely smile it was too).

The next photos were of Eponine riding on Bahorel’s shoulders, whooping and screaming about the collective prizes they won on the boardwalk. People had stared and Grantaire had laughed all the way back home.

The next photos were of a study on light. The setting was Grantaire’s studio apartment in the city, and he was the subject.

This had been after he became sober. He had a string of hard sober nights leading up to this. He looked sunburnt, and Combeferre remembered he had just come in from running in the park. He was sweaty, so his skin glistened, and Combeferre asked him why he had spent an hour and a half running three consecutive laps.

“I feel tremors shaking me down to my core. My brain goes off when it happens and I needed to relax. Running is the one of the only ways that I stop thinking so fast.”

“That seems fair. I brought some bagels. I thought we could eat together since I’ve been busy these past few days.”

“I was actually going to start a new painting. I feel like I have an idea that doesn’t involve Hell.”

Combeferre smiled. “Don’t stop on my account. I’ll just be here watching you work.”

Grantaire had given him a little half smile, and Combeferre had maybe just fallen in love with him a little bit.

The first photo was sideways, and featured a cone like perspective. It featured Grantaire, still glistening from sweat, covered in paint. His eyes were intense, full of thoughts coming and going at a steady pace.

His eyes were a starry blue, brilliant and bright amongst the yellows of the light, and they shone with creativity, and his face was partly in the shadows, showing off his strong features. Like it or not, Grantaire was an absurdly handsome man, just not handsome in the classical way like Enjolras was.

Combeferre noticed that in one of the photos, his old tee shirt had come off, and the same twitch of his heart had happened before.

Akin to Combeferre’s feelings, Enjolras looked over the moon. He was red as a tomato, and stunned into not speaking, which was a first. But when it came to Grantaire with Enjolras, there would always be firsts.

There was a knock on the door, and the both of them jumped at the sound. Combeferre bounded up and answered the door.

Courfeyrac and Grantaire stood outside the door, with big smiles on their faces. Combeferre felt heat on his cheeks at the look on Grantaire’s face.

“You wouldn’t believe what’s going on at school. Combeferre, you gotta bring your camera.” Enjolras looked at Combeferre, and Combeferre smiled brightly.

Life was to be lived, and Combeferre thought brightly, and there were memories to be made. He got his camera and took off.

[ART] Untitled Superhero AU (Joly/Bossuet/Grantaire; G)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 08:47:11 GMT

Artist: Lauren (acesius @tumblr)
Title: Untitled Superhero AU
Characters: Joly/Bossuet/Grantaire
Rating: G
Summary: OP asked for superheroes, I may have gone a little overboard designing a superhero AU (complete with obligatory Magical Girl pose).
Original Prompt Number: #29
Artist's Notes: KEEPING IT BRIEF in regards to relative superpowers, I gave Bossuet Power Augmentation - he can boost the abilities of others for a short time through skin contact (he can’t turn it off, so he wears gloves). Jolllly, with his ailes, has Wing Manifestation going on, but also Induced Healing. Again it only works through skin contact, but he can sense what’s wrong (aided by his medical knowledge) and either heal someone completely or get them well on their way to full health. Grantaire, the poor wee bairn, gets uncontrollable Telepathic Perception. He can hear everyone’s minds - within a certain radius - all the time, and he’s not very good at shutting them all out (alcohol helps).
THERE ARE MORE RAMBLINGS and also some doodles, so come find me after the reveal if you're interested.

[FIC] To Catch a Thief (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 08:31:49 GMT

Author: skeletonsmama (AO3)
Title: To Catch a Thief
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Enjolras has the best luck in the world; until he doesn’t. Now he has to find the mystery man he kissed on New Year’s Eve in order to switch their lucks back.
A Just My Luck AU
Warnings (if any): No warnings apply
Total Word Count/Length: ~10,700w
Original prompt number: #17
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): None
Beta: CaptainSlippery on AO3, Rachel

( Read on AO3 )

( Read on LJ )

[FIC] To Catch a Thief - Part I (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 08:28:21 GMT

"It takes a thief to catch a thief” - Proverb

Enjolras had many nicknames over the years. Rabbit’s Foot, Angry Clover, Blondie. Thief was the most recent, but no less infuriating.

"You steal all our luck, Enjolras. Here you walk among us luckless mortals, oh hail, oh hail--," Enjolras cut Courfeyrac off with a good-natured shove. Enjolras wasn't lucky; he didn't believe in luck, really. He believed in opportune things happening at opportune times.

"Also known as luck." Courfeyrac enjoys reminding him every time the topic crops up.

"It's not luck!" Enjolras keeps up his act of indignity, but secretly agrees. His life isn't exactly one of opulence, but there's no denying he's well off. He had a comfortable position in a law firm, and lately his boss had been hinting at a promotion. The rent on his apartment had only gone up marginally since the beginning of his tenancy two years ago and he hasn't had to go without food or heating since college. Most of all, though, it was the little things that kept nagging at his mind. Good weather, lucky pennies, taxis practically the moment he whistled. (For the last one in particular his friends liked dragging him out for Friday and Saturday nights; Enjolras had well and truly begun to resent being used as a cab magnet by the end of college.)

Courfeyrac and Combeferre were over. Combeferre was trying to convince him to come out with them tonight. It was New Year’s Eve and it had been, in Courfeyrac's mind, months since they'd last gone out together.

Courfeyrac obviously trusted Combeferre with that step completely, as he was laying out clothes on Enjolras's bed. Combeferre was dutifully blocking Enjolras's view of the room, but the moment he spied the garish red skinny jeans that hadn't seen light in god knows how long he had to intervene.

"What's wrong with what I'm wearing now? I can dress myself, Courf. And you, on occasion. Do remember when--."

"We agreed never to speak of that weekend again, remember? Yes. The first thing you find on your floor doesn't count as dressed, you know. Definitely not dressed for a club on New Year’s. And most certainly not dressed for a costume party." Courfeyrac paused long enough to shove an armful of clothes at him, “Now get dressed, snappy snappy!"

***

"C'mon R, it's just one night. You go out every other night, what's wrong with a little New Years spirit?"

"Go away 'Ponine, let me wallow in self pity for tonight. The reason I got out every other night is to avoid this night specifically. Too many people, not enough booze."

Grantaire rolled over to look at Eponine, who was standing with her hands on her hips, lips formed in a pout.

"Don't you dare pull out puppy eyes."

"But R, my girlfriend’s coming out with us tonight. I thought you wanted to meet her. You don't want to disappoint her, right?"

Grantaire groaned, hands going up to scrub his face. Instead he tipped right off the bed, letting out a surprised yelp as he hit the floor. Eponine didn't try to hide her snicker.

"Fine. I'll come out with you, but only to meet your girlfriend. And then you're going to let me get shitfaced and you're not going to make angry tutting noises when I spill my drink on someone attractive because all coordination went out the door 5 shots ago. Good?"

"Good. Now go shower, you smell like a fucking ashtray."

***

"Enjolras, you understand the point of going out is to, you know, have fun, right?"

Enjolras hadn’t indulged him an answer. He was on his second rum and coke for the evening and already feeling tipsy. Part of the reason he had stopped coming out so often, he'd like to remind Courfeyrac; even after college he never stopped being such a lightweight.

"Enjolras. My dear Enjy. It's nearly midnight and you don't have a pretty boy to dance with and kiss upon the stroke of the New Year. This is a tragedy."

"It really isn't. Really. I'm quite fine--" He didn't manage to finish his sentence as someone tripped, nearly colliding with him, instead hitting their face with a thud on the empty stool next to him. A glass shattered on the floor and the person -- black hair, black t-shirt, black jeans -- groans in pain, standing up to face Enjolras. The t-shirt he was wearing had large white "Z" on it, and a Zorro mask covered his eyes.

"Oh, fuck, I'm so sorry. At least I didn’t spill my drink on you, right? With my luck I’ve learnt not to expect anything different.”

Zorro made eye contact and Courfeyrac seized his chance.

“You can make it up to him by taking him for a dance.”

“I couldn’t—“

“Of course you could!” Courfeyrac shoved Enjolras at Zorro, and he managed to gracefully avoid contact with his chest. Zorro wasn’t so lucky, stumbling backwards in surprise, only remaining upright as Enjolras grabbed him by the front of his shirt and hauled him back up.

“So, now that my friend has forced us together, perhaps you’d be so kind as to give me a dance.” His eyes were rather pretty, through the mask.

The stranger nodded mutely and Enjolras took it as consent, dragging him to the fringe of the dance floor and tentatively resting his hands on the stranger’s hips. What he intended to be nothing more than a quick sway for a song or two morphed into bodies close to bodies, hot and heavy as the beat of the club kept upping in anticipation of the New Year’s Countdown.

He moved a hand to the strangers face at TEN, cupping tentatively. His mouth tilted to the side by SEVEN and their mouths were a breadth apart by TWO. ONE! Was lost in the cheers and shouts of drunken “Happy New Year’s” as it was lost in their lips as they meet, slip sliding against one another in urgency.

This was when the buzzing in Zorro’s jeans started, an insistent call and Enjolras was unhappy to pull back.

Zorro groaned and pulled the phone out of his jeans, eyes widening as he read the caller ID.

“I’m so sorry I need to take this, just—,” He pulled a sharpie – a sharpie– out of his back pocket and pulled Enjolras’s arm into his grasp, awkwardly writing ten digits across the back of his hand. “Call me. Maybe. If you want. Or wait here, this might not take too long. Um.” Zorro blushed, before his phone went off again and with one last apologetic smile he disappeared through the crowd, in search of somewhere quieter.

Enjolras waited patiently, moving to the edge of the dance floor, when suddenly he’s assaulted with cold and wet and--

“Watch where you’re going, pretty boy, you made me spill my drink.” And then the person was gone, back to the bar presumably for a refill, while Enjolras was covered in--

“Daiquiri. She spilt daiquiri all over. God, do people have no taste anymore?” Courfeyrac appeared out of nowhere just in time to witness the accident.

“I’m just going to…” Enjolras trailed off, considering that the man Courfeyrac had been dancing with had come back and he was no longer paying attention. Enjolras didn’t mind; he’d just go to the bathroom, mop himself up as best he could and then come back and wait for Zorro Stranger. Nothing could go wrong.

Only when he looked down at his arm after exiting the bathroom, 7 numbers had smudged away, leaving only a “636” on the end. Enjolras cursed himself for being so stupid; now Zorro was gone, he’d never find him again amongst the lights and sounds of the club, and he wouldn’t be able to call.

It was the first time he’d found himself so taken by a stranger, only to screw it up completely. Courfeyrac was going to laugh at him and it was going to be unpleasant. He would become a story he shared with friends, so there was this one time he fell in love with a total stranger and completely lost him! How ridiculous…

But no, Courfeyrac wouldn’t do that. He was his friend, friends don’t do that to friends. Either way, he was still covered in alcohol despite his best efforts in the bathroom, and he hadn’t even wanted to come out in the first place. After seeking out Combeferre and giving him a quick goodbye, he headed out for a short trip home, making sure to pull the mask off his face before braving the wind.

***

Grantaire practically flew up the stairs to his apartment, tearing off as much of the “costume” Eponine forced him into as he can as he goes. He's not surprised to find Joly, Bossuet and Gavroche on his couch playing Mario Kart rather badly. Gavroche is first by miles, Bossuet struggling to hold second. Joly is driving backwards.

"Has Jehan called you guys yet?" Bossuet grunted as he took a red shell before replying.

"No, why? Is it the reason you're here? I thought Ep was-- NO!"

Gavroche had given up the lead to Bossuet, only to let him be nuked with a blue shell. Gavroche laughed gleefully as he sped past.

"In that case, I have incredible news," Grantaire said. "We got the deal of a century. Jean Valjean Records has just signed The Siberian Sleigh Rides. Guys we have a fucking album deal."

Joly and Bossuet didn't even blink. "With luck like yours? Nice prank, but you're a few months early."

"I'm serious guys. Jehan'll ring any second--"

Joly's ringtone interrupted Grantaire before he could finish, Jehan's picture flashing on screen. Grantaire grinned, his first genuine one in a long while.

***

Enjolras was soaked to the bone, shirt sticking to his skin. It had started raining on his walk home, before continuing with a mixture of sleet, hail and snow. There had been no taxi’s when he’d gone to hail one, which was understandable granted the time.

A hailstone the size of a king marble had hit him on the head before he'd taken up shelter, so he was left with a throbbing headache and lump on his skull. All he wanted to do now was get home, have a nice, hot shower and maybe indulge in a mug of the Belgian hot chocolate Combeferre had gotten him for Christmas. Yes, that's what he'd do.

Except then someone (the rain) threw a most unhelpful spanner in the works.

"Hey! What are you doing in my apartment?"

"You're the owner? Eenjol-- something?"

Enjolras bristled at the mispronunciation, but didn't take the bait. "That's me. Why are people in my apartment?"

He'd fallen asleep on the side of the road and was stuck in a nightmare, a nightmare that's all too realistic as someone in a fluro yellow vest handed him a cardboard box.

"Sorry to tell you kid, but your apartments been flooded. There's been floods springing up everywhere with this weather at the moment. You'd best hold tight and find somewhere else to stay until this rain eases up."

Enjolras wanted to cry, to scream, to curl up into a ball and have Combeferre rub his back until his window of the world didn't feel quite so bleak.

Considering the latter was the only reasonable option, that's exactly what he did.

***

Courfeyrac had party poppers. Enjolras was confused as to why he was allowed to have party poppers, why Combeferre had let him anywhere near party poppers after last year’s incident with the goat and the jet-ski. Not a good New Year’s Eve.

All Enjolras wanted to do really was collapse on their couch and sleep. Courfeyrac was insufferable. He was loud and terrible and Enjolras didn’t understand why he was friends with him.

Combeferre was kinder, but only marginally.

“I dragged him away before three am to let you in, you can deal with the consequences. You learn to live with it after long enough. Come on, get some rest, we both have work on Tuesday and it’ll do you no good to be exhausted.”

Enjolras groaned and rolled over to press his face deep into the makeshift bed, preparing for a sleepless night. Or several.

***

In a borrowed shirt from Combeferre and pants from Courfeyrac, Enjolras headed to work, a sinking feeling sitting heavily in his stomach. Today wouldn’t be a good day, he just felt it.

He arrived at work. Eventually. It only took 2 buses, a bought of underground public transit and a fare evasion fine. The officer hadn’t listened to his reasoning, not his protests or declarations of his lawyerdom. Enjolras was feeling most uninspired.

His boss was not impressed.

“What do you call this? An hour late, no notice, looking like something the cat dragged in. We have a meeting with some very important potential clients later, and I can’t have my supposed star lawyer looking like he doesn’t care for his job. Go change.” She barked. “Now!”

The rest of the morning wasn’t much better. Printer jams, an intern spilling coffee on his new shirt, his clean shirt, his only spare shirt, leading to tears and a borrowed shirt that was too small in the arm and shoulder but ridiculously oversized in the middle. Files were lost, and found, and lost again, a witness had been taken ill and was now unable to make a court date, and to top it all off the bank had noticed suspicious activity in his account and frozen his funds for the foreseeable future.

He barely managed to hold himself together at lunch. The temptation to bolt and go to the bathroom and weep at how unfair the last two days had been was strong, but he doesn’t.

Instead he bothered Combeferre.

“Go away Enjolras. I’m trying to work and my computer keeps glitching with you nearby. Pouting like a petulant child achieves nothing. You should know better; you’ve been friends with Courfeyrac for long enough.”

“I’m not pouting. I’m just…distressed.”

The phone on Combeferre’s desk buzzed and he answered it. “You’re also late for a very important meeting according to—“

“Shit.”

He practically ran to the conference room, still trying to maintain the last shards of his dignity, stopping only briefly to grab his laptop.

It would be unfair to say he slams face first into the glass door, but he does, and everyone in the room laughed, save his boss, who looked like she was about to blow a gasket.

“Mr. Enjolras, how nice of you to finally join us. If you could start the presentation now.” Her tone was clipped, deadly and Enjolras wanted to sink through the floor and stop existing a bit.

For the first time in two days things went okay. A projector worked, the presentation loaded, the client’s laughed where they should have and paid attention where they were meant to.

About halfway through the presentation, music started coming from his laptop. Not a good sign, considering this was meant to contain no audio whatsoever. When the notification popped up Enjolras decided that Courfeyrac was never going near his laptop again. Ever.

On the screen was a window that said “Love Timer” in huge, sparkly pink letters, accompanied by obligatory bad porn music and two silhouetted figures seemingly gyrating against each other.

His boss looked like she was ready to kill him on the spot which, well, would be a shame, considering Enjolras was still quite attached to life. Well, mostly. The absolute mortification he felt in that moment made dying seem like an option.

“Oh shit--,” he winced as the curse slipped out unbidden, “I’m very sorry for this--ah.”

The thing finally shut off, leaving them with a silence that hung over the room uncomfortably. It felt brittle, as if the slightest change would shatter the atmosphere created, from the clients cloudy faces to his boss’s pure rage.

His boss was the first to break it. “Well Mr. Lunde, I’m dreadfully sorry for that...issue. Why don’t I see you out and we can discuss your options. Enjolras, I’d like to see you in my office.”

Enjolras swallowed heavily.

He waited in her office, sitting quietly and trying not to touch anything. When she finally came in he felt his heart jump in his throat. He knew he’d fucked up, would probably be fired. Of course he’d be fired, what with the way this day had gone. Fuck, fucking shit.

“Enjolras, I’ve come to a decision. Considering your previously exemplary history with the firm, I’m putting you on unpaid leave for an indefinite amount of time; three weeks or so should suffice. Your cases will be distributed among colleagues. I’ll have someone contact you with further details at the end of the three weeks. Have a nice break, Mr. Enjolras.”

He couldn’t do anything but nod mutely, barely managing to voice his acknowledgment of what had just passed.

Combeferre called out as he gathered up his essentials from his desk. He wasn’t sad, wasn’t angry, just indifferent. Numb. The emotions would come later, he decided, but for now this was the best he could do.

“Enjolras, what happened?” Combeferre said after jogging over.

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. Everything’s been going wrong and I can’t stop it. First my apartment -- plausible. The traffic to work and credit cards -- also plausible, but a shitty coincidence. But this?” Enjolras gestured madly and managed to knock over his desk lamb in the process, shattering the bulb. “It’s ridiculous. I’m going home. I might call Cosette later, as long as you’re not too averse to the possibility of me setting your handset on fire, knowing my luck.”

He sighed and headed home, opening an umbrella in a weak attempt to combat the rain.

It was pissing down. Enjolras's umbrella was doing more harm than good, flipping inside out every four steps and forcing him to try to right the damaged wires. Several cars drove past in succession as he did so, the puddle gathered in the gutter rising like a wave over him leaving him drenched to the skin. He must have looked something akin to a waterlogged rat when a car pulled over beside him, driver leaning over to open the door.

"There are sayings about rides with strangers, but it's this or the walk back to wherever you live. Come on, I have a working heater.”

The man was young, about his age, and looked genuinely earnest enough that Enjolras trusted his gut and the waterlogged phone in his pocket that this is safe. He got in.

"What's your name, stranger? Also, where are you headed?"

"I could say the same of you. Enjolras, just three blocks up and turn left."

"Call me Grantaire. Good spot, it’s right on my way to work. So what’s a smart, business looking type like you doing in the rain on the pavement?"

Enjolras thought for a moment. “Call it a bad day.”

“Well, it’s certainly my lucky day. Indulge me, Enjolras, what do you do for a living? What are your life values, philosophies, intricacies? Favourite genre of music? Oh, we’re here.”

Grantaire cut himself off mid rant and Enjolras found he wanted him to finish the slew of questions, and to shoot them right back at Grantaire in return. There was a quality to the man that was mesmerising, even if it was just being amplified by the fact he’d been kind enough to pick up a stranger and drive them home.

“Which one’s yours? Or I can drop you here, but it’s still pretty wet out there.”

“The one just ahead, with the yellow fence. Thanks for the lift, Grantaire.”

“My pleasure, Enjolras. But, look, riddle me this Batman, just one question. Think of it as payment for my, oh so selfless lift. Is there any such thing as a truly selfless good deed?”

Enjolras frowned. “Of course there is. You just did one, didn’t you, picking up someone in the rain and driving them home. I fail to see what benefit you gain from this?”

“Oh, I gain the pleasure of your face and your company. What I’m saying here, is that there’s no such thing as a truly selfless good deed. Think on it, and maybe if we meet again you can tell me your answer again, this time with more thought.”

Enjolras frowned harder, his vehement disagreement with the man across from him spelled out across his face.

“I’ll think on it, then. I think you’re wrong, but everyone is entitled to their own opinion. Unless it’s outright offensive or hateful.”

“Spoken like a true idealist! Bye bye Enjolras, it was wonderful meeting you.”

Enjolras shivered in the cold as the car pulled away.

“Yeah, you too,” he mumbled at the retreating rear lights.

***

“Leo, hey, wait up--” Grantaire ran to catch up with his boss, only wheezing a little when he got there. “Here’s my notice. My band got signed, so…”

Leo gave him a grin. “I’m happy for you, kid. Don’t worry about your notice, we had someone come in today looking for a job. I’ll just give ‘em a ring.” He clapped Grantaire on the back and Grantaire grinned at him. He’d had the job cleaning and bussing tables for nearly two years now, and in that time had broken more plates, and cups, blown more light bulbs and flooded more toilets than he cared to admit. It was almost sad, actually, to be leaving his longest stint ever. But he was about to record an album. That fact outweighed any strong sentimentality to the place.

“It was good to see you Leo. Say goodbye to Michelle for me, yeah?”

“No problem Grantaire.”

He walked out with a spring in his step, swiftly snatching up the $10 note he spied lying on the ground. Everything was going right for once.

***

It was sheer desperation that made him pick up the landline. Because, in one instance, his mobile was non-functional and he had no money for a repair job (he may have dropped it in frustration at some point in the recent past. And thrown it at a wall. No matter). And, in another instance, he's half terrified he'd break the thing before he dialled the number.

Seemingly nothing went wrong as he input Cosette's number. It connected in just a few rings, her answer understandably confused by the caller ID.

"Hello, who is this?"

"It's...it's Enjolras. I just...everythings gone so wrong and I don't know what to do. I'm calling from Courfeyrac's home phone because mine is in pieces, my accounts have been frozen because of suspicious activity, kicked out of my apartment due to flooding, suspended from work, I can't do this, Cosette, I can't."

"Woah, Enjolras, slow down. You mean you’ve lost your lucky rabbits foot?” Cosette had always been nicer than all his friends. And with lack of other explanation Enjolras just answered, “Yes.”

There was a voice in the background, a woman’s, and Cosette shushed her before continuing. “Sorry, Eponine was just...hang on a sec.”

The mouthpiece rustled as she covered it with her hand, discussing something with Eponine --as in girlfriend Eponine? -- in excited tones.

“Okay, I know you don’t exactly believe in this kind of thing, but my girlfriend--,” yes, girlfriend Eponine, “is a fortune teller. She’s really good, too, swear on my life. Why don’t you come by tomorrow considering you don’t have work? Even if nothings achieved, I want you two to meet, finally.”

Enjolras sighed. His options were limited, and so far he could either mope at Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s place or join Cosette. He chose the latter. “What’s the address? I’ll try to be there around 10.”{C}{C}

***

What Eponine walked in on as she returned from Cosette’s could probably be considered a bad scene. Not in that sense, but, really, the position he was in wasn’t pretty. Gav had Grantaire’s head over the sink, tap digging into his cheek as he washed the bleach out, effectively turning a stripe down the middle of his hair blonde.

“Please tell me you’re not going blonde. Or leaving it like that. Or that you’ve put Gav in charge of dying your hair.”

"Jeez 'Ponine, relax. He knows what he's doing."

"Like hell he does. Do you need a spread to tell what a terrible idea this is, or are you just going through with it anyway?"

Gavroche pulled out a tube of dark green wash-out dye and Grantaire grinned.

"It’s for the punk rock, ‘Ponine, the punk rock!"

Eponine just sighed and went to the living room, trying her hardest to ignore the grunts and random shrieks. The laughter that followed meant Gavroche had probably left the water on cold as satans asshole and doused him. Confirmed when moments later Grantaire came out of the bathroom, shivering and dripping on the carpet.

“Your little brother is a menace.”

“I know. Where do you think he gets it from?” Grantaire smiles at that.

“You wouldn’t happen to have a hair dryer by any chance? I’m deciding I’ll never be letting the little gremlin, ” he raised his voice and Gavroche snickered from the bathroom, “near my hair again.”

“Second drawer under the sink. And Gavroche, come out and finish your homework.”

“But I haven’t--”

“Don’t lie, it’s spread out on the living room floor.”

“Fi-i-i-ine.”

***

Enjolras met Cosette at the front out the front of the building. The building was what appeared to be a mixture of tourist trap souvenir store and an attempt to draw in anyone with a casual interest in the supernatural. Posters depicting fortune tellers were plastered over the front, next to flaking window paint claiming it was "so hot you’d drop".

Enjolras nearly blanched then and there, but then Cosette was greeting him, hand in hand with a dark haired girl who looked like she wanted to be doing anything rather than reading someone’s fortune.

Enjolras couldn't really blame her.

"I spend so much time trying to meet your girlfriend, and you just get her to tell my fortune? God Cosette, I would’ve done this months ago."

She grinned. "This is a happy accident, actually, neither of you are ever free at the same time. Eponine, this is my cousin, Enjolras. Don't mind him, really. Enjolras, this is my girlfriend Eponine." They shook hands, Eponine still looking incredibly bored.

"Is your luck still supposedly missing?" Cosette asked.

"On the way here I missed 3 buses, the novel I was reading got shat on by a bird and I fell face first when the metro stopped suddenly. Which, do you have any painkillers, because my nose is still achingand I've had a headache since I got practically fired yesterday. Hope that answers your question." Cosette smiled sympathetically and dug around in her bag for a panadol. Eponine snorted.

"Poor little rich boy problems. Come inside, I'll do your reading for a 20."

"But--"

"Pay up, blondie. You’ll want to hear what I know, trust me." Enjolras looked at Cosette for support but she just shrugged and handed over two pills. With great reluctance and a longing gaze, Enjolras parted with his last $20 note and Eponine hurried him through the store to the back.

"Sit your ass down and start shuffling the deck in front of you. I need to go get my seer ball."

"You mean a crystal ball?"

"Just shut up and shuffle those cards, thief."

Enjolras bristled at the nickname. He wasn't a thief; if anything he'd been robbed, luck (and really, there was no way he could deny it now it was gone) stolen and himself left in the dust. Once he got tired of shuffling he set them down waiting for Eponine to return.

His fingers drummed out an anxious beat on his leg, moving over his knee and back up again.

And then he triggered his Knee-Jerk reflex. He could only watch as his leg kicked up and knocked the small table over, Sending the cards, cloth and glitter that had accumulated flying. Eponine came back in as he was coughing from the dust disrupted and she didn’t even try to stifle her laugh. Enjolras returned the favour by not hiding his scowl.

"Upright the table, thief, I'll tell you what you want to know."

Again, Enjolras wondered what he was doing there. He'd never been superstitious, that had been left to Courfeyrac. But now...this wasn't normal. Couldn't be. The entire situation was so monumentally absurd. Yet here he was, picking up tarot cards off of a fortune teller’s floor.

Eponine waited until he was seated to put the clear ball on the table on its stand, looking into it as if it held the mysteries of the universe.

"Which it does." She answered the question he hadn’t asked and he gave her a look of surprise. “Don’t ask, thief, you won’t like the answer I give you. But I can tell you what you’ve been dying to know since New Year’s.”

"Why do you insist on calling me that?"

"Because that’s what you are. It rolls off you in waves. And trust me, I know a criminal when I see one. Only...oh. You done any kissing lately? It seems someone stole your luck and that’s how they did it. Hand me the tarot, I’ll have a better look. But at this point, you want your options?"

Enjolras nodded enthusiastically. "You smooch the person, lucks change back and voila. Get your lipstick on blondie, it’s time to pucker up."

“But…how?”

Eponine spread the deck in what she explained was a Celtic Cross and read the cards, gasping as she overturned the final one. She looked up at Enjolras sharply. “You’ve been dealing with ‘Parnasse? You moron.” To reiterate she whacked him on the side of his head. “You don’t go dealing with Montparnasse. He’s into old magick. From the looks of things he cursed you, so whatever you’re doing in the next month or so would fail miserably. Does that make sense?”

It made perfect sense, considering Montparnasse of the Patron-Minette was on trial for murder and Enjolras was the defence lawyer. This was bad. This was very, very bad. This was disastrous.

He paused for a moment to asses the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. “So he cast a fucking spell like something out of of a goddamn novel? He twirls a little wand and suddenly I’m stuck with whatever happens all because he muttered a few words?”

“It’s not that simple, blondie. But in essence, yes. What, you going to protest the presence of magic after I read your mind? Don’t say it,” she said, cutting off the half formed sentence nearly out of his mouth. “Just deal with it. Okay?”

Enjolras sighed in resignation. There was nothing else to do, really. “And you’re sure that my lucks only been switched or moved? It’s not gone forever?” What a fate that would be to behold.

"To cast my mind back to a high school physics class, luck is never created or destroyed, only transferred."

"That’s energy."

"Sure thing sugarplum, not all of us went to a fancy ass high school like you. It’s the same principle, is the point. Now you know what you wanted to know, so shoo shoo. Before you break something else."

Enjolras left in a hurry after that. Cosette walked in and wrapped an arm around her girlfriends neck, peeking at the spread still on the table.

“You didn’t tell him everything, you bad girl. Lovers in position nine, six of pentacles in position ten. He has no idea what those card mean, you know.”

Eponine stretched up to peck her on the lips. “There are some things he needs to figure out for himself. He’ll be fine, don’t worry.”

***

Courfeyrac was pottering around when he got back.

"Don't you have a job?"

"Yes, with Tuesdays off. What happened to give you the mopey look?"

"My cousin’s girlfriend is a fortune teller. I discovered some things..." He explained what Eponine had told him, Courfeyrac nodding and commenting in all the right places. When he finished he stood up, holding out his phone with a flourish.

"You're in luck, my friend. I happen to be former roommates of the owner of the club we went to. Remember Marius?” Courfeyrac didn’t pause long enough for Enjolras to answer. “He, hopefully, has access to the guest list and from there social media abound, we will find your mystery man."

"Courf..." Enjolras began warningly but Courfeyrac cut him off with the wave of a hand.

"Hush my darling Enjy, watch as Papa Courfeyrac takes care of all your troubles. Shh."

“Don’t ever call yourself Papa Courfeyrac in my earshot again. Please.”

Enjolras and Courfeyrac each ended up with an ear each pressed close to the phone, breathing heavily. The dial tone drawled on and Enjolras could almost feel his future slipping away with every ring. Any good luck he'd ever had, poof, gone forever. His hopes, his dreams, down the drain along his boss’s respect.

At least, though, Courfeyrac had stopped ribbing him about not believing in luck. Thank god for small mercies.

"Enjolras, don't get too close; you might be contagious with the anti-luck you don't believe in."

Or not.

Enjolras waited, barely managing to keep himself from cheering as someone picked up the phone.

"Hello, uh, yes, just a minute!"

"Take your time, Marius."

"Courf?"

"Very possibly. Listen, I hate to rush this and as much as I love to chit chat my friend is very much at risk of breaking my phone right now. Can I ask a favour?"

Enjolras nearly pitied the man for how enthusiastically he replied. "Sure! I still owe you for letting me stay with you."

"Consider this debt paid; not that there was ever any in the first place, but either way. Can I get the patron list from your club on New Year’s Eve?"

"Yes, yes, yes, done and done. I'll get Freya to send you an email now. Freya's my assistant by the way. Um." Marius paused, breathing down the phone and Enjolras finally overbalanced, slipping and knocking his foot on a nearby chair. Courfeyrac just shushed him, still on the phone. "Courf, why exactly do you need a patron list? The clubs not in trouble with the police is it?"

"No, no, a friend's just....gotten himself into a spot of bad luck." He probably deserved the death glare Enjolras sent him. "Long story short, if he kisses a guy, everything will go back to normal. There's a curse and people and-- like I said, long story."

"O...kay. I'll get Freya to send that email, yes, call again soon! It's great hearing from you."

"You too Marius, you too."

If Marius had been at all disturbed by the phone call he certainly didn't show it, as Courfeyrac received an email with a long lists of names within minutes. Granted, it was with a small personal note asking him not to use it too inappropriately, but that was only to be expected. Marius had lived with Courfeyrac, after all.

Courfeyrac opened facebook, cracking his knuckles and settling back in his seat. Enjolras was almost surprised he didn't bring out a pair of sunglasses.

“So we need to find a mystery man with black hair? Is that’s what we’re going on?”

“He didn’t just have black hair...he was quite stocky? Shorter than me, had these gorgeous eyes…”

“Alright lover-boy, he’s dreamy and perfect. I’m going to start looking up the names on facebook and other various social media websites and you can tell me whether or not it might be him. We’ll cross off anyone who it couldn’t be and from there, well, I’ll tell you later. Comprende?”

Enjolras nodded.

“Well sit your butt down, sunshine, we got some googling to do.”

Part II

[FIC] To Catch a Thief - Part II (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 08:21:04 GMT

****

"Hey, hey Enj-- watch out!" Enjolras felt a hand on his collar, jerking him violently backwards. He fell against a warm chest, the owner of which had presumably fallen against the gutter.

"What the--" Enjolras was cut off by the long sound of a bus horn as it drove over the spot he'd been standing a moment ago. There was something familiar about the nervous chuckle his saviour let out and Enjolras twisted only to find himself nearly nose to nose with--

"Grantaire!"

"Lucky I spotted you in time. Jesus, Enjolras, don't scare me like that again."

Enjolras was struck (almost literally) speechless and stuttered through thank you’s as he got up. Only he used far too much force, pushing off Grantaire's chest and stumbling back into oncoming traffic.

It was only Grantaire following him up and a quick hand on his shirt pulling him close to Grantaire's chest that saved him from the second bus that roared past.

Their faces were inches apart and Enjolras took a deep breath, before Grantaire stepped back.

Which is when he registered a distinct difference.

“What on earth did you do to your hair?”

“Nice to see you too, thanks for saving me from being hit by a bus. And I dyed it, what do you think I did?” The centre of Grantaire’s hair was spiked up in an imitation of a mohawk, a green stripe amongst black. It looked good on him, but not that Enjolras would ever say anything.

“I didn’t realise. Look, I’d love to stay and chat--”

“No you wouldn’t,” Grantaire said, and Enjolras could’t begrudge him that.

“Okay, maybe I wouldn’t but thank you for saving me from your face. I mean the bus. Fuck.”

Grantaire laughed. “Thank Freud for that. Off you go then, away from me and my face. And use the crossing!” Grantaire called at him as he nearly stepped into oncoming traffic for the third time in as many minutes.

***

A wedding, a funeral, two birthday parties and a rock concert. A list of events Enjolras had been forced (by Courfeyrac, by Combeferre, by a desperate and near-tears Cosette at one point) to interrupt and most likely ruin in the name of his stupid “Thief Hunt”, as coined by Courfeyrac.

Enjolras was going to kill Courfeyrac. No, he was actually going to do it, slowly, painfully, whilst throwing used scratchies over his lifeless body. (The scratchies were the test, to test your luck levels he’d said.)

He’d kissed more men in the past five days than he could remember kissing in his entire life. All with black hair, but usually even before their lips met and the scratchie gave him a loss yet again he could tell it wasn’t the Zorro.

The eyes were never right.

Here he was; a helpless, luckless, hapless and penniless fool, kicking gravel down a deserted footpath.

Not to mention he was hungry enough to eat a metaphorical horse.

There was a cafe on his left. He may as well go in. Plenty of seats, smelt like an average coffee shop, surely nothing could go wrong?

(Things could go wrong.)

To start with, he walked into a street post as he passed the store. He could’ve sworn he’d never been so clumsy in his life. Now, humiliated and slightly sore in the nose (still tender from his incident on the metro), he walked in and got all of five steps when he remembered he had no money left, whatsoever.

Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been selflessly providing the scratchies, so far.

He was about to walk out and try not to cry, maybe find a payphone and a few coins and call Combeferre to pick him up because this just wasn’t working when a semi-familiar voice called him over.

“Enjolras? Enjolras, over here!” He looked helplessly over to the source of the voice, spotting Grantaire at a table a few feet away.

Enjolras shouldn’t sit, didn’t want to, was not allowed to like the man across the room for him because he was too busy kissing other men for luck; but luck be damned. So he walked over, intoxicated by the curve of his lip and the way he quirked his eyebrow at him.

“Fancy seeing you again? Twice in a week? Count my lucky stars.”

“Lucky? Hardly.”

“Come now Enjolras, I’ll shout you a drink. Sit down, I’ve been craving a scintillating conversation. I never got your revised thoughts on the selflessness question.”

“I don’t understand why you there’s anything interesting to be found here,” Enjolras mumbled, but sat down all the same. A drink was a drink, after all. "Also, my friend informed me that that's actually an episode of Friends."

Despite his words they spoke easily, jumping from topic to topic while going through cups of coffee. Whenever sparks began to fly Grantaire would gently (or abruptly, he seemed to have no preference) steer to a more neutral topic and Enjolras was so happy to have a sane, sensible conversation where luck didn’t get mentioned once that he didn't call him out on it.

Before it felt like any time at all, it was verging on three hours they'd been there. The sky outside had darkened, streetlights casting their sodium yellow glow over rain-slicked streets.

"Come to my place," Grantaire said suddenly after a lull in conversation. Enjolras pointedly didn't choke on his coffee. Or sputter. "Not like that, I mean, I have a washing machine and various other household appliances. Maybe you could wash your clothes, considering they’re still damp and they look kind of…dirty. No offense! I'll make dinner or something. Only if you want to, of course."

Was Grantaire blushing? Grantaire was definitely blushing. That settled it.

"I'd love to. I mean, you have heating, right?"

"Yes, very proudly so. Just let me pay, I'll meet you out the front."

Grantaire's apartment wasn't big or impressive or terribly neat, but it was nice and bizarrely homey and that was all that mattered. Grantaire pointed him down a hall, “second door to the right, I'm going to assume you know how to use a washing machine. Grab spare clothes from the white basket, don't touch anything in the blue basket, it’s practically biohazard waste. I'll start on dinner, is curry okay?”

“That would be great, I think.”

Enjolras shut the door behind him quietly and stripped out of his sodden clothes. He grabbed a fresh t-shirt and jeans from the basket, which were comfortable despite the fact they were a little on the big side. He opted to keep his (mostly dry) briefs on, having heard enough of Courfeyrac’s detailed descriptions of commando-gone-wrong to keep him from ever trying it, especially with the week he’d be having.

Grantaire came in to check on him as the washing machine began to make noises like a dying cat.

“Is that normal?”

“Yeah, the washer is pretty old. Hopefully I’ll be able to upgrade soon, though, so maybe you can come around again and try it out. Or not...um, I just came in here to let you know that dinner is almost ready, and Gav should be home soon. Right, you don’t know Gav. Well, look, I can introduce you two when he gets home. But yeah, so if you would rather wait somewhere that isn’t a laundry, the kitchen is warm and smells nice.”

Gav? Who was Gav? Grantaire had never mentioned a Gav before. What if Gav was his boyfriend? It'd be just Enjolras's luck, the first actual person not hidden behind a mask that he wanted to like, wanted to be with, and they're taken.

He should have left then, to save himself the humiliation. Why would Grantaire be interested in him, really? He was just being nice. Enjolras swallowed down a sense of helplessness and ignored the nausea in his stomach as he walked to the kitchen, following his sense of smell more than anything else. It smelt very, very good.

Waiting at the table was a child who couldn’t have been much older than 13 and a man with a phone glued to his ear. The child was talking animatedly with Grantaire about what sounded like a video game, while the man seemed to be discussing money with someone on the other end of the line. None of them noticed Enjolras as he sat down, until Grantaire turned and started.

“Enjolras! Not lurking in the laundry anymore, I see. Introductions, right, to your left on the phone is Jehan, the best manager-slash-PR guy-slash-crisis counsellor on the planet. To your right is the one, the only, Gavroche. His sister lives in the apartment next door and we all kind of babysit sometimes. All, being me and the rest of The Siberian Sleigh Rides. Which I’m in, as in a band, and Jehan is our manager, so, anyway. Dinner’s almost ready, if someone wanted to grab plates. That’s you Gav, someone is you.”

Dinner was as incredible as it smelt. Enjolras had to restrain himself from moaning after the first bite. Grantaire looked at him appreciatively when he complimented the meal. The conversation flowed easily, bouncing between the four of them with what almost felt like practiced grace.

Soon after the meal was finished Gavroche headed back next door, throwing Enjolras a crooked smile and his wallet.

“Keep it close, blondie, you might lose it one day.”

“Right, ‘lose’ it.”

Jehan gave him just as gracious a goodbye, shaking his hand enthusiastically as he walked out the door.

When it was finally just Grantaire and Enjolras left in the apartment again, Enjolras became hyper-aware of every movement he made in reference to Grantaire.

“I should probably check on my clothes. Do you mind me using your dryer?”

“If it gets you to stay for another 20 minutes, then by all means.”

Enjolras blushed at that and Grantaire grinned. He then used the situation to his advantage. “So, uh, I have rehearsal in a few days with my band and I was wondering if you’d maybe like to come along...as a not-date date. Maybe.”

“A not-date date?” Enjolras said, incredulous.

“A not-date date. I’d really love for you to see us play, and I’m sure Jehan would love to see you again…”

“Jehan. Right.”

“Right.”

“Give me a time and a place, I’ll see you then.” If Enjolras thought Grantaire was beaming before, he was positively radiant then.

***

Enjolras goes home feeling both giddy and full of dread. He’d either have to never see him again, or try to explain the entire god awful situation with the luck and the kissing and fucking Montparnasse. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were waiting up when he arrived, tired and worried.

“Enjolras, are you alright? We were worried you’d been hit by a bus or something equally as fatal.”

“I’m fine Courf, I’m fine. Mostly. Remember Grantaire, the guy who gave me a lift home the other day?” He didn’t go into explicit detail about anything, not wanting to let Courfeyrac see a bone run with it, but he did say enough for him to get a worrying glint in his eye.

“I just want things to be normal again. I want to go out with him and have fun and not have to be constantly thinking about whether I’m going to trip over my own feet and fall flat on my face. I want to stop kissing people who don’t want it, I don’t want it, especially when the scratchies never change,” Enjolras lamented, burying his face in his hands. “He’s invited me to see his band practice. As a date. He asked me out on a date and I said yes.”

Combeferre smiled and Courfeyrac whooped and Enjolras absolutely couldn’t understand his friends reaction to this. Couldn’t they tell it would be a disaster?

“It’s good you’re taking the chance, Enjolras,” Combeferre said. “Just give it a go. And don’t act like something bad must absolutely happen, you’ll jinx it.”

***

The Siberian Sleigh Rides are good. The Siberian Sleigh Rides are very good, and Enjolras finds himself smiling along with Jehan as they watch them practice from the control room.

Grantaire had introduced Enjolras to each of his bandmates briefly, putting a name to face an an instrument but not much else. Bahorel on drums, Joly on lead guitar, Bossuet on rhythm guitar and vocals.

Grantaire came out, flushed and smiling and hefting his bass guitar over his head. He gave it to one of his band mates, and Enjolras froze in surprise as he hugged him, torsos hot against each other.

“I’m so glad you could make it, I mean, we just finished rehearsing for our first show, our first concert under Jean Valjean Records, and we’re going to start recording soon, it’s just been such an incredible week.”

And Grantaire’s face is very close, very much in his space and all Enjolras can think about in that moment is how much he wants to lean down and kiss him, to have a semi-meaningful kiss with someone for the first time in days, someone who wanted to kiss him, someone who--

“Can I kiss you?” He asks quietly, and Enjolras didn’t notice everyone else in the room politely averting their eyes as Grantaire stretched up to press their lips together.

It was messy but chaste, noses bumping awkwardly as tentative fingers tangled in hair. Still, it was easily the best kiss of Enjolras’s life, like fireworks, mini explosions went off at every point of contact, lips faces hands chest.

Enjolras finally pulled back for air, dizzy with emotion and something fluttering in his stomach that he couldn't quite explain.

Which is when the power cut out.

***

Grantaire watched Enjolras’s figure disappear, silhouetted against the dusk of outside. He’d pressed a laminated pass into his hand before he went, with dumb hope that maybe he’d come see him before the gig tomorrow. He’d looked funny after they kissed, though that could easily have been the shadows of the room playing havoc on his features.

Grantaire turned to go back inside and catch up with Jehan, to sort final details for transport and things, when a door opened and he ran into it face first.

“Fuck,” he muttered, and gave the person who’d opened it a curt nod and tight smile to appease their confused features.

When he got back to the control room only Joly and Bossuet were still there, arguing companionably about the merits of lead versus rhythm guitar.

“Hey guys, have you seen--” he was cut off by a loud twanging, the heartbreaking sound of guitar strings snapping. Joly looked down at the fender still slung around his back and could nearly have cried.

Grantaire felt his face crumple inwards, desperately willing it not to be happening. This couldn’t be happening, couldn’t, not after he’d had such a great lucky break.

He was doomed, doomed to an eternity of bad luck. He fucking knew it.

***

A taxi pulls up outside the studio as Enjolras walks out. He’s surprised, to say the least, but won’t be looking a gift horse in the mouth any time soon. Combeferre had sighed and lent him some cash to get him through the day as he’d left, which Enjolras was more than thankful for now.

As he gets in his phone buzzed from his pocket, and he quickly listed off an address before answering.

“Hello?”

“Enjolras, look, I understand I suspended you, but we need you on the Montparnasse case. You’re the best lawyer we’ve got, and we won’t be able to win without your help. Come in on Monday and be sensible about it, and we’ll forget last week ever happened, yes?”

“I...sure thing, boss. I won’t let you down.”

“Good, I’ll be seeing you then.”

Enjolras tries not to let the praise go to his head. This turn of events was bizarre enough, and he couldn’t see it lasting.

Except for when he saw the $50 note lying on the ground of Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s deserted street. He rushed in, face bright and hopeful.

“Courfeyrac, do you any scratchies around?”

“There’s a pile on the table Enjolras, why--”

He shushed him, grabbing one off the top of the pile. His friends gathered to watch him with bated breath as he scratched off three matching numbers for the first time all week.

“Shit Enjolras, who did you kiss?”

“I…” He hadn’t thought about that, hadn’t thought about the implications of his luck coming back. Fuck. “Grantaire. I kissed Grantaire.”

There’s silence for a long moment, before Combeferre, always the voice of reason, speaks up. “You know what this means, don’t you?”

“I understand perfectly what it means, thanks, I’m not a complete idiot. Sorry for not being so forthcoming as I contemplate never kissing--” touching, holding, brushing fingertips over fingertips, “--Grantaire again.”

“No need to be snarky, I’m just trying to help. At least until the trial is over, you can’t. After that the state of your luck shouldn’t matter this way or that. That’s why Montparnasse has cursed you, yes?”

The more Enjolras thought about it, the more it could make sense. It wasn’t as if Grantaire desperately needed the luck, was it? He’d been doing okay until New Years Eve without it. He could manage a little while longer. This trial was important, his job, his life was important. He’d be fine. At least, that’s what Enjolras hoped.

***

Grantaire is not nervous or pacing or running his fingers anxiously along his friends skin. Of course not. He’s clutching his phone in his hands tightly, a number typed up but not dialed. It’s Enjolras’s, acquired from a helpful friend of his that had appeared at the door when he’d gone by earlier.

Bahorel is sitting on a couch, looking at him boredly. “Just do it, R. If Eponine was here she’d have kicked your ass by now.”

“Yeah? And why haven’t you?”

“Too lazy, man.”

Grantaire felt marginally better, so he pressed the little green call button and brought the phone up to his ear.

“Hello, is this--”

“Grantaire, it’s Grantaire. I was just wondering if, um, you were coming to the gig tonight? It’d be great to see you here, especially with how ba--” he cut himself off. “Nevermind. I was just wondering.”

“I...I’ll try my hardest to be there, I promise. Good luck for the show, whether I make it or not. Break a leg?”

“Yeah, break a leg…” Probably literally, with the way his luck had done a complete 180. “I’ll hopefully see you soon then?”

“Yeah, hopefully.”

Then there was dialtone and Grantaire felt a little bit sick. What he needed to do now was have a drink, relax, and lose himself in the music enough to block out everything else around him.

He could hear a crowd outside, an actual crowd, cheering for their band. He was punch-drunk (and a bit actually drunk) on the lights and the sounds, and from the expressions on the others faces, they were too. Or at least, nearly. Joly looked so nervous he might throw up, but Bahorel was definitely with him, grinning all the way.

Bossuet wasn’t there. Bossuet was missing and the moment Jehan realised this fact he looked ready to have an aneurysm.

“Where’s Bossuet? Who was the last person to see Bossuet? Can someone please let me know where our lead vocalist is, thanks, that would be great!” Grantaire had never known Jehan’s voice to get so shrill, even after years of being friends.

Jehan sent each of them off searching, with strict instructions to be back at least 5 minutes before they were due to be on stage. Grantaire tried to look, he really did, but he’d not even made it five steps before he tripped over a coiled lead and managed to put his hand through one of Bahorel’s spare tom drums he kept backstage in case of Grantaire related emergencies.

This had been an unfortunately frequent occurrence. Grantaire could only groan and pull his hand free, oblivious to the commotion that was a blond man brandishing a VIP pass trying to get backstage.

“It’s urgent, I swear. Look, I have a pass and everything, just let me through, please.” The security guard kept his ground, until Jehan walked past and spotted Enjolras.

“You’re here, you’re here, oh, come in quickly, we’re trying to find Bossuet, wherever he managed to get to.” Jehan dragged him in and Enjolras shook him off immediately in favour of setting upon Grantaire. He grabbed the man by his shirt and hauled him up, pressing their lips together fiercely in what was less of a kiss and more of a desperate smashing of mouths. Enjolras didn’t mind, and he sure hoped Grantaire wouldn’t.

When he pulled back Grantaire stared at him with dazed eyes for a moment, and Enjolras gently released his shirt.

“I realised something, before. You deserve this more than I do, you always have. I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. Goodbye, Grantaire.”

And then he was gone, taking off towards the exit. The entire effect was ruined greatly as he fell over some stacked sound equipment, but he still didn’t look back.

The cheering suddenly redoubled in volume, and a frantic Jehan waved Grantaire towards the stage, where Joly and Bahorel were already rushing on. Bossuet had seemingly magically appeared at his microphone, stage hand rushing on to hand him a guitar.

Grantaire rushed on behind them, pulling his phone out to send one surreptitious text before he began to play.

Grantaire: hey gav, wuld u mind follwin enjolras 4 me?? just left from door at stage right, txt me to let me kno where he goes thx heaps stay out of trouble !!

***

Enjolras ran away from there, ran like he never had before. He ran until his legs were hurting and his lungs were burning and, really, he didn't get very far.

Christ, he was unfit.

He stopped to breathe, sucking in huge lungful’s of air and probably sounding akin to a dying whale.

That was when the hand found the back of his neck. He hadn't heard anyone approach, nor felt anyone behind him, but then there was a hurting grip there, dragging him into the cover of a nearby alleyway.

It was dark, he was alone, and when moonlight glinted off of a blade in his peripheral vision, Enjolras was willing to admit he was scared.

"Don't run, don't scream, etcetera etcetera. Of course I might kill you anyway, but then again, I like this coat and these shoes and blood is incredibly hard to get out." He had a soft melodious voice, a familiar one. It took Enjolras a moment to place, having only heard it through his laptop’s tinny speakers as he watched dated police interviews.

"Montparnasse,” Enjolras gasped out, trying to squirm out of his iron grip before freezing under the bite of cold steel at his neck.

"And you, lucky boy, you fucked up my plans." Enjolras heard sirens in the distance. "Which means you are in a lot of trouble right now, mmm? I don't want to go to jail, you want to keep your life happy-go-fucking-lucky, we can all be winners here."

Enjolras could've sworn the sirens were getting closer.

Montparnasse continued. "So here's how things are gonna go. You find Grantaire and you kiss him once, mouth to mouth, then you piss off and never see him again. Bad luck for you, freedom for me. Understand? Once the trial’s over your life should return to semi-regularity. Or it won’t. I can’t be bothered remembering the desired endpoint of the spell."

And then Montparnasse's cover of dark was blown, headlights of police cars casting light on the pair of them.

"Drop the weapon and step away with your hands up."

Montparnasse looked murderous, but he was smarter than that, smarter than to do that in front of so many credible witnesses.

That didn’t stop him from crying out a slew of expletives as he was slammed against the hood of a car and handcuffed, mixing Latin and English in a lovely curse.

Enjolras gave a statement to the police in a daze, and nodded numbly when they said he'd have to come back for further questioning.

On one hand they had more than enough evidence to prosecute Montparnasse with a count of attempted murder, minimum. On the other, he could no longer work on the case, considering he was a witness and all.

He needed to call Combeferre or Courfeyrac, to come pick him up. The police officers were finishing, ushering him out of the alley and to the street. He was about to ask around for a phone when someone sat down next to him, wrecking of sweat and adrenaline, the top of their green hair silhouetted against the street lights.

"You know, when I asked Gavroche to follow you, I didn't realise he'd end up saving your life."

Enjolras leaned a tired head on his shoulder. "Is this alright?”

Grantaire gave a noise of assent and Enjolras moved in even closer.

“I just need to check one last thing; were you at Masquerade on New Year’s, the costume party? Zorro outfit, spilt your drink near a man and his friend, then you danced."

Grantaire turned, confused. “How did you know that? You weren’t--”

"I was. I would’ve called but someone spilt strawberry daiquiri on me and your number washed away. That wasn’t all that happened that night, um.” Enjolras paused to gather his thoughts and think of a way to explain it without sounding like something out of a Harry Potter book. “Well, you stole my luck. Which apparently I was stealing, according to this fortune teller I saw. We kissed, Montparnasse’s curse came into effect-- "

“You were dealing with Montparnasse?!”

“Why does everyone say that? Are you friends with Eponine?”
Grantaire snorted. “Who do you think is Gav’s sister? Anyway, go on.” Realisation dawned on Enjolras, and he had to stop again to find his train of thought.
“Right, well besides, I’m not ‘dealing’ with him, I’m working on the case against him. He’s supposed to go to prison for murder in two weeks, and I was trying to put him there.”

Grantaire didn't say anything for a long moment, processing the information.

"I'm glad I have an explanation now, actually. Things were too good to be true for a while. Is it seriously like that for you all the time?"

"Not anymore. I gave it back to you, backstage, and I want you to keep it. So I can't kiss you ag--"

Grantaire shuts him up with a kiss, hard and quick. Enjolras matched with one of his own. They continued swapping kisses for a few minutes, until someone nearby cleared their throat.

"Can I go now, R? I don't wanna watch you two make out all evening," Gavroche said, swinging down from his perch on the side of a building. An idea dawned on Grantaire.

"Gav, just come over here for a sec." He shared a look with Enjolras, who seemed confused but was more than willing to follow Grantaire's lead.

"C'mon you little ruffian." While pulling him into a hug, Grantaire placed a kiss on the top of his hair, ruffling it for good measure. When Enjolras still sat frozen Grantaire jerked his head in Gav’s general direction and he finally got the hint. He surged up to kiss his cheek and Gavroche twisted away, making a face.

"Don't ever do that again. Ever." And then he was gone, navigating the streets back home.

Enjolras looked at Grantaire. "Do you think it worked? Wait, I can check," and pulled two scratchies from his pocket. "Scratch this."

Neither of them won, and Enjolras nearly whooped with joy. Instead he leant forward to capture Grantaire's lips, smirking against them.

"Let’s go back to my place." Grantaire said, breathless and wide-eyed, his pupils blown.

"Sounds like a plan."

And sure, things would be anything but normal for a while, with all the completely ridiculous things that had happened in the recent past. But Grantaire had a hand in Enjolras’s back pocket and his lips against his neck and with that, what could go wrong?

[FIC] To Hear and Not Understand (pre-slash Javert/Valjean; R)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 07:52:49 GMT

Author: InvertedTurtle (AO3)
Title: To Hear and Not Understand
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Either pre-slash Valjean/Javert or unrequited Valjean/Javert, you decide. And OCs.
Rating: Soft R or hard pg13.
Summary: Four people in Montreuil-sur-Mer who, for varying reasons, sat up and took notice when Javert spoke. Usually not because of what he was saying.
Warnings (if any): Aggressive propositioning by a prostitute. Valjean being a closet pervert. (Unless you're into those sorts of things:)
Total Word Count/Length: 1,857w
Original prompt number: #1
Author's notes: I doubt this is what the original prompter had in mind, but when the deadline stared me in the face and the words finally started flowing I didn't argue with them.

**
1.

Spring is barely started and already the days feel as hot as midsummer. Though the window shutters are thrown wide to catch any stray breezes, the closed space of the mayor's office is stifling. Allard, a sergeant with the police in Montreuil-sur-Mer, wipes furtively at his brow with the sleeve of his shirt, striving to pay attention to the Inspector's deep voice reciting the happenings of the day, petty disputes after fines after arrests, followed by suspected criminal activities that warrant looking into.

It is Allard's humble opinion that petty disputes are on the rise solely due to the unseasonable weather and will recede again once a breath of air stirs outside, but the Inspector is typically unforgiving on the subject.

Monsieur le Maire listens attentively, leaning forward over his desk. He barely sweats, notes Allard enviously, himself stuck to every inch of his garments with a coating of damp and grime. In fact, Madeleine doesn't seem to notice the lack of fresh air in the room or the stifling weight of the day's heat; he appears fully absorbed in the Inspector's report, his eyes set on the man's face in something nearing fixation.

Allard turns his own wandering attention back to the dark baritone implacably relating names and offences. It isn't that it is a difficult voice to listen to, he reflects, but that it is so easy to listen to. Were the syllables less clipped and the man speaking them more friendly, it would be perfectly pleasant to just lie in the shade somewhere and listen to the Inspector talk. About anything.

The difficulty is to resist being lulled into a doze by the combined forces of that firm voice and the soporific effect of the small office's rising temperature.

He feels a tingling in his jaw and immediately grits his teeth. God help him if the Inspector catches him yawning.

**
2.

Squinting and leaning nearer the dim sunlight pouring through the window, Édith smooths the last seam in the shirt she's been sewing. Her chair creaks as she sags back in it to rub her aching fingers, and the sound makes her boarder glance up sharply from the hinge he's replacing on the door. She shakes her head at him.

"Don't let me interrupt, Inspector. This old chair is as creaky as I am, it's only a question of which one of us will wear out first."

"Everything in God's season, Madame," he replies, frowning. "But the chair only needs oiling again. The weather has dried it out."

His earnestness makes her smile. Without a husband or children in her old age, Édith is glad of any company these days-- and she's grown fond of the Inspector. He's a polite young man; fixes things around the place in exchange for lowered rent, never complains or needs to be asked twice, even though it's usually late when he comes in from his regular work with the police. He'll give her the town's news if she asks, if she's been too tired or busy to go out herself, and he doesn't fidget about like so many young people do when they talk to her, as if old age might be contagious.

Monsieur l'Inspecteur is also very easy on the eyes and the ears, a fact that does not escape her. Édith's vision may be weak, and her hearing unreliable at times, but she isn't blind, deaf, or dead yet. She notices.

The chair distracted the Inspector from the news and now he sits silently at the door, crouched back on his heels, wiping grease off his hands.

"And does Monsieur Madeleine still visit the docks?" Édith coaxes.

The Inspector frowns darkly at his hands, but nods as if remembering where he left off. "Yes, Madame. Every evening, good weather or foul. If it matters on those streets..."

Édith lays her head back against the backrest of her chair and rests her hands in her lap, listening as he speaks crisply of the ill-advised visits to the docks, the urchins and beggars Monsieur Madeleine insists on rewarding with money, of the plans for the school, and of the new families moving into Montreuil-sur-Mer. She listens, warmed and savoring the low music of his voice, and wonders if he realizes the way it mellows as he goes on. It's the sort of tone a man as handsome as the Inspector should be making use of to murmur his admiration into a woman's ear and weaken her knees, but it's a pity, the only time Édith has heard it from him is when he speaks of Monsieur Madeleine.

Oh well, she thinks, shutting her eyes to better enjoy the rich timbre. The Inspector can hardly be blamed for not taking an interest in any of the brash young things Montreuil-sur-Mer has to offer.

**
3.

Margeurite has been a working girl long enough to know calf's eyes when she sees them, and it isn't the first time she's seen a man gaze after another man that way, either.

It is, she admits, the first time she's seen a full-grown man who's got it quite so bad. Unfortunately the object of Monsieur Madeleine's furtive stares is likely to remain oblivious, as the Inspector is not the sort of man who notices sexual advances. Margeurite should know: she's tried most everything short of mounting him in the streets, and has nothing but jail time to show for it.

"Lovely day, Inspector," she croons when she spots him on a routine patrol of the docks. She toys with the laces of her straining bodice in her most inviting manner.

He looks at her suspiciously; looks up at the sky, which is spattering rain down on them from a gray veil of clouds. His expression is speaking enough that he needn't actually speak to the likes of her-- but in truth it's a wet, nasty sort of day, and Margeurite would like something to warm her up a bit.

When he turns away for a moment, she sneaks up beside him and hurriedly arranges her cleavage. She's been told by many a customer that it's her best feature.

But the Inspector doesn't so much as glance at the goods. "It's cold," he snaps, "Get indoors before you take fever."

"Only name the place, Monsieur," Margeurite whispers, hooking an arm boldly through his and rubbing her breasts against him.

He pauses wordlessly to attempt to pry her loose.

Damn the man, he's laconic today. It's better when he's angry-- anger makes his voice turn rough and deliciously growly; fit to make a girl go to her knees in a second, one of the newer whores has been known to say, and Margeurite titters at the thought of how the Inspector might respond to that.

Instead, she waits until he nearly has her pushed loose, then ducks under his grasp and presses her body full-length to his, making a sinuous writhing motion of her hips and chest against him that has never failed to make any male of her acquaintance react quite conspicuously.

The Inspector reacts, too. In his own way.

Sulking in her cell, Margeurite reflects that there can only be one explanation for a man being so utterly unaroused by her. Perhaps Monsieur Madeleine does have a chance with the Inspector, after all.

**
4.

Valjean tries to behave normally, but never having been in a situation like this before, he's not certain of how to gauge normality against the increasing desire to back his Inspector into a bedroom and spend an entire day playing him like an instrument, wringing every pitch and note the man is capable of out of him as he maps his body to the last inch of skin.

Javert gives his evening reports in Valjean's little office, often with only the two of them present. There was a time not so long ago when this was a slot on Valjean's schedule, no more. It's becoming a torment. For all the wrong reasons he prays fervently for law and order in Montreuil-sur-Mer. The longer a report of the day's misbehavior drags on, the more his body seeks the rhythm of Javert's deep voice and throbs with it. Some days the tension winds tighter and tighter in his groin until he can barely restrain himself from sliding a hand down his belly and doing something shocking right before the Inspector's eyes.

It would be easier to ignore if this were a matter of simple lust. Possibly the guilt wouldn't weigh so heavy after a night when he wakes rutting into his mattress with the dream echoes of a slow, rich voice purring filthy encouragements into his ear and against his neck. Possibly he would avoid Javert and the matter would just work itself out. But lust is only the beginning of this malady. It's hard enough to face the man the next day, with the memory of the acts he's imagined them committing together foremost in his mind, but the burn of affection in his heart when Javert seems gruffly pleased to see him makes it so much worse.

Speaking with the Inspector in public is no better than the private reports. The fire that Javert's most mundane conversation can sometimes build in Valjean is at once delicious and mortifying without even a desk to cover the bulge in his trousers. He's taken to wearing a long coat when he goes out, but it does nothing for the nerve-wracking and uncomfortable business of trying to walk normally while fully aroused.

Perhaps foulest of all, and a secret too shameful to be shared with another-- his body's immediate response to certain turns of phrase that had never struck Valjean as arousing until he heard them uttered in the deep, confidential murmur that Javert sometimes uses when they meet at night on the docks.

During a perfectly innocent conversation, "If you are having difficulties, I could lend you a hand," says Javert, and Valjean flushes guiltily at the thought, his prick straining at his trousers.

"Thank you, Inspector," he stammers. "I’m sure I can manage."

Or another night, "It was not hard, Monsieur le Maire. I learned quickly to wrap my tongue around it," and Valjean is left scrambling to recall why he asked Javert about his evidently second-hand French. Traces of the man's first language are noticeable still in his speech, but to ask now what that language is would be to remain here longer. He excuses himself before Javert can notice his awkward gait and ask what is wrong.

As long as Valjean can feign innocence, Javert will never know about any of this. To entertain these desires behind the Inspector's back is shameful, but to confess them to him? There are fantasies of course, of admitting everything and finding that the attraction is mutual, but there are nightmares too, of the million ways it could go wrong-- and sweet as the fantasies are, the nightmares are always more realistic.

Javert has only just started making reluctant forays into the territory of friendship between himself and Valjean; it would be no more than senseless greed to destroy that with a heavy-handed grab for more.

[FIC] The Best Part of Faith (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 17 Dec 2013 07:45:29 GMT

Author: musamihi (AO3)
Title: The Best Part of Faith
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire
Rating: PG
Summary: In the grip of fever, Grantaire attempts to explain himself – and succeeds, through no fault of his own.
Warnings (if any): Mild illness
Total Word Count/Length: 3,900w
Original prompt number: #49
Author's notes: Based on a line from the prompt's 'I See You,' by Mika (youtube) - why go risking the way I see you?

( Read on AO3 )

A gust of wind flew off the river and made an eddy of dry leaves in the mouth of the Rue St. Jacques; the distant, tattered clouds blew apart just long enough to let the sun strike out once more before it set. Grantaire hid his face behind his hand. When he looked up again, the grey of early twilight had descended on the street. It was one of those rare moments in which he could imagine himself quite apart from his own body, suspended above the city and watching it, with all his great quantity of pompous affection, as it ticked itself into night like a confused clock – or, perhaps, one of those moments (even rarer) in which he was so thoroughly bound to everyone around him, as though threaded man to man by the needle of the wind, that he felt they were all turning together toward the night like a ship running off course. He was outside himself; he was in something else. He was drunk.

He leaned against the parapet to let the feeling pass, and his eyes were drawn to the only other creature that stood stopped against the swollen confusion of the crowded, chilly evening. A horse across the street with a simple cart – hardly more than a few poles roped together – hitched too close behind was shifting its weight anxiously. Its eyes were starting toward and away from its master, who stood to the side in conversation, one hand tangled absently in the reins. What was frightening the animal Grantaire couldn't say, but he saw with perfect clarity that at any fast-approaching moment it would rear or kick or thrash and its clumsy cargo of boxes and barrels would lurch and tumble onto the men and women hurrying by.

But he stood quietly, fingers fretting at the loose threads in the pockets of his coat. He said nothing and warned no one as the crowd shouldered past, inches from disaster. A man with his nose in a book; a woman with an overlarge basket; an elderly person trailing a chain of children; Enjolras, his head down against the wind, seeking a way through the multitude. Grantaire's heart labored in his chest for each of them, pushing cold fear through him and a pressing, pulsing knowledge that he should call out – but he was silent. He watched, stricken with an unfamiliar, dry-mouthed timidity, the strange and petrifying sensation that he was looking into a world to which he did not belong. The moment rattled back and forth like a tree torn in a storm, snapping in every direction as he willed it not to fall.

The horse threw its head to one side – and was calm. The crowd moved on like the river beside it, unstoppable. Enjolras rounded the corner without looking up. The wind swept through the space where he had been.

Grantaire straightened, and, after a breathless moment, followed him. The evening shadows deepened and dulled as he walked, pursued by a haunting guilt that was laden with images of blood, of chaos, of crushed bodies, all smothered in the silence he had chosen.

+++

It was a short walk to the Musain's back entrance. Grantaire meandered as much as possible on his way, unwilling to face Enjolras while he was quite so discomposed. He loitered on corners, shuffled slowly past windows, introduced himself with impeccable gallantry and galling self-flattery to any woman who would entertain his attentions for more than ten seconds. He stopped with the intention of dallying over a bottle of wine in an ugly little wineshop near the Mathurins, and although his stunned nerves caused him to drink more quickly than he meant to, by the time he reached the dregs the wine had set him right again. He saw with the fresh, relieved lucidity of the waking dreamer the ridiculousness of his anxiety. He had surely imagined the whole thing – some sort of momentary upset, the cognitive equivalent of finding a bone in the fish, had caused him to turn the placement of a hoof into a mortal peril. How foolish it would have been to make a fuss about it!

Comforted, he completed his journey to the Musain, where the lingering dissatisfaction at the periphery of his mind - you saw what you saw, and you said nothing - was obliterated by the usual wall of noise. In most instances a fixture from the early afternoon – meeting or no meeting – Grantaire today was late. His tardiness was not remarked upon. He shuffled through the conversations and the jumble of legs, coats, and books to a chair in the corner farthest from the door.

From here he could see Enjolras, quite across the room, his profile thrown into shadow by the fire leaping in the grate behind him. Grantaire kept a curious eye on him, reassuring himself with every passing moment that all was as it should be, letting the imagined carnage burn away as the firelight left grey absences across his vision. Enjolras' mouth moved silently, his words lost somewhere in the din between them.

He procured a bottle. He settled in. He found near-contentment in another glass or two, dulling away the rough angles of his memory. When Prouvaire dropped himself into the adjacent seat with a sheaf of papers and a joyfully tipsy glow, Grantaire found he could smile very freely.

Prouvaire handed him a few pages with exaggerated care. "You will appreciate these."

"Such confidence." He held the pile of sketches well above the discreditable surface of the table as he flipped through them, his hands steadier than his eyes. They were, in fact, worthy of some appreciation – well-composed and thoughtful, the lines slow and heavy but sure, in a care-free sort of way. The subject matter was strange, disconnected – a wheel, a broken pot, a series of drapes moving in an impossible wind, a face rendered from such a low angle as to be nearly unrecognizable – but not boring, for all that. "Not yours."

"No. I looked for you earlier – you've slept in miserably."

"That's nice. You think a great deal of me." He handed the pages back, accepted a few more. "I have been walking, I'll have you know – covered every corner from here to the Boulevard de l'Hôpital three times if I did it once. I feel something coming on, and I wanted to outrun it. Sleep would have been a more intelligent choice, but I can't sit around in the miasma waiting to be seized. These are charming – gratuitously strange. Not at all precious."

A squall of sentiment loomed, threatening, on the horizon of Prouvaire's face. "They are." He drew out a ghostly representation of an empty coat. "'Charming' is a small word to use, but I know you mean better. There's not a hint of artifice, he hasn't got a single –"

"Oh," Grantaire sighed explosively, tipping himself out another glass, ensuring it splashed only modestly. "Don't."

Prouvaire, always happy enough to be diverted, smiled mildly at Grantaire's dwindling bottle. "Don't what?"

"Don't tell me a thing about him. What is it with your insistence on prying into the filthy details of –"

"A passing acquaintance hardly sinks to the level of filthy –"

"Of course it does. You have to choose – between an acquaintance and appreciation. There's nothing worse than knowing the artist passing well. If you're going to know him at all – not recommended, but for you I make an exception – it had better be thoroughly, thoroughly. What could be worse than seeing an otherwise decent painting and thinking about how the artist always has crumbs in his collar? How can you read anything that purports to any sort of grandeur and at the same time know that the fellow who wrote it has a laugh like a bad hinge? It's impossible. Better to admire in ignorance. Better to preserve whatever small purity the work itself can offer."

"I had no idea," Prouvaire said, gingerly transporting Grantaire's glass across the table and helping himself after giving it a dubious look, "that you were so devoted to purity."

"Of course I'm not. How can I devote myself to something that doesn't exist? I only said it was better. We're operating entirely theoretically. That glass is filthy."

"Shamefully. You're wrong, you know – any amount of knowledge can only heighten appreciation. Flaws speak as deeply as do virtues."

"What rubbish. If I want flaws, I'll look in a mirror."

"Is it tiring, keeping to the shallows? You must have to tread water so furiously to keep from sinking. A man like you won't float for half a minute on his back."

Grantaire reclaimed his wine. "If you're going to drink it all, get your own." He took the rest of the sketches when they were offered. "I never learned to swim."

He passed the evening with those drawings; then, when Prouvaire left, in dissecting and excoriating an article Courfeyrac had been gently plucking apart; and then, when he was drunk past speaking, submerged in himself and stewing in nothing but his own bleak premonitions, he turned his eyes to Enjolras, whose face came slowly into focus as the fire behind him cooled and died away.

+++

To dream at all was unusual; after the amount he'd drunk, it was very rare indeed. But that night his dreams were vivid, wild, strangely indelible. Every image remained as though it had been captured on paper. Horses were stabled in his mother's parlor – he stepped outside into a street that was not (but was) his home in Paris – he ran painfully, impossibly slowly across a bridgeless Seine and wound up somehow in the Champ de Mars, which was playing host to hundreds of people practicing at canne de combat. They were stripped to the waist, men and women alike, and they were red and bruised. Some flew through the air, some held actual swords, all were fighting fiercely. The only sound was the stamp of feet in the grass, the rush of breath, and the push of the wind through the peaceful trees. Enjolras was expertly evading the attacks of a man whose face kept slipping from Grantaire's mind like water off a window. Again and again, the man came within inches of landing a blow, and Enjolas, ducking, spinning aside, leaping, brought himself clear. He was spotless, untouched, marred only by sweat. Grantaire felt an intense desire to turn away cramping his stomach like a vice, but then Enjolras' stick swept against the man's side – a hit – and the man fell, and Grantaire was compelled to snatch up his weapon, and he stood half-naked before Enjolras, petrified, exhilarated.

The thought of striking him produced in him an intense nausea, almost unbearable. And yet he was tempted. There was nothing he desired more, he realized, than to leave a mark on that flawless skin. It was forbidden. Who had forbidden it? He had forbidden himself. What sacrilege –

Enjolras assumed a stance – improper stance, but here the rules were changed – and struck; Grantaire parried and parried and parried, letting himself be forced back and around their little piece of ground so many times he began to feel dizzy, lightheaded. Time and again he saw an opening, a moment where he might lash out and score a point, and held back as he knew he should. But soon the hunger was too great to resist – he could taste the impact on the back of his tongue, at once bitter and sweet – and he brought his stick soaring down against Enjolras' ribs beneath his upraised arm. Enjolras stumbled to the side. His stick fell to the grass. You have a funny way of playing, he said, baiting more than fighting. Quite like you, I suppose.

I enjoy hewing to principle, from time to time,, Grantaire replied, his desire utterly shattered by the bright red welt rising along Enjolras' side. He could feel it in his own skin, burning like an agony of shame, and he turned away and was promptly sick over the side of his bed.

+++

When he woke again it was in the dark of night, not morning. He sat up, hunched under the chill wracking his body. He felt half as though he were still in a dream. The tension of it clung to him in defiance of the laws of waking reason. Sick with guilt and fear - fever occurred to him only vaguely – he stood and dressed himself with unsteady hands and, shoulders turned tightly in against the shuddering cold, he left. After fumbling unsuccessfully with his lock for perhaps half a minute he gave it up. There was very little of value in his room, and what's more everyone knew it. (He had forgotten his watch, but rifling through his drawers would hardly be worth such a meagre haul.)

To walk to the Musain typically took him two minutes; but he had no sense of time as he slapped his hand against the door to its back room and found it shut. He might have arrived all at once, or he might have wandered for a year. There was no light. There was no sound. For a moment he wavered on the step gripped in cold panic – the city was desolate and he was alone and the faces of the buildings contorted with decay – but the lights from the Place Saint-Michel lay in a hazy drift just around the corner, and so he passed that way, and soon his feet took him on their other best-loved path.

Had his body not known the way, he might never have arrived – but this was true of a great deal of his night-time excursions, and he was quite practiced at taking himself from place to place on only the barest of instinct. He was drawn across the Pont Saint-Michel, across the Pont au Change, and up into the dark web of towering streets that surrounded the Corinthe. They were largely empty. He began to doubt whether he would find anyone, and had the presence of mind to wonder, for a moment, why he was out at all; but his pleasure at seeing a lamp in the right window and smoke rising from the right chimney overpowered his uneasiness, leaving him with the very simple urge to find somewhere to sit and stay.

Before he could cross the street, however, Enjolras himself stepped out the door and into a weak pool of lamplight. Grantaire stopped to let pass a phantom wave of nausea, to clutch his coat all the more tightly around himself, and to ponder briefly the ridiculousness of his situation. This was not a dream. Enjolras was upright, unhurt. Why had he come here? To check up on him? To apologize? Certainly not to eat, the thought threatened to send him doubling over again –

"Grantaire." Enjolras was beside him. His brow was creased ever so slightly in flat disapproval. "I said –"

"I'm late." Not surprising in and of itself, but he was momentarily pleased that he had remembered there was something to be late for in the first place.

"Decidedly. You might as well not have come."

"Familiar refrain. Listen – I've been indisposed." Enjolras was walking, making his brisk way through those impossible streets, and Grantaire went along, matching him pace for pace at great cost to his complaining legs and back.

"You're drunk."

"I'm not."

Perhaps there was something convincing, for once, in his voice or his posture, or perhaps the light in the street was just enough to reveal his miserable pallor; at any rate, Enjolras stopped and peered at him more closely – and raised his hand to press the back of his fingers against Grantaire's face, a liberty he found rather more insulting than touching, truth be told. Enjolras hissed quietly and drew his hand back. "Not drunk – addled, though, coming here. What are you thinking? Go home."

"I came to see you." That was the truth, even if he couldn't have said what lay behind it. There was no one else he'd hoped to find.

"I'm not a doctor."

"No – I'm well enough, you know." Not so well that he would start walking again unless he was made to, of course. He leaned gratefully against a scaling cornerstone. "A touch of fever can try its chances and lay me on my back, but it'll find me in my natural habitat, and I don't think much of its prospects –"

"You've found me," Enjolras interrupted, with emphasis. "What do you want to say?"

"I don't know, only –" Here Enjolras began to walk again, and once more Grantaire straightened and followed, conscious suddenly of the dark and omnipresent alleys, the apparent infinite around them, the unending potential for the stuff of dreams to come flying out at him again from every blind window and every gaping side street. "Only that you're in danger." It seemed so perfectly obvious in this place, which had in the space of a few minutes come to seem one of the most sinister he'd ever seen, that the words came out rather casually – as though Enjolras was sure to have noticed for himself.

Enjolras' pace slowed. "Danger," he repeated, a note of scepticism in his voice – an irony worth remarking upon later – but he met Grantaire's eyes again, at least, his attention secured. "What danger is that?"

"You don't see it?" How could he then articulate it? What felt to him like a living, breathing thing occupying the city, some carnivorous mist that manifested itself in a horse's eye or the spectre of a flowering bruise or the glint of the moon off the wet leaves collected in the gutter in which he was suddenly walking – "Everything is a danger to you – everywhere – you walk down the street and only by the luckiest chance do you make it out alive, you bare yourself needlessly to injury, to eyes; that you shouldn't do, you know. A man can change something just by watching it, just by looking too closely. There's the danger. What danger, you ask, like an untroubled boy, but what danger isn't there, when a careless second glance can conjure up in a charming picture a flaw one was too stupid to see on the –"

"Grantaire." Enjolras' hand was heavy and intolerably hot on his shoulder. Grantaire found himself sitting on a stair. "You're mad with fever, and talking nonsense. You need –"

"No. You ought to listen to me, there's no one else who'll tell you. No one else has seen it. There's a danger – I'm a danger to you." There – there, that had touched it. He struggled to chase after that fleeting idea. "I'm awfully dangerous. You wouldn't know it to look at me, but I could destroy you with a look."

"Tell me what you mean." Enjolras had never sounded quite so patient, and Grantaire had never felt so very drawn to the ground beneath him; Enjolras' arm sliding behind his shoulders was on a hopeless errand, he was sure. Grantaire's limbs felt as though they were made of stone, and were appropriately unresponsive.

His mind was flying, though, speeding out ahead. "Oh – no." Logic dictated that he couldn't possibly tell him. That was the entire point. "No, I really couldn't." Enjolras was so nearly perfect; to inform him of the possibility that his perfection might be ruined by a close inspection was to begin the very decay he sought to avoid; he mustn't say anything. On no account must he say it. Silence had come so easily to him yesterday in its unwelcome, cowardly form – he could manage as much now. "No." Silence. "No, I love you too dearly." He would hold his tongue. He would say nothing.

"Love is not a danger."

"Oh, what a thing to say. Who's mad now?"

"Love is the end of all we strive for." Enjolras' words fell in time with his footfalls, and Grantaire felt himself in danger of falling asleep to them. "It is supreme, ultimate – the best part of faith. That you should fail to understand it is hardly a surprise."

The hot pain of that blow in the Champ de Mars coursed up Grantaire's throat. He tugged at his collar and wrenched his neck to the side and noticed with some dim surprise that they were passing over the river. "You wrong me hideously."

"If so, it's only based on your own words and actions. You choose what others can see – they judge accordingly."

"Now you give me entirely too much credit."

Enjolras' mouth tightened slightly and Grantaire regretted his answer for the half a moment it took him to turn his attention back to putting one foot in front of the other. Luckily, he hadn't the energy to say any more, and his silence kept itself without his assistance. When they came near the Musain Enjolras asked him his address, and that was all he could give him. He hardly noticed the stony tutting of the landlady, the heaving up the two flights of stairs; he registered a brief pang of shame as they finally crossed his private threshold, because the room really was quite foul, but there was nothing for that. Only lying in his own bed again did he come to himself sufficiently to begin to question what he'd done. There was a dip in the mattress near his feet – Enjolras, bravely hunting for a clean rag, perhaps in vain hope of finding some decent water to soak it in.

"Words and actions," Grantaire said, angling his chin toward the ceiling. "I've said too much and done more than I should have." Fearful somehow of allowing those words to carry any weight, he added by way of explanation: "My head is splitting."

"You always say too much." There was a gentle splashing sound. "And walking quite so far to warn me about ghosts is absolutely more than you should have attempted, even had you been healthy."

"So – in your book, then, I've shown my hand." He shut his eyes. Enjolras was too close; this attention, this scrutiny brought back the pulsing fear that had troubled him for days, even as it assuaged something else in him whose name escaped him. He was torn between hot and cold and peace and apprehension. At any moment he might break in two. "Words and actions. What's your judgement, then? You have all you need." He was prattling, anything to keep from the incomprehensible jumble of his own mind. If nothing else, Enjolras provided the reassurance he required to know that this was not another nightmare.

Something cool and light settled onto his forehead. "That some things bear closer inspection, despite your insistences to the contrary." Fingers slipped into his hair, only for a moment. The sensation grounded him to his body, pulled him ever so slightly back together. "That you wrong yourself – if not quite hideously. Ask again when you're not raving, and I'll tell you."

Grantaire reached up with more strength than he'd have credited himself with a moment before, and gripped the wrist that rested against his temple. "I am not raving."

"Not quite, perhaps. Let me open a window."

The wrist disappeared; a breeze slipped in, and Grantaire fell in and out of a black, empty sleep, anchored to the weight at the end of his bed. When he woke in the morning, some of the fog had lifted.

[FIC] The Opera Ghost (Courfeyrac/Jehan, Montparnasse/Jehan; G)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 10 Dec 2013 01:27:51 GMT

Author: theofficialbahorel (AO3)
Title: The Opera Ghost
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Courfeyrac/Jean Prouvaire, Montparnasse/Jean Prouvaire
Rating: G
Summary: “Now,” Joly calls, demanding the attention of the guests, “some of you may recall the strange affair of The Opera Ghost, a mystery fully explained-”

Before Joly even finished his summarized explanation, Courfeyrac has already gone – into the deep realms of his memories.

“We’re told, ladies and gentlemen, that this is the very chandelier which figures in the famous disaster—”

Courfeyrac closes his eyes lightly at Joly’s voice – and flashes of light, bright colors, elaborately painted sets, and that voice – his voice – comes to his mind.

[...]

Courfeyrac looks at the chandelier in all of its restored glory. It looked as good as that day, that not so distant day…

Warnings (if any): none
Total Word Count/Length: 16,610w
Original prompt number: #44
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): I tried to combine the book and the musical into one for this fic, so please forgive this attempt if it doesn’t fit your expectations, especially that of the prompter. I really tried. I also had to rewrite Madame Giry, but she is still the Phantom’s messenger to the Opera’s denizens.

Read on AO3

[FIC] Alone at the End of the Day (Javert/Valjean; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Sat, 07 Dec 2013 20:30:37 GMT

Author: magnetism_bind (AO3)
Title: Alone at the End of the Day
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Javert/Jean Valjean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: After a car accident leaves Valjean in a coma, Javert is left to ponder the possibility of a future without him.
Warnings (if any): car accidents, angst
Total Word Count/Length: 5,387w
Original prompt number: #16
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): Written for the prompt:

Pairing(s)/Character(s): Javert/Valjean
Era/verse: Modern AU
Prompt: [possible trigger] Car crash. You can take it from any perspective and any situation, I'm open to anything.
Special Request(s) (optional):
Things you don't want (Squicks): Character death.
Maximum Rating: R
Anything else (optional):

Read on AO3

[FIC] 35 Black Marks: The Times it Happened That Led Us to This (Enjolras/Grantaire; NC-17)

rueplumetmod — Thu, 05 Dec 2013 21:59:30 GMT

Author: BlackWingBecci (AO3)
Title: 35 Black Marks: The Times it Happened That Led Us to This
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire, Enjolras, Grantaire
Rating: NC-17
Summary: It happened 35 times. (Or, Enjolras and Grantaire are both idiots who can’t admit their love for each other, even when they’re having sex.)
Warnings (if any): Alcoholism (very briefly), Panic Disorder, Panic Attack
Total Word Count/Length: 8844w
Original prompt number: #48

Read on AO3

[FIC] Honest Work, Just Reward (Gen; PG)

rueplumetmod — Thu, 05 Dec 2013 03:04:09 GMT

Author: Asselin (AO3)
Title: Honest Work, Just Reward
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Valjean, fem!Javert, some minor original characters.
Rating: PG
Summary: Javert finds Montreuil-sur-Mer a nosy and unfriendly place.
Warnings (if any): Some talk of prostitution, if that bothers you. No actual prostitution.
Total Word Count/Length: 1,453w
Original prompt number: #36
Beta: Wallflower

There is a stranger at Mass on Sunday.

This is not unprecedented; Montreuil-sur-Mer is a port town, and folk from all walks of life have been known to pass through on their way to or from somewhere else. It is also a prosperous town, and there are always those who come seeking a fair wage to support themselves and their families.

But there is something about this woman that catches the Mayor's eye. Several on the men's side of the church, in fact, seem to be having difficulty keeping their attention on the priest. It is nothing of her doing. Her dress is modest as a nun's garb, faded but neat, an unflattering dark gray in color. A kerchief of nearly the same color conceals her hair and casts into shadow the forbidding stillness of her face. There is no question of flirtatious looks or encouragement from her side of things. She sits straight-backed, bare hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed unfalteringly on the face of the priest.

The women, Madeleine notices, are making a rather ostentatious show of ignoring her. The church is full, yet the space to the stranger's right and the one to her left remain empty. A few children crane their necks furtively for a glimpse and are immediately cuffed into submission by their mothers. Is it because the men are paying her so much attention? Or is there something more to the whole situation that Madeleine has missed?

When he asks his portress about it that evening, she chuckles good-naturedly at his ignorance. Monsieur le Maire should pay more attention to local gossip, she advises. The subject of his so-called stranger has been on every wagging tongue in town for most of a week.

He listens with growing anxiety as she paints in great detail a story beginning some months ago, ending almost on that very Sunday. It is a tale the likes of which he hasn’t heard for nearly a decade.

“Is it all true?” he asks, when she has finished--or at least, when she has paused so long that she cannot simply be catching her breath as she has done at several points in the telling.

“Certainly,” the venerable lady replies. “Though I pity the poor girl; it isn’t her fault that her mother...”

“So she is now out of work because of this?”

“As I understand it, yes.”

Madeleine lies awake most of that night, watching shadows play along the ceiling above and thinking of the fierce rigidity of the stranger's spine as she sat there in church with so many unfriendly faces judging her.

Morning light comes and he surrenders to the nagging of instinct. He goes in search of the woman.

The lower part of M-sur-M is large, with little rhyme or reason to its organization, but a few well-placed coins earn him an address: that of a small and crumbling tenement. As he heads for that part of town, he finds himself with a creeping sense of foreboding.

He finds it justified when he approaches, in time to see the Javert woman landing in the street before him with a huff of expelled air. Shocked, he moves to help her up, but she is already halfway to her feet by then, staring levelly at a thin woman standing in the open doorway.

“And don’t you come back, you little tart!” the woman barks, placing her hands on her hips.

“I must get my belongings,” Javert says, voice devoid of the slightest hint of pleading.

“No, you mustn’t! Count them as your last payment for the room. The good Lord Himself knows, you’ve been long enough in paying!”

The Javert woman clamps her lips tightly together, scowling, but says nothing. With a final derisive huff, the woman slams the door shut, leaving her standing in the street, mud smeared across the back of her threadbare gray dress.

“Excuse me,” Madeleine says uncertainly, “are you Mlle. Javert?”

Her head snaps around, blue eyes alight as they rest on him, and he manages not to flinch only by sheer effort. “Yes,” she grits. “What is that to you?”

“I understand that you are currently out of work.”

“I am out of many things, money being the most prominent at the moment.”

“Is that what that was about? Money?”

She glances over her shoulder at the the tenement’s closed door. “I have not had work for almost a week. The woman who owns the building said that I had been too long in paying the rent, so she threw me out, as you saw.”

“It seems a rather harsh punishment for a late payment,” Madeleine comments.

“The woman is a shrew," Mlle. Javert replies shortly. "It is nothing new, nor does it have to do with me in particular. She was one of the few who didn’t seem to care when the rumors began spreading, but I think that had less to do with any favor on her part and more to do with her disinterest in me.”

“You speak rather freely of the rumors about yourself.”

“Everyone in this town already knows, there is no reason for me to be shy about it. No one else is."

Bitterness twists her lips into something resembling a smile, but her eyes have already gone distant, focused on the street beyond him and the few options left open to her. With a thrill of near delight, Madeleine wonders if she has any idea what he is to Montreuil sur Mer. It has been many years since anyone dismissed him so freely and without fear or reverence to stiffen their dealings with him. Buoyed by the pleasure of being treated as an equal, a common passerby, he realizes too late that a woman in her position might take the words coming out of his mouth amiss.

"I have been told that you are a willing worker, mademoiselle. You need not stay on the streets at all, come work for me. I will pay a fair wage for your services..."

Before the ill-spoken thought is complete, she has whirled on him with the fury of a summer thunderstorm, one white-knuckled fist drawn halfway back as if she would strike him. The desire to do him violence is in her eyes and radiates from her body so powerfully that he takes a step back. Later he might notice that the crown of her head only comes up to his chin, but now torn pride and indignity render her a force of nature.

"Whatever you may have heard from the rest of the swine in this forsaken blight of a town," she snarls, "I have never sold myself and will never! So my mother was satisfied with making her living on her back - let her speak for her own sins, they are not mine! Go offer your money to some painted harlot on the docks, perhaps she will prove appropriately grateful!"

The dam of her control at last burst, she lapses into a southern dialect, one only passingly familiar to him. The words he may not understand but the emotion he knows too well. Many spoke it in Toulon. Coarser voices than the mademoiselle's, speaking the same wounded fury and knowing as she thinks she does now that no one listened or cared. There is no shame in her eyes, or tears. Only helpless anger at the injustice of her condemnation.

Stricken with a terrible, aching sympathy he takes care to keep from showing on his face, Madeleine stands quietly and lets her spill all the weight of the past week's indignities out upon him. When she finishes, breathing heavily with the force of her words, he murmurs, “I meant nothing by it, mademoiselle, only that if no one else will take you, I will offer you an honest job. There are no conditions.”

Her face displays open shock for a fleeting second, before it closes up once more like a flower in the evening. She looks about to say something, but he continues before she can say it,

“I shouldn’t take up any more of your valuable time, then, mademoiselle.” Tipping his hat to her, he turns on his heel and begins the journey back to his home.

With every step, he can feel her eyes boring into his back.

Two days later, he is startled by someone knocking on the door. Regaining his wits, he calls, “Come in.”

The door opens, revealing his portress standing outside, and beyond her, Mlle. Javert.

“Monsieur le Maire,” his portress is saying, a trifle apologetically, “this young lady wanted to speak to you. If now isn’t a good time, I can have her wait outside....”

Madeleine smiles.

[FIC] The lightning in me (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Wed, 04 Dec 2013 02:55:02 GMT

Author: Luchia (AO3)
Title: The lightning within me.
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire, OMC/OMC.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Ever since as far back as he can remember, Patrick Laurent has been angry. (Reincarnation AU)
Warnings (if any): ACTUAL REINCARNATION which means sort of character death? They’re already dead though, so. Content includes characters with severe PTSD, touch sensitivity, anger issues.
Total Word Count/Length: 18,200 words.
Original prompt number: #3: Enjolras and Grantaire are reincarnated and find each other in modern times. Their lives, however, are drastically different from the first time around, in that Grantaire, thanks to having had a better life this time around, is rather idealistic, while Enjolras, having had it worse, has grown somewhat cynical.

So, basically, yes, I want a role-reversal reincarnation AU.

Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): This deviated from the prompt significantly while I plotted and wrote it. Roles are definitely reversed, but it’s not their upbringings that changed them.

( Read on AO3 )

( Read on LJ )

[FIC] The lightning in me - Part I (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Wed, 04 Dec 2013 02:51:19 GMT

~~~

Ever since as far back as he can remember, dreams of blood and fear have haunted his sleep. He dreams of watching everything he loves die behind a massive wall he can’t see over, dreams of feeling his heart crushed by bullets and bayonets.

It’s through his skin, through his bones, planted marrow-deep, planted in genetic coding like an incurable disease.

Ever since as far back as he can remember, Patrick Laurent has been angry.

+

“I’m not asking you to believe, I’m just asking you to come to the meeting,” Luc says, all wide earnest eyes and hopeful smile because he knows there’s no other tactic that could possibly drag Patrick to his fucking social justice meeting.

“My morning’s all booked up,” Patrick says. “With sleep.”

Luc looks him very firmly in the ear because Patrick buries back down into his bed. Getting up before 10 is indecent on a Saturday and Luc and his friends should all feel ashamed of themselves. “If you don’t come, I’m going to stage an intervention. You can’t just stay holed up in the apartment every single minute you aren’t in class – and you really need to go to class, Patrick.”

“There are better uses of my time,” Patrick says, and tosses his duvet over his head in the not-quite-desperate hope Luc will just turn around and leave him to his pillow.

His best friend makes an impossibly exasperated noise, says, “You are such a little shit,” and yanks every bit of warmth and coziness off of Patrick with a quick grip on his poor, poor bedding. “Get out of bed!”

“No,” Patrick whines. Luc didn’t take his pillow. He can still curl around his pillow.

“I swear to god I’ll go get a bucket of water,” Luc says, and when Patrick finally twists his head to glare at his friend his eyes are exposed to the daylight and it burns. “Hey, come on. It won’t be completely painful. Alain will be there!”

Patrick can’t help but twist away from the pillow at that, frowning. “Really? Doesn’t he have a thing on Saturday mornings?”

“Yes,” Luc says dryly. “This is the thing he has. Now come on, I know you miss him, up you get. All you have to do is sit in the corner and wait until it’s over and then you and Alain can drive everyone crazy.”

Luc should’ve started with this information. If he had, there might have been less torture involved. “Fine,” Patrick says, rolls off of his mattress, and dodges an irritatingly gleeful Luc on the way to the bathroom.

When he’s showered and dressed, Luc looks even more excited, which is kind of concerning. Lucien Pelissier is not someone whose smile you should trust. Not that Patrick trusts many people, but Luc is on that very short list (it has the names of exactly two people – Luc and Alain) so he just exercises caution on the walk to a café called the Musain. Patrick’s never been there, in spite of how Luc rhapsodizes about their coffee. Which Patrick doesn’t even drink in the first place.

Somehow, the layout is familiar when he walks in and follows Luc to the corner where people are already gathering, mostly young men around Patrick and Luc’s age, early twenties or so. They greet Luc with a load of hellos and well wishes and more than a few hugs, and Patrick hangs back awkwardly, watching the friends and realizing how much of a mistake this is. Even seeing Alain isn’t worth this. He’s going to be stuck here listening to enthusiastic fools scream at like-minded people about changing the world and he’s going to be sitting awkward and alone in the corner.

Patrick is slinking backwards, maybe thinking of leaving the café entirely, when a warm hand touches his shoulder. Patrick jumps, honestly jumps and twirls around frantically to see who touched him and then feels like a complete fool because it’s a brown-skinned woman smiling at him and looking more than a little amused. “Nice to meet you too,” she says dryly, but the smile is genuine. “My name’s Vivienne, and I’m guessing you’re Patrick. Luc and Alain have been trying to get you to come to a meeting for ages.”

“It sure felt that way,” Patrick says, and knows he’s probably a horrific shade of red right now, but Vivienne seems to be the kind sort who just politely ignores it. He clears his throat. “You’re a member of their ridiculous club?”

“In a way,” Vivienne says, which is one of the least helpful answers he’s ever been given in his entire life, which is saying something when you’re studying philosophy. She grins. “I’ve been encouraging them too, after all I’ve heard. It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Patrick doesn’t like enigmatic people. They have a habit of being enigmatic.

“Anyway, our fearless leader should be here soon, you should go find a seat before people start trickling over,” Vivienne says, which makes no sense until Vivienne adds, “People end up wandering over when Rene starts talking.”

“Ah,” Patrick says. Vivienne gives him an expectant raise of her eyebrows, and right, he turns around and finds that Luc has already staked out a table for him, complete with a cup of tea with the perfect amount of honey in it.

“Really, thank you for coming,” Luc says, and he’s grinning. “I promise you won’t regret it.”

Patrick’s brain is slowly, slowly starting to pick up on the fact they don’t seem all that keen on converting him. And they gave him a very good view. And Luc had been particularly gleeful about getting him here.

Patrick is on his feet with a fist full of Luc’s shirt and towering over him before he even finishes the thought. “Lucien I fucking swear to God if you are trying to set me up with someone-”

Luc raises his hands, trying to calm Patrick down so he doesn’t strangle him. “No setting up, I swear, does this look like setting up, no it doesn’t, you can just – just look at him, okay? He’s at least eye candy for you, I promise, and-”

“I’m going to cut your throat in your sleep and bury your body in a way that makes it look like your mother did it,” Patrick hisses out.

“Oh wow, you’re really angry,” Luc says, stunned, and tries to twist away but Patrick is having none of that, he just grips his deceitful lying best friend’s shirt and shoulders hard enough to hurt him. Almost. “Okay, Alain, please save my life, I’m pretty sure he’s only slightly joking-”

“Or we can all just calm down and you can apologize for manipulating your roommate,” a new voice says, casual and amused, and it pokes at something in Patrick’s brain. And also the oh, that’s a nice voice button.

He knows it’s Rene because Rene is pretty much everything he finds attractive and even worse is that Patrick can see the hint of a tattoo on his collarbone beneath his nice loose shirt and God, there will be no living with Luc after this.

But Alain saves him, putting a hand on Patrick’s arm and pulling Luc away. Patrick ends up grinning at him and doesn’t give him a chance to scold either one of them, he just scoops Alain up into a tight hug that’s immediately returned.

“I was starting to think something went horribly wrong in one of your labs,” Patrick says.

Alain pulls away to grin at him and say, “No stray scalpels or flesh-eating bacterium quite yet, I’m happy to say. What are you doing with your life?”

“Not a damn thing,” Patrick says.

He releases Patrick, but doesn’t stop smiling, pressing his forehead against Patrick’s for a moment before saying, “We’ll catch up after the meeting. I have an hour for lunch, and then I’m back on duty.”

“And you really want to do this for the rest of your life?” Patrick can’t help but ask.

Alain shrugs. “Someone has to,” he says, which is a lie, but Alain doesn’t think of it like that. He thinks helping the unfortunate and downtrodden of the world is a duty, and one he’s happy to carry out even if he’s also in medical school and has a part-time job and gets five hours of sleep daily at the most, including on weekends. Patrick hasn’t seen him in what seems like months.

Alain moves to sit at what is probably his regular seat, close to the window at the front of the room. Luc already wisely skittered away, not quite hiding behind some of the other members, which leaves Patrick standing awkwardly in the corner with Rene the fearless leader of the optimist club standing on the other side of the table. His head is tilted slightly, like he’s trying to figure something out, but he doubts it’s Patrick-related.

“You and Alain,” Rene begins, and oh, yes, that makes sense.

Patrick is always happy to talk about Alain, so he says, “We’re proof that love and romance don’t always go together.” He’s tempted to say he’s like a brother to me but it’d be a vaguely incestuous brother since they dated for three months before they finally figured out those aren’t the same thing, so this will do. And he has no idea why he feels the need to even answer Rene. Probably because of the strange sense of comfortable authority the man wears, like he’s that rare possessor of confidence and actual competency.

“If it makes you feel any better, they’ve been trying to get me to invade your apartment,” Rene offers after a moment. He finishes with a small smile that is just going to completely destroy Patrick if it keeps up. Thankfully, Rene looks away, clears his throat, and turns back to his congregation. Patrick has to be imagining the light blush on his cheeks because otherwise Luc is going to be insufferable forever. And if the way Alain is glancing over is any sort of indicator, he’ll be just as bad to deal with.

It doesn’t take long for the actual meeting to start, or what there is of a meeting at least. Mostly it’s full of plans and minutiae, and then Rene starts talking. Preaching is more accurate, standing in front of a group that grows larger and larger as he creates an image of what the world could be, of the potential in humanity, of the ways they can try to help humanity see its true potential and rise up to be the best of them all, and Patrick fucking laughs.

He doesn’t mean to do it, of course. He was doing just fine sitting in the back and watching Rene weave naïve fairytales about how everyone has a secret saint buried deep inside of them until Rene smiled, eyes shining bright, and said, “We just have to make people find the courage to stand up and help others.”

Rene blinks, stops carving the air into some sort of almost-reachable ridiculous utopia, and turns to frown at Patrick. “Is there something funny?”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. I just laughed because there are a million things wrong with that,” Patrick says.

He honestly thinks that’ll be the end of it. He thinks it’ll move from Patrick’s disdainful attitude with a frown or glare or some simple comment that cuts Patrick down. Instead, Rene says, “With what? The belief that someone can make a difference?”

“God no,” Patrick says. He could pick on that one too, but he doesn’t believe it. What he believes is that Rene is blindly optimistic. “It’s mostly the idea that people are inherently altruistic. I mean, if people were inherently altruistic, there wouldn’t be any problems to begin with.”

“It’s not about altruism, it’s about doing what’s right,” Rene says.

“And who judges that? It’s not like there’s some universal code of laws or definition of right and wrong,” Patrick says, and glances over to Luc’s seat, but he isn’t there. Instead, Patrick ends up looking at Vivienne and another member of the central congregation whispering to each other, looking like this tiny disagreement with Rene is world-shattering. But then Patrick focuses on the part that really gets to him, the part that infuriates him, the part that has his hands clenching into fists that he stuffs into his pockets. “Okay, assuming for a moment that there are some things everyone knows are right and wrong, you’re forgetting the doing part of this. Knowing the right thing doesn’t mean they’re going to do it.”

Rene nods. Patrick expected him to be angry, or annoyed, or something. Instead, he’s smiling, and nods, like he’s conceding the point to Patrick. “That’s the entire point of this organization,” Rene says. “We’re dedicated to helping the people find the courage to rise up and do what’s right.”

“They won’t.” Patrick feels like something just snapped apart in his brain. He has to fight the urge to punch something, to hurt something, and says, “The people won’t fucking rise up, they’ll never rise up, humanity is nothing but pathetic self-preservation and no matter what anyone says or does people will never change, people will never rise-”

“I did,” Rene says. His smile is gone now, and Patrick is probably ripping the lining out of his coat’s pockets. He glances away from Rene, eyes again catching on Vivienne and her friend as they stare at Patrick.

His head hurts.

His heart hurts.

He needs to go to a store and break plates until they get security to throw him out. He needs to scream. He needs to not be here, and he looks around the room and for a moment it twists, shifts, becomes something much more dangerous and dark and bloody and he’s completely helpless and completely furious because it shouldn’t have gone like this it shouldn’t have happened like this and then he sees him, he sees him-

“I’ve got him,” someone shouts, and he falls against someone, into their arms. He doesn’t recognize them, except he does. But he looks into the wary eyes that glance from hair to face to finally look intently into his eyes. “…Patrick?”

He’s fine. He’s fine. Furious, but fine. Patrick shoves away from the surprised young man (probably his own age) and stumbles away. It’s Vivienne’s co-conspirator, reaching out a hand that Patrick doesn’t want to touch.

Luc sweeps in, Alain not far behind. Alain immediately checks his pupils, and Luc knows better than to crowd him, knows better than to touch him, so he quickly smoothes things over with the group, apologizes to Vivienne’s friend as Alain starts taking his pulse and asks him sharply, “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Patrick says, and he wants to push Alain away from him, needs to scream, needs to hurt someone. But it’s Alain, who has one hand against Patrick’s neck and is intently counting down as he watches his watch, and it’s Luc barely restraining himself from a hug, and, Patrick notices suddenly, it’s Rene, too. He’s perched on top of a table, like he’d been ready to leap off, like he’d been literally hurtling his way across the room before Vivienne’s friend caught him.

As Patrick gapes at Rene, Alain makes an amused noise. Rene blushes so brightly he looks a bit like a cartoon devil, shifting down from the table in an elegant twist, even if he looks awkward enough to spontaneously combust. It is quite possibly the most adorable thing Patrick has ever seen.

“Okay, I’m going home,” Patrick says.

“You shouldn’t go on your own,” Alain says, and for a horrible anxiety-inducing moment Patrick thinks they’re going to say Rene can walk you home.

Alain doesn’t have time, though.

“I’ll take him,” Vivienne’s co-conspirator, the one who caught Patrick, says. “I’m going that way anyway, I have to go see if we can use a lecture hall for next week. Besides, it’s not like I’m going to hear anything I haven’t heard before.”

There’s good-natured laughter, and it seems to be the end of the issue for almost the entire group. Luc and Alain (and a surreptitious Rene) don’t immediately take the offer.

“If you want to go, I’ll go with you, you didn’t want to come in the first place,” Luc says simply, and smiles. “Really, it’s fine-”

“No. Stay and do your…whatever,” Patrick says firmly, and it makes Luc snicker, but he nods. Alain doesn’t even need that. Patrick and the conspirator are out the door in less than a minute, and Patrick doesn’t look backwards, even if he thinks he can hear a halting attempt at someone (Rene) calling his name.

Patrick runs a hand through his hair and takes a calming breath.

“I’m going to be fine, you’re just here to make Luc feel better and make sure I don’t have a panic attack while crossing a street,” Patrick tells him, not unkindly. He looks at the man, from his horrible plaid pants to his striped shirt. He’s probably colorblind. “Who are you, anyway?”

“Right, of course, I’m sorry,” the man says, overly excited at the prospect of introductions. “I’m Jean Prouvaire. Call me Jehan. I’m a poet.”

Jehan holds a hand out for a handshake and ugh. Enjolras can’t bring himself to do it right now, but he has to do something, so he balls his hand into a fist and lightly taps the top of his hand.

“Patrick Laurent,” he offers, and has to immediately stuff his hand back into his coat and fights to keep a grimace off of his face.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry, do you – well,” Jehan says, and a strange look comes across his face. “It’s rude, but can I ask why you don’t like shaking hands?”

Patrick sighs, but nods. “It’s just worse after a panic attack,” he says.

“I understand,” Jehan says, almost as if he really does. There’s curiosity to it, though, as if he’s wondered about this for years instead of for the few minutes since they met. “Does it just sometimes feel like your hand isn’t yours? I mean, like it shouldn’t be there?” When Patrick frowns at him, Jehan shrugs. “I have something like that.”

“No, it just feels, I don’t know,” Patrick says. “It feels like touching is wrong, or it’s the wrong touch, or something. Like I don’t want it. And don’t think it’s trauma or something, I’ve always had this. Alain says I’m just touch-sensitive but it doesn’t – Jehan?”

Jehan is standing still in the middle of the sidewalk, staring at Patrick and looking very close to tears. Except, Patrick realizes, he’s not just close, he’s actually crying. It’s a quiet cry, and the fact he’s trying to smile at Patrick makes it even worse. “No, no, I’m fine, I’m just very very sorry that you’re touch-sensitive and I hope it doesn’t bother you too much,” he says.

Patrick has no idea what to say, so he settles for, “Thank you?”

Jehan quickly wipes at his eyes and his smile is blatantly fake, but he’s following quickly enough. The walk is silent until they reach Luc’s apartment, and Jehan says, “Come to another meeting.”

Patrick grimaces.

“Promise me you’ll come to another meeting, Patrick,” Jehan says firmly.

“I promise,” Patrick says.

“See you soon, then!” Jehan says, and grins.

The grin Jehan shoots him is dazzling, and Patrick feels an unprompted burst of affection and a sense of friendship so old and deep that he doesn’t even know what he’s doing before he sweeps the shorter man into a bone-crushing hug. “It’s been so good to see you, Jehan,” he says.

Jehan doesn’t hug back, or laugh, or do anything normal. He immediately plants a hand on either side of Patrick’s face, staring intently into his eyes, and desperately whispers, “Ami?”

Friend?

“I guess?” Patrick says, and it’s just as fast that Jehan draws away, laughing awkwardly.

“Right. Sorry. But I’ll see you soon, you promised,” Jehan says, and leaves.

Patrick should do homework for one of the many classes he’s not actually going to. Or keep looking for a job. Or just any sort of income. Or do something productive.

Instead, he strips down, tosses his bedding over him, and curls back around his pillow.

---

Patrick is as good as his word. He arrives at the next meeting he can bring himself to brave, which is nearly two weeks later.

And for two weeks, everything’s fine. Patrick sits awkwardly in the corner until he can’t help himself but tell Rene he needs to stop spouting nonsense and they end up ripping into each other and Patrick goes home early with Jehan calling out come back next meeting! along with the time and date and place, and somehow Patrick always does come back. Alain is rarely there, but Luc always is, and so is Rene, and Patrick is developing a really humiliatingly big crush on him.

But Patrick becomes one of them, somehow. They welcome him into the fold, and start to invite him out for things as a friend instead of a fellow idealistic idiot. He never goes, of course, but they still invite him.

He doesn’t show up until Jehan is infuriatingly crafty and, with the same come back next meeting! farewell he’s been giving Patrick for the past month and a half, he gives Patrick the time and place of their next friendly gathering.

It’s a bar called the Corinthe, which Jehan’s grandfather founded, and just like every other place the friends bring him, it feels strangely familiar.

Jehan and Vivienne nearly break things when they try to get through the bar to carefully not touch him while they say hello.

Word has clearly gotten around about that, after all this time. It isn’t obvious during meetings, where they all have their own designated spaces in the coffee shop. Patrick has his seat with a view and a cup of tea and brings folders of sources in his ratty old backpack for when Rene gets particularly sarcastic and biting and demands them in that drawling oh you think so, huh? tone he gets when Patrick is starting to get to him. There’s nothing quite as satisfying as physically throwing a twenty page paper onto Rene’s table mid-argument.

But those are meetings. And this is a bar, where they’re all clustered together with loud conversations and shitty lighting and the inevitable press of humanity that comes along with a place like this. They’re all good about it, nobody touches him, and they politely keep other people from even brushing his side. It’s a flawless, sweetly annoying defense.

The only person who has to actually correct their actions is Rene, who, unlike Vivienne and Jehan, did break something when Patrick walked in. It’s a glass of water, thankfully, because Rene doesn’t drink. It’s the only thing that saves his shirt.

It happens during an awkward conversation with them both trying to not argue, which turned into a passionate near-shouting debate sprawling across every discipline and era and had Patrick’s mind spinning gloriously. It’s even better than meetings, it’s so much better. They’re not-quite-insulting each other, and Patrick is trying to explain why Rene is disgustingly optimistic and Rene is trying to explain why Patrick is a jaded asshole when Rene reaches towards his shoulder, and then pulls back.

Patrick wants him to reach, so he shakes his head and says, “It’s okay.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Rene says. “I just didn’t think.”

“That’s not what I – fine,” Patrick says, and does it for him. He sets one of his hands on Rene’s shoulders instead of vice versa.

And it’s fine.

It’s perfect.

He can feel the luxury fabric of Rene’s shirt, can feel the heat of his skin through it, can feel the hints of where bone is beneath muscle, can feel the way Rene tenses beneath his palm. He tenses even more when Patrick keeps staring at him.

“Okay, I’m trying very hard to not ask you out on a date,” Rene says suddenly.

“God, I know. They’d be insufferable for eternity,” Patrick says.

“They really would. But getting coffee together doesn’t count as a date though, does it?” Rene asks. “Do you think coffee counts?”

“It absolutely doesn’t, I can be free whenever you want. Really. Name a time and place,” Patrick says. Which is a really really bad idea, he is probably coming on way too strong, they haven’t even really been friendly to say the least. Rene smiles like Patrick’s given him the moon, though, so he obviously disagrees.

“Well. Do you – not Starbucks, I’m boycotting Starbucks,” Rene says.

“Of course you are,” Patrick says, and finally pulls his hand back, stuffing it back into his pocket and probably blushing bright red.

“Shut up, you, I already know your secret,” Rene says.

Patrick smiles. “Oh?”

“You don’t even drink coffee,” Rene says. It’s soft and smug and he dares to poke Patrick lightly in the chest. But Rene drops it almost immediately, both the finger and the topic. “Right, so. Would tomorrow morning seem too eager, do you think?”

“Definitely, if it was a date,” Patrick says.

“Lucky us,” Rene says, and the minute they have plans to meet late afternoon tomorrow Patrick has to excuse himself and spontaneously combust in front of a maniacally-laughing Luc.

Obviously, the calling-it-coffee plan has failed.

Patrick doesn’t actually mind.

---

Patrick puts way too much thought to his clothes and his hair and brushing his teeth and flossing his teeth and eats half of a breakfast, so if they go to breakfast he won’t be completely bloated and he doesn’t worry about this shit, he really doesn’t. But he really likes Rene and it’s humiliating to see Luc grinning into his cereal.

“Oh fuck you too,” Patrick mutters, and he hates his wardrobe because it’s all cheap and it’s all cast-offs and birthday presents. Still, he ends up turning to Luc, goofy smile and all. “Okay. Okay. How do I look?”

“I’m pretty sure you could walk in wearing a beach ball and he’d still want to get coffee with you. I hear that’s what the kids call it these days,” Luc says.

“Jesus, just give me a straight answer, okay?” Patrick says, and does not start pacing. He’s just rocking from foot to foot. No pacing whatsoever. “I knew I should’ve gone with the green, this is too casual, isn’t it?”

“You look great, Patrick, I promise,” Luc says, affectionate and sincere, and Patrick nods and doesn’t let himself look in the mirror again. He walks out and heads for his getting coffee with Rene. Because it’s just coffee, coffee isn’t anything like a commitment or a statement, it’s just coffee. Patrick can do coffee.

Okay, to be honest, Patrick can barely do flirting. He can argue, and somehow those two things seem to be the same with Rene because he’s just so impossibly wrong about everything, all optimism and sunny skies. Worst of all is the fact he knows it isn’t naïveté that has him like this. Something does, but it’s not blindness to reality. It’s like he just tries to see good in places where Patrick is very, very certain there isn’t any and never will.

People are lazy, and selfish, and cowards, and care about nothing beyond the well-being of themselves and those close to them.

But Patrick isn’t going to argue or do anything but, fuck, what do boys like? Is he supposed to be doing something? He walks into the coffee shop and suddenly realizes how fucking stupid he is for doing this, it always ends badly, Patrick has never dated anyone for more than a week because it always felt wrong. And Patrick might be attractive but Rene is hot and smart and witty and caring and-

“Deep breaths, Patrick,” Vivienne says, out of nowhere, and Patrick jerks away. He hadn’t even realized he was at the counter, and Vivienne is there, smiling and fondly amused.

Patrick frowns. “This isn’t the Musain.”

“I switched shifts with another barista. We local coffee shop baristas have a secret fraternity, help each other out,” she says, smiling. “Tea?”

“Please,” Patrick says. Rene isn’t here yet, which is reasonable since Patrick is fifteen minutes early, and Vivienne is a saint, she doesn’t comment on how Patrick’s fingers are drumming on the counter. She dumps far too much sugar into his tea, just how he likes it, even gives him a sprig of mint in it despite the fact she thinks it’s very wrong and offensive to tea. He clears his throat. “So. What do I do now.”

Vivienne really is a saint, she really is, because she points to a table in front of the large window, where he’ll have a good view of the door. “Now you wait. Patiently. Because you’re still ten minutes early, and Rene’s usually late to everything.”

Which is very true and logical and Patrick sits down at the table Vivienne pointed him towards.

He’s barely put his tea down on the table before Rene comes through the door, nine minutes early and impossibly attractive and looking through the shop for barely a second before his eyes catch on Patrick. And he smiles, like he’s surprised and thrilled to see him, and Patrick is very glad he was already in the process of sitting down.

It takes Rene no time at all to get to the table, and Patrick is so grateful for the fact he can poker face with the best of them. He’s probably blushing but at least he doesn’t look as frazzled as he feels, just takes a sip of tea while Rene elegantly slides himself into the table’s second seat.

“Thanks for coming,” Rene says sincerely, like he didn’t think it was a sure thing. Which it really, really was. He looks from Patrick to the tea and then back at Vivienne, busy behind the counter. He frowns. “Wait, what’s she doing here?”

“Called to duty by the fellowship of the independent Parisian barista, apparently,” Patrick says, and keeps a tight grip on his tea because he has no idea what to do with his hands. What does he say? What does he do? He really likes Rene. “How was your morning?”

“I don’t think I should give you an honest answer to that,” Rene says. “But, okay, here’s something weird that happened. Jehan ambushes me on my way here, and he tells me if anything strange happens, call me. I ask what he’s talking about, but he did that enigmatic thing where he’s all you’ll know when you know.”

Patrick laughs, and since they’re exchanging Jehan stories, he leans forward and says, “He’s a good person, but sometimes I’m not sure he’s always here, you know?”

“Poets are a special sort. But if he’s not all here, where’s the rest of him?” Rene asks, smiling, and leans right back. “Honestly, I think he might be a medium, or some other type of psychic. He can predict things, sometimes knows things he shouldn’t.”

“Like what?” Patrick asks.

Before Rene can answer, Vivienne appears, sliding smoothly between them, and Patrick is furious for one strange irrational moment, catches himself and holds onto his tea while she puts a cup of coffee in front of Rene.

“You’re an angel, Vivienne,” Rene tells her, and Patrick is probably sulking like a five year old, but Rene doesn’t seem to notice, thank god. He gets over himself in time to look normal(ish) when Rene looks back at him. Rene clears his throat. “Right. Enough about Jean Prouvaire. I know pretty much nothing about your life other than that you have an amazing temper and probably the most fascinating mind I’ve ever known, so, what do you do when you aren’t trying to undermine the cause?”

Patrick blushes again. He hesitates, and thinks about lying, but he feels like he can be honest with Rene, like he’ll just absorb the information and move along, so he admits, “Not much. I should be going to class and doing homework and being a good student, but I don’t. Being around people has never really worked out well for me.”

“Because of the touch thing?” Rene asks, like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever heard.

“Partly,” Patrick says. “But I just. I get angry, for the tiniest reason, sometimes for no reason at all, and – fuck, you don’t want to hear this-”

“Yes I do,” Rene says firmly. “I really really do. I want to hear everything. I want to sit here and listen to you read the entire phone book.”

Patrick stares at him.

It takes a moment, but Rene covers his face with his hands. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, that was way too much, I haven’t been on a serious date in a really – not that this is a date,” he says quickly.

“What’s a serious date?” Patrick asks, because Rene is just so cute Patrick is going to start making really embarrassing noises.

“Let’s just ignore that,” Rene says, and drops his forehead to the tabletop. He groans. “Can we pretend I’m suave and charming and just completely sweeping you off your feet or something?”

“Fuck no, this is amazing,” Patrick says. “God, do you have little hearts with our initials in them scribbled on your papers? Mr. Rene Laurent written in big red letters?”

“You’re just naturally merciless, aren’t you,” Rene mutters.

Patrick laughs and kicks him lightly beneath the table, grinning. “Maybe a little bit, yeah. Hmm. Did you name our children?”

“That’s a joint decision, thank you very much, I would never presume,” Rene says, and he raises his head from the table-

(he raises his head from the table)

-to smile at him. Rene kicks back, light and teasing.

He tries to shake off whatever the fuck that was. Patrick is dazed. He tells himself he’s okay, but Rene notices, frowning in concern and leaning forward, barely restraining himself from touching. “Patrick? Are you alright?”

Patrick has to close his eyes and take deep breaths and remind himself that screaming at his own fucked up brain will do no good, and neither will breaking the mug his tea is innocently resting inside of.

“One of the other reasons I don’t do much,” Patrick admits, and rubs at his temples. “I don’t even know what causes them, they just – it’s a flash of something and then I want to rip something apart with my bare hands but no matter what I do it doesn’t feel better.”

“That’s not fun,” Rene says.

Patrick laughs, and then winces, tries to cut it off when he hears the jagged edges to it. “I’m kind of fucked up,” he admits.

“Sure, but only kind of, so I’m not too worried,” Rene says, and somehow it’s the sweetest and most reassuring thing Patrick has ever heard in his entire life. Rene looks like he’s concerned, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He just lets Patrick deal with it, on his own.

“I’m going to kiss you,” Patrick says, because that’s polite.

“Oh,” Rene says, breathes it out with a stunned expression.

The table between them is small enough that Patrick just has to scoot up and lean forward to meet Rene’s lips, and it’s just pressing their lips together, that’s all it is, soft beautiful pressure between them. He means for it to be short, but Rene makes a noise somewhere between a gasp and whimper and it’s short and tight and fascinating. It’s a simple movement of lips, just brushing against each other, and it’s amazing.

This isn’t what kissing usually feels like for Patrick, because he wants, in a way he can’t remember feeling before. It’s some sort of pure spark of pleasure, some tingling that he doesn’t even have and focus on because Rene is touching him and he loves it. It’s sensitive in the best ways. It’s sensitive in the way that he wants to feel every single breath against his lips, and his eyes are closed so he can feel it in a way he’s never, ever wanted to before.

It’s Rene that pulls back, and that’s fine, that’s perfectly fine, except when Patrick opens his eyes, Rene is crying.

Thankfully, they both look just as stunned and a little bit weirded out by this.

“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” Rene says hurriedly, and grabs a couple of napkins from the dispenser on the table to wipe away the tears. “I have no idea – I’m really happy, I don’t know what happened to make my tear ducts explode like this. It’s just like, I don’t know, I just got hit in the heart with a sledgehammer of needing to cry.”

“Maybe this is the weird thing Jehan was talking about?” Patrick offers, and brushes a tear off of Rene’s baffled cheek, because he likes touching Rene.

But apparently, that just makes it worse, because Rene starts actually crying, not just tears. He starts getting the hitched breathing, the blotchy skin, and says, “Fuck, this is going down as the worst first kiss ever. I swear to god I’m happy, I don’t-”

“It’s okay,” Patrick says, and tries to remember how to calm someone down. Except Rene is calm. Fuck. “Do you think you’re going to start hyperventilating? Do I need to get a bag or something or-”

And then Vivienne sweeps in, wrapping her arms tight around Rene and squeezing. “It’s okay, R,” she says, and pets him on the head, and Patrick is definitely not jealous. “It’s okay, you’re good, it’s okay, R. It’s okay.”

“This is so fucking embarrassing, I don’t even know what’s happening to me,” Rene sobs out, throwing his hands up in exasperation. Or as up as he can get with Vivienne hugging him this tightly and looking like she’s going to start crying too.

“Maybe we should postpone coffee?” Patrick offers awkwardly.

Rene laughs, which sounds really gross while he’s sobbing like this. “That might be good,” he manages to say, and Vivienne is rocking him, even though really, from what Patrick can see, it’s just some hormone thing. Maybe.

Still, Patrick pulls out a pen and another napkin, and writes his rarely-used phone number on it. “Don’t cry on this one,” he says, and turns it to face Rene, who lights up like a bonfire, tears and all. In fact, the crying gets even worse. Patrick just sighs. “I don’t have texting or anything, my phone just calls people, so call me when you want to rain check.”

He stands up, and Patrick doesn’t want to leave, but it seems like everything he does just makes it worse. So, he doesn’t put his pen away just yet. While Rene is doing more eye-closed crying, Patrick sneaks a couple of lines onto the napkin.

You’re the first person I’ve ever closed my eyes while kissing, he writes, because it means something, and it’s probably terrible grammar but it’s hurried and probably barely even legible and Vivienne’s too busy looking completely torn up about the situation to have even noticed it. Which definitely works for Patrick.

His walk back is very quick and he can’t even try to process what just happened.

When he walks through the door, Luc is completely stunned to see him. “You – I promise he’s going to show up, he’ll get there or die trying, Patrick, I am not even joking. He’s just running really really late or something, you know how Rene is-”

“He was there,” Patrick says, and groans, rubbing at his temples. “Fuck, that was a disaster.”

“Are you shitting me? You two are so – argh. Okay. What exactly is this disaster?” Luc asks, like he’s about to have to smack some sense into Patrick.

“We kissed-”

“Not a disaster!” Luc says immediately.

“-and then he starts sobbing, like, really really ugly crying for no reason and he’s apologizing and he doesn’t know why he’s crying either and I’m trying to help and then Vivienne jumps in to do soothing shit that I can’t and I just – he was still crying when I left. I don’t even know what happened but it was a disaster, Luc, I don’t know what your definition of disaster is but bursting into tears after your first kiss seems like a pretty definite one,” Patrick says, getting closer and closer to actually shouting.

Luc just stands there, looking (justifiably) stunned. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” Patrick says, and ah yes, there it is, the ever-present anger rears its head. He grabs the nearest hard surface and clenches his hands around it.

“That might actually beat my worst first date,” Luc says.

Patrick goes into his room, slams the door shut, and goes back to bed.

After only god knows how much time, there’s a knock on his door. Patrick almost doesn’t answer it, but he sighs, because there’s no lock. “Come in,” he says instead.

It’s Alain, and the flood of relief at seeing him makes Patrick grateful that he’s already laying down.

“I heard about the date,” Alain says.

“You’re supposed to be off doctoring,” Patrick says, but he’s not going to say no to this. He holds out a hand, and Alain takes it.

There are people in the world that he has no problem touching, like Alain and, to an extent, Luc. They are very rare. Wanting to touch someone, like with Rene, is very new. But this he knows and, secretly, knows he needs.

Alain takes his hand, and climbs into bed with Patrick, curls around him and plays with his hair just a bit.

“I really really liked him,” Patrick says, like it’s some sort of confession.

“This was just some strange chemical imbalance,” Alain says. “Emotions can trigger some very weird shit, Patrick, it’ll all be fine.”

Patrick wants to argue, or get angry, but instead he just curls up with Alain and shuts his eyes and falls back to sleep, because that’s all he really seems good for.

---

Patrick shouldn’t be this bothered. He knows he shouldn’t, knows it makes absolutely no sense – it was nice until the crying, that was definitely good. It was wonderful, and that’s what makes the fact Rene started crying after they kissed even worse, because he imagines what it’d be like to just smile and flirt and never touch, and it hurts. Usually, he’d want to break something, find a punching bag or just destroy something, take one of the many stress balls people have given him and throw it through a fucking window.

Instead, he stays in bed for eighteen hours. Alain doesn’t stay the whole time, which is more than reasonable, god knows he shouldn’t have come over in the first place, but Luc lets him sulk.

Rene is the first person in Patrick’s life that he’s wanted to touch, been eager to press skin against skin, felt something like carbonation roll through his veins when they’re around each other. It’s his first taste of something, of that thing everyone else always talked about, and the moment he’s discovered it, it’s gone.

When he gets out of his bedroom, Luc is asleep on the couch. He jerks awake when Patrick stumbles his way to the kitchen and gets himself a glass of water.

“How are you feeling?” Luc asks, voice fuzzy with sleep but still sincerely worried. Concerned. That’s the word for it.

Patrick makes a bad decision.

“There’s a meeting this morning, right?” he asks, and glances at the clock. It’s barely 5 in the morning.

Luc sits up carefully. “Do you really-”

“I just can’t touch him,” Patrick says, and turns back to look at Luc. “I didn’t touch him for what, a month? A month and a half? I can keep doing that. It’s not such a big sacrifice. I’m good at not touching people.”

“This isn’t just about the crying, is it,” Luc says.

“It could be,” Patrick says.

“But it isn’t,” Luc says firmly. “It’s the touching, isn’t it? Which is fine, Patrick. But you said you kissed-”

“And I loved it,” Patrick says, and has to set the glass down and walk away from it so he doesn’t throw it against the wall. “I think that was what normal people feel when they kiss, or touch, and I just want to touch him all the time and kiss him even more than that, but he cried, Luc.”

Luc doesn’t reply immediately, which is good, it means he’s actually thinking about the question. “I think you should come to the meeting today,” he says simply. “Rene isn’t going to do anything about this because he thinks he did irreparable damage or something, so you should come to the meeting and talk to him.”

He can’t bring himself to say it, can’t admit it, but Luc knows anyway.

“I promise he still wants you,” Luc says simply, like it’s ridiculous to think it could be any other way. He sighs, and stands up, rubbing at his eyes and yawning. “Okay, I’m thinking donuts. You good with donuts? Because we should go get donuts.” He doesn’t even wait for Patrick to reply, just nods and starts stretching. “Right, donuts it is. Go shower, and then we’ll get donuts.”

Patrick showers.

They get donuts.

---

Patrick is slow about getting to the Musain and the meeting, awkward in a way that leaves his heart fluttering painfully. Luc had given him a raised eyebrow and a this is a terrible idea look, but Patrick’s a fucking adult and Luc can just deal with it, so he went ahead of Patrick. And the meeting’s been going for at least ten minutes, enough time that he’s at least ninety percent sure that Rene is already there.

Vivienne is watching him very, very carefully out of the corner of her eye while Patrick awkwardly loiters near the door in just the right spot that nobody in their corner’s meeting can actually see him. And Rene is definitely there, voice beautiful and painting idealistic nonsense through the air, all about the way things can be, the way things should be, and Patrick has to take a deep breath.

Patrick wants to believe, he really does, but there’s something jagged and bitter inside of him that screams to stare Rene down and give him a list of facts and experiences that Patrick doesn’t actually have. Something that wants him to pin Rene to the wall and whisper fool, dark and quiet and looking him straight in the eye. And his hand is clenched into a fist in his pants, listening to Rene.

He closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Vivienne is waiting patiently in front of him. “They’re about to take their first coffee break,” she says simply, like she’s offering up some sort of peace offering.

And Patrick is not a coward, he is many things but a coward is never one of them, so he walks in and hopes nobody realizes how long he was just standing awkwardly by the door.

Rene’s words immediately screech to a stop, mid-syllable, like even seeing Patrick has broken his tongue. Patrick tries to not feel a bit flattered by that, but fails. Luckily, the anxiety keeps him more than a little bit in control of any potential smugness.

He should greet his friends – because somehow, they’re all his friends now. He should say hello to Alain, or glare at Luc for motioning him forward. Instead, he ends up staring at Rene. The only good thing is that Rene is staring right back.

“How are you?” Patrick asks awkwardly. So, so awkwardly.

But Rene jumps on it, quickly says, “I’m fine, I – everything’s okay, I don’t, I mean, I was going to go to the doctor but Vivienne said it’s just stress-”

Patrick winces.

“Not bad stress!” Rene shouts, words tripping over each other as he swiftly weaves through the tables to stand in front of the window with Patrick. “It’s the sort of stress where you worry a lot and then it’s good – it’s so good, Patrick. Please.”

There’s something bright and desperate in Rene’s eyes, like he’s almost in physical pain. Patrick wants to tell him that everything is okay, and Patrick can admit to himself how horribly relieved he is that Rene is here, that Rene is the one moving towards him.

Patrick doesn’t know what Rene is looking for when he stares into Patrick’s eyes, but he must find it. He dares to reach forward, takes Patrick’s hand in his, quietly says, “If you’d let me

and he knows this he knows this

He stands in front of the window he’s scared but he’s not a coward no matter how desperately he wants to run but where would he go what does he have left his friends are dead his cause is useless he’s trapped like an animal in a cage all alone a failure a pathetic failure no matter how hard he tried no matter how firm his resolve and it’s going to crumble he is going to break apart

But he sees him

Sees him rise

Finally really truly sees him

He sees Grantaire

Part II

[FIC] The lightning in me - Part II (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Wed, 04 Dec 2013 02:47:33 GMT

And Enjolras grabs Grantaire’s hand so tightly it could break bone because they are not going to die here and he has something to live for and fight for and fuck the cause, he grabs Grantaire and kicks over the nearest table, throws them both down behind it and tries to keep himself covering Grantaire, tries to keep him safe, holds him tightly.

“Stay quiet,” Enjolras says, even though the guard already knows they’re there, but who knows what Grantaire would say? What he would do?

There’s a lot of noise on the other side of the table, and Enjolras doesn’t dare look.

Grantaire tries to jerk upright, says, “What-”

Enjolras puts a hand over his mouth, keeps him pressed tightly against his chest, and quickly hisses out, “Stay down.”

There’s shouts and names being called and mayhem on the other side of the table and Enjolras wants to look, but instead he tries to figure out how they could get out of here. The window has glass in it, but they could kick through it? And then what, climb down? It’s a terrible idea. They could run for the door, they could-

“Enjolras, it’s okay,” someone shouts, and Enjolras can’t believe it. He heard Jehan die. Oh god, he’s hallucinating. “R, stay down, I don’t – just stay down, stay silent for now. Vivienne, get everyone out before they hurt something. Enjolras?”

He presses his forehead against the back of Grantaire’s head, pressing his nose just lightly against the back of his neck, concentrating on hearing him breathe. Grantaire’s close to hyperventilating, it sounds like, which is understandable. “Thank you,” he tells Grantaire, even if he knows it’s too late. It’s too late for all of this, he didn’t see in time. Or maybe there was nothing to see until now, they missed so many chances until this, this pointless death, trapped in a corner with no choice but dying with desperately false dignity or dying like the scared little boy he tried so hard to pretend he isn’t.

“Enjolras, it’s Jehan, it’s okay, you’re safe,” the phantom says. Enjolras doesn’t look.

Carefully, Grantaire presses his hand against Enjolras’ hand, the one across his mouth, and it’s easier than Enjolras could ever imagine to hold his hand, soft and certain, and Enjolras starts to shake. He tries not to, but he does, and what was an attempt at being one last barrier between Grantaire and the guard becomes some sort of nonsensical embrace, and he is not going to cry. He is not.

But Jehan carefully comes around the table, looking mostly like himself, but so deeply worried that it just makes everything even worse.

Jehan crouches next to him, and says, “You’re safe, Enjolras. It’s over. You’re okay.” He clears his throat. “How you doing, R?”

“I’m fine,” Grantaire says simply. “And so are you, Enjolras.” There’s something awkward about how he says it. “We’re both safe and we’re okay, and it’s over.”

And then Grantaire squeezes Enjolras’ hands, tight and firm and so amazingly reassuring, and fuck, fuck, he starts crying.

He doesn’t know how it happens, but somehow he and Grantaire have completely changed positions, with Enjolras curled in his lap and clinging to his shirt, sobbing brokenly. Grantaire holds him tight. He has a hand buried in Enjolras’ hair, and keeps whispering, It’s okay, you’re safe, it’s okay.

“Just keep holding him for a bit,” Jehan says quietly.

Grantaire nods, and says, “What’s-”

“Now isn’t the time,” Jehan says, something fiercely protective in his voice, and Jehan puts a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. Enjolras tries to focus on him, tries to get control of himself, but he can’t. And he’s a coward, isn’t he, clinging to Grantaire like this.

“You died,” Enjolras tells Jehan. “We heard you die, Prouvaire.”

“I did,” Jehan says. Grantaire’s grip on him tightens, even as Enjolras loosens his grip on Grantaire’s shirt. Enjolras watches Jehan kneel on the floor next to them, patient and calm. “You’re not at the barricade. Nobody’s going to hurt you. It’s over. You’re safe, Enjolras. We’re all safe.”

Enjolras feels very cold. “We’re all dead.”

He remembers – a firing line, the loud crack of gunfire, trying to keep a hold of Grantaire’s hand as he fell, and Jehan grabs Enjolras’ head, pulls him sharply away from Grantaire and says, “Don’t, don’t, stop right there, Enjolras. Don’t try to remember.”

“Is this the afterlife?” Enjolras asks.

“Kind of,” Jehan tells him, and lets go. Grantaire gets a hold of his shoulders, and when he tries to stand, Grantaire helps him, Jehan keeping a steady eye on him.

They’re in the Musain, that much is obvious, but it looks so different. Jehan looks different. Grantaire looks different. They’re obviously the same people, just…different.

“It’ll come back to him,” Jehan says quietly, to Grantaire, and Enjolras steps away to look at the café.

There are carpets, and padded chairs, and no guns, no blood, nothing ripped apart by bullets and battle and Enjolras’ foolish belief that it would work, blind optimism that got his friends killed one by one, and if he hadn’t seen them die he’d heard them, and Enjolras grabs a still-warm ceramic cup full of hot tea and throws it against the wall, and it doesn’t help. They died, and he failed, and it’s his fault, his own ignorance, watching blood and death, and he screams, grabs a wooden chair and smashes it against the wall, because there has to be some wreckage, this isn’t right, this warm comfortable place where everything went wrong. It had turned into hell, it turned into a massacre, and Enjolras had proudly led them right into it.

He was naïve, he was disgustingly hopeful, he was desperately holding himself together and holding Grantaire’s hand because he offered, and Enjolras finally understood, and so did Grantaire, and that was one tiny moment, barely seconds of thinking, he believes, and thinking, I don’t deserve this, and holding hands, that was all he got, death and holding hands, and he tosses what’s left of the shattered chair across the room. The few pieces that had somehow managed to stay together as he slammed it against the wall over and over again break apart and fall to pieces on the floor.

Enjolras stands there, panting, and starts to cry again.

“I should be dead,” Enjolras says. He turns to see Jehan looking sympathetic but unsurprised, while Grantaire looks like he himself is going to start crying. Enjolras points at the floor, at the Musain, at living. “I should be dead, Prouvaire, I shouldn’t – I don’t get to be alive.”

Jehan looks very, very confused.

Grantaire, on the other hand, takes a deep breath and stretches a hand out, towards Enjolras, open and welcoming. “We’ll figure this out,” he says, firm and confident and reassuring, like the Grantaire that Enjolras always suspected was hidden down deep inside of him somewhere. Even this close to tears, Grantaire seems strangely in control of himself.

He takes Grantaire’s hand, and uses the other to wipe at his eyes, because this is Grantaire.

Carefully, Grantaire asks, “Patrick?”

Enjolras has no idea what he’s asking about, or who he’s asking for. He says, “I’m glad you’re with me, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s face falls into something crushed and broken for a moment, but he takes a long shuddering breath and nods to himself, like he just got an unwelcome answer to a question he didn’t need to ask. “We’ll figure this out,” Grantaire repeats.

For some reason, Enjolras feels like Grantaire is looking straight through him.

---

Grantaire and Jehan sneak him out the back door of the Musain for some reason, and Enjolras nearly falls over when he steps outside at how bizarre everything is, how very wrong it all is.

But then some part of his brain says, no, here. Let me help. This is what this is, this is where you are. It takes only a moment, and then cars are cars and people have phones and it’s perfectly normal for women to wear pants.

“You with us?” Jehan asks.

Enjolras runs a hand down his face, tries to shake off the strange sense of vertigo, and nods. “Yeah, I’m alright,” he says. The world seems strangely distant, and it makes the walk to Jehan’s small apartment feel like it takes no time at all.

“So this is what, a split personality?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras is sitting on the couch, staring out of the window at the Eiffel Tower. He knows what it is, he knows facts about it, could give directions based on its location, but it’s still seems like some alien entity someone surgically implanted into Paris. “This guy, Enjolras, he’s – what is he?”

Jehan hesitates, but says, “He’s Patrick’s past life.”

“Patrick,” Enjolras mutters, and tries to think. The name pokes at his mind. Patrick. Grantaire asked him about Patrick, is – Enjolras is Patrick? Enjolras doesn’t have a clue what’s going on, but maybe. Maybe. He turns to look at Jehan. “Past life?”

Jehan sighs, and gestures Grantaire over to the couch Enjolras is already sitting on. He sits awkwardly, and Enjolras has to fight the urge to touch him, to make sure he’s real or something. It’s ridiculous.

“My name isn’t actually Jean Prouvaire,” Jehan says. “Not technically, at least. I was born with a different name. When I was seventeen, a group of men backed me into a corner, and I – I don’t quite know what happened, but then I was Jean Prouvaire, and I have been ever since. I ran away from home because I couldn’t stand being called my other name, couldn’t stand being around people who didn’t understand.”

Enjolras can’t help but grab onto Grantaire’s hand again. He feels like a fool for it, but Grantaire’s an anchor.

“I don’t know how you died, Enjolras. I was already gone by then. But for some reason, I just sort of assumed that when everyone was together, all there at the Musain, that everyone would just remember,” Jehan says.

Enjolras thinks. He holds on to Grantaire’s hand and thinks, back to the Musain – not his Musain, this one, the welcoming den where he tries to remember back. It’s hard, but when Enjolras twists everything in his mind, it makes sense – Grantaire was the leader, and Enjolras was the cynic in the corner, full of a bitter rage that he couldn’t understand but oh, Enjolras definitely does.

“Enjolras?” Grantaire asks, that same hesitation to his name when it’s supposed to sound like Grantaire doesn’t want to let it slip between his lips, almost like it hurts to say.

Because Grantaire has no idea who Enjolras is.

It hurts, and it’s – it’s no fault but his own, is it? It’s just the mark of a true overachiever, that he didn’t get around to falling in love until he was getting shot. And it hurts to know that right now, Grantaire doesn’t know who Enjolras is. He knows some part of him, some, god, Enjolras doesn’t even know what this Patrick version of himself is like, but that’s who he wants.

“I was someone else,” Enjolras says. There’s so much hope in Grantaire’s eyes, and it stabs into his heart, because Grantaire and hope don’t go together, and it’s hope for Enjolras to stop being Enjolras.

“You still are,” Grantaire says, like he thinks he can coax Patrick back out of Enjolras like Enjolras is just some blanket that got tossed over Patrick and all Grantaire has to do is pull it back off.

Grantaire doesn’t want him.

Enjolras shuts his eyes and tries to stay calm because Jehan couldn’t know, he already said that he didn’t know, and how could anyone? Grantaire himself might not even know.

“We wouldn’t want to remember,” Enjolras says. And Jehan looks confused, like that never occurred to him. He lets go of Grantaire’s hand, leans forward on the couch to look Jehan straight in the eye. “We didn’t die nobly like you did, Jehan. The only one of us who died bravely was Grantaire. You, and Grantaire, and that’s all. I died angry, at myself, at the guard, at humanity in general, and it’s not the sort of thing you want to remember. What did you think was going to happen if we remembered? We’d all laugh, have a reunion party? Swap stories about what it feels like to get shot?”

Jehan doesn’t say anything.

“I shouldn’t be here,” Enjolras says, and gestures over at Grantaire. “I’m supposed to be what’s his name, Patrick? I’m supposed to be Patrick, and I’m not supposed to – this is supposed to be our second chance, isn’t it? Isn’t that what reincarnation is about?”

“I don’t presume to speak for fate, or God, or whatever brought us back,” Jehan says. “But I don’t believe that we’re meant to be ignorant of our pasts. You’re supposed to know.”

“But I don’t want to know!” Enjolras shouts at him, and he remembers more and more of Patrick by the second, glances over at Grantaire, who is Rene, but he’s Grantaire. “I’m supposed to fall in love and figure out my life and get past the rage, not remember the cause of it! I’m supposed to adapt and have the chance to grow up and not be angry about something that happened two hundred years ago, I would just – I’d just live quietly. The world doesn’t need me, Jehan, it never needed me, even before I died. I was just fooling myself. There’s no point to Enjolras.”

“Yes there is,” Grantaire (or Rene, he supposes) says quietly. He glances over at Jehan. “I’m Grantaire?” Jehan nods.

“No you’re not,” Enjolras says. “You’re Rene. You’re all of the best things about Grantaire.”

That’s what Enjolras should think. He knows that. Rene is everything Enjolras was disgusted to see rotting away inside of Grantaire, a potential for greatness he thought would never be realized. But here it is, sincere and bright-eyed and sitting on the couch next to him.

Patrick was quickly falling in love with him.

Enjolras looks at Rene, and sees nothing but some sort of idealized caricature of Grantaire. He’s all of the things Enjolras thought he wanted, until the end. Until he really finally saw him.

“If I remember, why don’t you?” Enjolras asks.

Rene frowns. “What do you mean?”

There must’ve been something crucially different when they died, Enjolras decides. And if he finds that, if he does that, Grantaire might come back to him.

Grantaire died before him. Probably less than a second, barely a heartbeat, but it could be the difference.

Rene sighs. “Listen, Enjolras. I barely understand what’s happening here, but I do know that you weren’t – aren’t – pointless. If he died bravely, he did it because you were there.”

It’s sweet, and kind, and Enjolras wants Grantaire, not this sugar-coated Grantaire Lite who feels like a cardboard cutout with all the right words when Enjolras wants the wrong ones. He wants acid and blunt eloquence and bitterness. Grantaire is bitter, and Rene is sweet, and the thought of tasting that is very wrong.

“You want Patrick, and I want Grantaire,” Enjolras tells Rene. Rene nods and doesn’t look even a little bit guilty, doesn’t try to reassure Enjolras that oh no, he’s just fine too.

Rene is sweet, but he obviously isn’t that sweet. Or not with this subject, at least. “You already said yourself that you shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“I know. But I’m here, and I’m going to be selfish, because I want a chance with Grantaire,” Enjolras says. He swallows. “And I want Grantaire to have a chance with Grantaire. At the end, he was becoming-”

“Me,” Rene says. “He was becoming me, and you were becoming Patrick.”

It’s probably true. Still, Enjolras shakes his head and stands. “Good luck to us both, then,” Enjolras says, and ignores Jehan’s protests when he walks out the door and into the alien yet familiar streets of Paris.

---

When Enjolras gets back to Patrick’s apartment, he barely gets his keys out of his (Patrick’s) pockets before Luc – Courfeyrac – flings the door open and pulls him inside, arms wrapping around him immediately.

“You’re okay? Are you okay? Shit, I’ll-” Courfeyrac steps back, gives Enjolras enough space to breath, but still ends up patting at him, like he has to reassure himself that Enjolras is there. “What happened? Is there anything I can do to help? Do you need anything?”

Enjolras looks at Courfeyrac for a long moment. The last he saw of Courfeyrac, he was quickly dying on a wooden floor. This version of him is happy, with not a single militant thought in his head.

He also doesn’t remember what it’s like to be terrified to such a primal depth that you can’t think beyond trying to survive, and then dying afraid.

No, Courfeyrac shouldn’t wake up. Courfeyrac should definitely not wake up. He should stay Luc.

Enjolras grabs Luc by the shoulders and pulls him into a firm, rough hug, because Courfeyrac is alive, even if it’s in this little way. And Enjolras will not cry, because Courfeyrac – Luc – needs to think there’s nothing wrong, he needs to have absolutely no chance of remembering.

He does end up shaking, though. “I’m glad you’re okay,” Enjolras lets himself say. His voice is rough, shaking just as hard as the rest of him, but Courfeyrac hugs back, and it’s a good hug. It’s warm and reassuring.

“Hey, I’m fine, and so are you,” Courfeyrac says. “We don’t know what happened, but we decided normality was the way to go. Alain is camping out in my bedroom, though. Just in case you weren’t up to dealing with two people.”

Combeferre.

Combeferre’s here too.

Enjolras steps away, but still keeps a hold of Courfeyrac’s arm, towing him into Luc’s bedroom, and Combeferre is sitting on the bed. He looks tightly coiled, ready to spring forward at any moment, and the moment Enjolras walks through the door, he does. With Patrick, Alain was always the person he was okay with touching, and now he’s grateful for that. Combeferre hugs him like he’s keeping Enjolras from drifting away with an invisible current.

“Are you okay?” Combeferre asks.

Enjolras watched him die, listened to him make a pained, stunned half-gasp before falling.

He should say he’s fine. He knows that.

“No,” Enjolras says instead, and it all comes back. They died. They all died, because Enjolras was a complete fool. He’d thought he was ready, he’d thought he had prepared for everything, thought that maybe, maybe one or two of them would die.

He’s not sure what happens, only knows that the grief and guilt and horror resurfaces like a slap in the face. Enjolras is crying again, and he can hear the frantic confusion in Combeferre and Courfeyrac’s words as they try to be soothing.

But Patrick wouldn’t be doing this.

He squeezes his eyes tightly shut, refuses to think of Combeferre and Courfeyrac falling – no. No, he’s not doing that. He’s not.

Enjolras steps away and wipes at his eyes quickly, and there’s no way they could possibly believe him, but he still says, “I’m okay.” Enjolras doesn’t dare look at them. “I’m fine. I’m going to take a shower.”

Courfeyrac makes a protesting noise, but Enjolras is gone too quickly for him to hear what else follows. He can’t do this. He can’t face Courfeyrac and Combeferre and lie to their faces about who he is and how he’s feeling, can’t stop seeing them die and then remembering how he’d kept going, he’d run, didn’t stop retreating until there was nowhere else to go and he was trapped, completely helpless.

Enjolras gets into the bathroom and shuts and locks the door, and strips out of his (Patrick’s) clothing as quickly as possible. He turns the shower on as hot as it gets and suddenly he can smell gunpowder, can feel the heat leaving his body, and he has to scramble into the shower and under the spray. He stares at the tile wall and tries not to remember.

He should’ve stayed dead. Enjolras doesn’t doubt it for a moment. He should’ve stayed dead, should have done so many other things. They shouldn’t have died in the first place. He threw their lives away on some pathetic belief that he could change the world, that he could inspire people.

But he did.

Enjolras desperately grabs onto the thought, the fact. He focuses on Grantaire. He sags against the wall, turns the shower’s temperature to something that doesn’t feel like he’s under a scalding waterfall. He thinks of Grantaire. He didn’t have to stand, didn’t have to believe, but he did. He let himself believe in that moment, even when it was all shot to hell, and he believed in the cause, and he believed in Enjolras, and they died together, but they died together.

He manages to actually clean up, then. He washes off the panic-driven sweat, and pretends he doesn’t imagine washing other things off as well. He pretends he isn’t washing ancient gunpowder out of his hair.

He had seconds with Grantaire, at the most. Still, those seconds somehow make the rest of it something he can survive with, because this, this is his chance. Their chance. Nobody else needs to remember, nobody else would want to, but he knows this is their chance. Grantaire wasn’t in the battle, he was just there at the very end. There wouldn’t be any suffering or horror to remember.

Enjolras gets out of the shower and towels off, and doesn’t even think when he walks out of the bathroom naked.

Unsurprisingly, Patrick doesn’t like having bare skin. Patrick avoids it at all costs, and that’s not even starting on walking around naked. He speed walks right past his two completely stunned best friends. It’s a very short walk, thank god. Enjolras closes his bedroom door as quickly as possible, and curses himself for his stupidity, but it’ll all be fine. It will.

Patrick’s wardrobe is full of subdued, dark colors, with an occasional white or a very rare red. The red garments are shoved into the back corner, as if he’s ashamed to even own them. Enjolras shakes his head, thinks coward, and then has to sit down for a moment when he remembers how much of a hypocrite he is. It’s inexcusable to call Patrick a coward over clothing choices when Enjolras only kept up his courage at the end because of Grantaire.

He dresses simply, and after a long moment of staring into the drawers and thinking much too hard about bravery in the face of wardrobe changes, he picks out a dark maroon shirt.

By the time he’s out of his bedroom, Combeferre and Courfeyrac look like they’re about ready to have an intervention for him.

“Patrick-” Combeferre begins, but Enjolras holds up a hand, and he cuts off.

He reminds himself that this isn’t Combeferre. It’s Alain.

“I’m not okay,” Enjolras tells them. “But I’m going to fix it. There’s nothing you can do to help, but the thought is appreciated. You are the truest friends anyone could ever ask for, and I’m so grateful for every moment I had – have with you. I need to go speak with Rene, and then I’ll be back.”

“He’s involved in this too, isn’t he,” Courfeyrac says. “When you had the, uh. Shit. What are we calling that?”

“His episode,” Combeferre says. He makes air quotes around the words.

“Right. During your ‘episode’, you were grabbing on to him like your life depended on it. Is he alright?”

“That’s what I mean to find out,” Enjolras says.

---

He leaves Rene a voice message to meet him at the first café Enjolras comes across. He spots the first sign attached to a place with food and picks that for their meeting. It’s barely 1 in the afternoon, and they’re still far from the end of the lunch rush. It’s loud, and crowded, full of angry people in a rush, and Enjolras remembers running desperately into the Musain, remembers what few survivors there were pushing through the doorway, trying to fight. Trying to survive. And Enjolras had failed them all.

“Jesus, Enjolras,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras hadn’t realized his eyes were closed until he opens them to stare into Grantaire’s eyes. Rene’s eyes. There’s so much hope and confidence in him, so many things that would be easy to fall in love with. He sets a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder. “Let’s go somewhere else. Do you want to go to the park, or just take a walk, or what?”

“Take me home,” Enjolras says. Rene goes very still, and after a moment, Enjolras realizes what that probably sounded like. “No, not like that. I meant to just get somewhere safe and private.”

“That makes a lot more sense,” Rene says, with a sense of self-depreciating humor that makes Enjolras grab onto his arm and think, Grantaire. But it’s still Rene, who is sweet and considerate and wraps a protective arm around his shoulders until they get onto less crowded streets. Even then, he still stays close.

Enjolras is so grateful it’s almost embarrassing.

“So,” Rene says, looking at the ground instead of at Enjolras. “From what I’ve come to understand, you are Patrick’s past life. And you died in a very violent way, with my past life.” He dares to glance over. “Back then, were we-”

“No,” Enjolras says, and stuffs his hands into his pockets, because Rene is not Grantaire. “We should’ve been, but I – it was too late.”

Rene nods. “This happened during a war?” he asks carefully.

And Enjolras has to laugh, because otherwise he’ll start crying again. Either way, it’s not a pretty sound. It’s bitter and humorless and ends in a choked noise. “It had aspirations of being a war,” Enjolras says, and has to stop walking for a moment to get a hold of himself. Grantaire is here – or Rene is. He’ll do for now. “I tried to start a revolution. I tried to change the world. All I managed was getting my friends killed.”

Rene is quiet for a long moment. “I don’t think they’d see it like that,” he says. “Jehan obviously doesn’t see it like that.”

“Jehan didn’t see how it ended,” Enjolras says, which isn’t fair. It’s completely unfair to Jehan, so he adds, “He was the bravest of us all.”

They walk into Grantaire’s building – Rene’s, this is Rene, not Grantaire – and it’s not a very nice one. His apartment’s on the third floor, and Enjolras doesn’t know what he expects. Probably paints and canvases and bottles, a complete mess, expects to see the home of someone who gave up on impressing guests long ago. Instead, it’s tidy to the point of unnerving, like nobody actually lives here.

Rene notices how stunned Enjolras looks, and sighs. “Cleaning is therapeutic. I’ve needed some therapy recently,” he says, which yes, makes sense. A terrible date with Patrick followed by Enjolras rising from the dead could definitely cause a cleaning binge. Rene shuts the door behind Enjolras and takes his shoes off, which Enjolras does too, since he refuses to be a bad house guest. He might be a bad everything else, but this at least he can do.

“You don’t paint?” Enjolras asks.

For some reason, Rene looks completely stunned. “I, um. I do digital art. And photography. I don’t really paint, it always – I used to, but there’s a weird push of emotions that kind of freak me out,” he says, and then smiles awkwardly. “I’m guessing that’s Grantaire?” Enjolras nods. “He wasn’t a happy guy.”

Rene doesn’t drink either, Enjolras remembers. He sighs, and sits down on Rene’s couch. “Grantaire has a lot of problems. Alcoholism, for one,” Enjolras says.

“Well, I have that too,” Rene says simply, which is definitely a surprise. “I’ve been sober for almost five years now.”

“That’s amazing,” Enjolras says.

And maybe that’s the biggest difference. Maybe, in the end, this is what Grantaire would be?

But Rene sits on the other end of the couch, and Enjolras looks right into his eyes, and no. A sober Grantaire would be even more stunningly brilliant, effortlessly eloquent to the point of unintentional poetry with every sentence, much like Rene when he really gets going, but he wasn’t a creature of hope. Not until the very end. Rene is Grantaire if he was sober, and a fool, just like Enjolras used to be.

“You look at me, and I know you’re looking deeper, trying to find him inside of me,” Rene says, and shifts to sit closer to Enjolras on the couch. “From what Jehan explained, you took over Patrick’s body because you relived your death, somehow. Or you felt something like it.”

Enjolras nods. It’s close enough.

“But you and Grantaire died together,” Rene says, as if Enjolras could have forgotten. “Together. If he didn’t wake up with you, he isn’t going to wake up any other time.”

“He will,” Enjolras says. He just has to figure out how. Enjolras knows it’s true. If he calls, if he asks in the right way, absolutely nothing would stop Grantaire coming to him.

“I fought very hard to become the man I am today,” Rene says, and his voice is starting to get rough, like he’s fighting the urge to shout. “If you expect me to just roll over and let your…your little-”

Enjolras lunges forward and grabs him by the collar of his shirt before he can get out whatever he was going to say after little, because fuck no. “Grantaire died for me, you are not going to insult him. I don’t care how mad you are. I don’t care how frustrated you are. I don’t care how much better you think you are than Grantaire – or how much worse I am compared to Patrick. Be as pissed off as you want, but never demean him,” Enjolras bites out.

They died together. They died together being brave for each other and Enjolras doesn’t care whether or not Rene is Grantaire reincarnated, doesn’t care if it’s Grantaire’s face looking stunned right in front of him.

Enjolras releases him, and stands up. He wants to start pacing. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair and steps away, moves towards the window and looks out on a Paris that is incredibly different. The Eiffel Tower. The smoothly paved streets. The way people have so much more freedom but seem as if they don’t even appreciate it, and don’t care about the people below them. They only care about themselves, and even then, they only care until it gets to be too much effort.

“People will always need change, and always be too scared to fight for it. There’s no point in even trying,” Enjolras tells Rene. It’s a beautiful view. At least the gardens, Enjolras knows, are the same. Some things, Paris will never allow to change. Clinging to royal gardens and trying to keep the grandeur is one of them.

Rene says, “That’s one hell of a cynical viewpoint, for someone who tried to change the world.”

Enjolras knows it’s true and can’t even muster up the urge to be upset about it, or regret it, or do anything but feel completely exhausted.

What if he’s trapped here? What if he’s stuck like Jehan, dead yet alive, out of time and place and looking at his friends’ faces and seeing slivers of them in their new lives?

What if he’s wrong, and it’s nothing but Enjolras and Rene until one of them dies again?

Enjolras should’ve stayed dead.

But he didn’t. And if Enjolras has to be here, if he has to come back and survive, if he has to take this second chance, he’s going to take it. He shouldn’t be here, this shouldn’t have happened, but he’s going to face it head on no matter how fucking terrified he is.

He turns, and looks Rene straight in the eye, defiant and determined even though he feels like it’s all hopeless and he’s so stupid, this was all a mistake he will never be able to fix.

And Rene looks completely stunned for a moment, and stands.

Enjolras is going to say something, declare his intentions all over again, do something, but Rene slowly sags to the floor looking completely helpless.

He looks at Enjolras like he’s impossible, like he’s a miracle, and breathes out, “Enjolras.”

But he says it right, says his name like it means something, and it’s Grantaire in front of him. It’s Grantaire who looks ready to faint and looks terrified – and it’s reasonable. Fuck knows Enjolras was scared, he still is, and he almost trips over his own feet trying to get to Grantaire, and it is Grantaire. There’s not a single shred of doubt, because of the way Grantaire’s wide eyes follow him and the way Grantaire says his name and the way he looks completely lost. It’s Grantaire, and Enjolras doesn’t know how it happens but he’s holding him tightly, bent over and hugging his shoulders with Grantaire’s head pressed against his chest and it’s a horrible position, but it’s Grantaire.

“I knew you’d come back, I knew you would,” Enjolras says, and Grantaire has Rene’s slightly shorter hair, but it’s close enough. The important thing is that he buries his fingers in Grantaire’s hair and feels him breathing, feels him shake, feels the stubborn weight of Grantaire’s hair. “Thank you.”

“You’re alive, you’re alive,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras lets himself fall to his knees so he can hold him, and look at him, and it’s Grantaire. He keeps repeating it, and Enjolras tries to think of something he could say to make it better, but what could he say?

“It’s over,” Enjolras says, but that doesn’t seem to be what Grantaire needs to hear. He still hasn’t cried. He’s just stunned and shaking and clinging. “It’s okay now. We’re safe, I promise, it’s all okay.”

“Did it happen?” Grantaire asks. “I didn’t – it was real. Wasn’t it? It.” He laughs frantically. “It definitely felt real, Enjolras, but. You’re alive. We’re alive.”

“Sort of,” Enjolras says, even though he probably shouldn’t.

Or perhaps he should, since Grantaire chokes out another laugh, although it’s much, much safer than the previous. “Of course there’s a sort of,” he says, and he tries to pull away, which Enjolras isn’t ready for. He just holds tighter, and Grantaire is patient with him. His grabbing at Enjolras has turned into a careful embrace. “It’s okay, Enjolras.”

“You’re not supposed to be reassuring me, that’s supposed to be my job,” Enjolras says.

There were a lot of things he wanted to say, things he wanted to do, but now that he actually has Grantaire back, Enjolras can’t remember them. Enjolras can’t think beyond the feeling of Grantaire’s hair softly tickling his cheek when he presses Grantaire’s forehead against his collarbone. Grantaire goes more than willingly, and lets out a small contented noise.

Absently, Enjolras realizes that Rene probably got a haircut before his date with Patrick.

And he has Grantaire now. He wanted Grantaire back just as desperately as Rene wanted Patrick, but really, they don’t belong here.

“Do I get to know what the sort of alive means, or are you just going to hug me on the floor for eternity?” Grantaire asks. “Let that not be taken as an objection, just a question. I am definitely not objecting.”

Enjolras considers not telling him, but that’s not fair to any of them. All four of them.

He considers telling him part of the truth. He could leave out Patrick.

And if Grantaire decides he’d rather be Rene, what guarantee is there that he could go back? Jehan certainly didn’t.

“You should know,” Enjolras says.

It would be so much easier if there weren’t the small differences between Grantaire and Rene. He’d never noticed how unhealthy Grantaire looked until he saw Rene’s golden health. The hair is shorter. The body is less muscular, and infinitely more controlled. Rene was fastidious with his personal grooming recently, to say the least, and it’s like seeing Grantaire drinking in his usual seat while wearing a tuxedo.

Grantaire pulls back, and this time, Enjolras lets him.

There was always something wrong when he looked into Rene’s eyes, but this, this is Grantaire. He’s bitter intellect and acidic wit, something that feels dangerous to try and hold for more than a moment.

And Enjolras tells him. He tells him about Jehan, first. Enjolras moves on to Patrick after that, and the rest of their friends, and then he hesitates. Enjolras wants to just stop there, let Grantaire reach the obvious conclusions. He doesn’t want to have Rene anywhere near Grantaire’s thoughts.

But Grantaire quietly says, “Tell me about him.”

Enjolras doesn’t know as much as he should, doesn’t know enough to be certain Grantaire will really know about Rene. Everything Enjolras has from personal experience is tainted with the endless frustration that Rene isn’t Grantaire, and everything Enjolras can really understand from those strange splinters of Patrick are skewed from his huge crush.

“His name is Rene. He’s a leader, and brilliant, and an optimist, and he’s almost exactly what I wished you were, before. This is where he lives,” Enjolras says simply, and motions at the apartment.

They’ve moved onto the couch, laying down with Grantaire in some position that’s half sprawled across Enjolras and half pressed tightly against the back of the couch. Enjolras is physically incapable of stopping his hand from combing through Grantaire’s too-short hair over and over again, and Grantaire doesn’t exactly seem like he wants him to make any effort to stop.

“What do you mean, ‘before’?” Grantaire asks. Enjolras knows he wants to ask other questions, but won’t. Enjolras is grateful. He’s not sure he could answer them.

“I didn’t see you, really,” Enjolras says. “I saw what you could be, and saw what you weren’t, and saw what you did, but I never looked at what you are. And I don’t – he’s this fucking believer, Grantaire, he’s going to save the world from itself, it’s-”

“So he’s you, basically,” Grantaire says wryly. “Are you sure we didn’t swap bodies when we were reincarnated?”

Enjolras thinks of the rage that Patrick can barely keep down half of the time, of the nightmares he pretends he doesn’t have, of how he feels guilty and scared and always, always angry. He thinks of Rene’s I did, and how Rene knows his demons and fights constantly to conquer them.

“I’m sure,” Enjolras says quietly, and holds on to Grantaire tightly. He’s practically squished against Enjolras’ neck, but they don’t mind. Not in the least.

“There’s no point in asking why you wanted me back when you could have him, so I won’t,” Grantaire says, and before Enjolras can object, Grantaire puts a finger over Enjolras’ lips. “But I will ask why you wanted me back. Why wake me up when you knew it was horrible for you?”

It’s a messy question, but a fair one. It’s terrifying, too. But it shouldn’t be. Grantaire must know, there’s no way he could possibly not know. Enjolras clears his throat, and Grantaire obligingly removes his finger. “I wanted a second chance,” he says. “I wanted to – we should’ve had more than two seconds to be in love, we should’ve been able to talk, or something, but we didn’t get to. I wanted to apologize. I wanted to have time to, God, I don’t even know what. I just wanted time.”

“We do have a second chance,” Grantaire says simply. “We’re just not Enjolras and Grantaire.” He lifts his head to give Enjolras an amused look. “It’s an entire lifetime for a second chance. That’s not exactly something to whine about.”

“I’m not whining,” Enjolras says.

“Of course you aren’t,” Grantaire says, and leans back down. This time, when he’s tucked against Enjolras, his lips very, very lightly press against his neck. “You already know what I’m going to say.”

Enjolras doesn’t want to admit it, but he can feel Grantaire’s breath against his skin. “We’ve barely had an hour together,” Enjolras says quietly.

“Versus a lifetime,” Grantaire counters. “We don’t belong here, Enjolras. Patrick and Rene do.”

“And how do you know we can even get them back?” Enjolras asks.

“Of course we can get them back,” Grantaire says. “Maybe even happier versions of them, if we’re not kicking around in their heads.”

“We wouldn’t disappear,” Enjolras says. “We would still be kicking around, we’d just be trapping ourselves.”

“Christ, you turned into a pessimist,” Grantaire says. “Are you really making me be the positive one here, Enjolras? I’m not made for rose petals. Did you feel trapped for the past however many years Patrick’s been alive? Did you feel anything? No. You were busy being Patrick.”

“You just have to be right, don’t you,” Enjolras says. “And how exactly do you think you can pop them right back in?”

“Before that,” Grantaire says, and stops.

Enjolras wants to shift and look him in the eye, or pull Grantaire up to watch his expression. Instead, he says, “What happens before that?”

“I want to see Paris. I want to see our friends. I want to…god, how do I put this. I want to – I want two hours, three at the most, to just be alive with you,” Grantaire says. “Would that be okay?”

“Of course it would,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire nods, and is quiet for a long moment before he adds, “We don’t have to do that right away, though.”

“No, we definitely don’t,” Enjolras says.

Grantaire moves, smiling softly, and Enjolras finds he isn’t as much of a coward as he thought.

---

“This isn’t going to work,” Enjolras says.

“Yes it will, go get your coffee,” Grantaire says, and puts the Rene envelope on the café’s small table.

“It was tea. Patrick doesn’t like coffee,” Enjolras says, and lets out a small sigh before putting the Patrick envelope down.

“Oh my god, are you – they’re even stupider than we are, aren’t they?” Grantaire says, stunned.

“And yet, they didn’t have to die to get together,” Enjolras points out.

Grantaire shrugs, easily conceding the point.

Grantaire has no problem with having died. He died happy, which still makes something soft and warm trickle through Enjolras every time he thinks about it. Grantaire died happy, and he died believing, and he died with Enjolras. Knowing that has done something to Enjolras. He’s still bitter, still disillusioned, but he had one person. He didn’t fail. He had Grantaire, and in those few beautiful, terrified moments, they had more than anyone else in the world.

Being reincarnated isn’t all bad, Enjolras supposes, and fetches himself some tea at the counter. Euros, he can’t help but think grimly. The world is a very different place, and Patrick is welcome to it. 24 hours of it has been plenty.

When he gets back to their table, Grantaire has the Patrick envelope open and is reading the letter. Enjolras snatches it out of his hand the minute he’s in range. “We agreed-”

“What can I say, I’m a rebel,” Grantaire says, and snatches it right back. “You could’ve made it sound less like a to-do list, you know.”

“Patrick is me, and I am Patrick,” Enjolras says simply. “He’ll appreciate it.”

“If you say so,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras hasn’t seen what’s inside the Rene envelope. He put a short note inside of it, and Grantaire put a much longer note in the Patrick envelope, and Enjolras can’t think of anything else they need to do. Not really. Nothing beyond this, which Grantaire is one hundred percent certain will work. Enjolras isn’t, but it seems as good a shot as any.

Grantaire puts the letter back into the envelope and leans back in his chair, drinking his coffee like it’s alcohol. He looks so completely Grantaire in that moment that Enjolras has a fierce burst of no, a sudden wave of conviction that they shouldn’t do this, they should just be Enjolras and Grantaire, no Patrick or Rene involved. Enjolras doesn’t doubt that they could find a way.

But Grantaire leans forward and smiles at Enjolras, bright and hopeful, and no, this is the right thing to do.

“You know, I’m happy for them,” Grantaire says simply. “They’re doing this right.”

“Kind of,” Enjolras says.

“Jesus, you’re such a fucking pessimist now,” Grantaire says, and reaches forward, holding his hand.

And it feels –

Fuck, no. No. Grantaire is still Grantaire, and Enjolras will not leave him alone.

“Try and believe again, maybe,” Grantaire says. “At least believe in them. God knows they’re going to need all the help they can get.”

Enjolras thinks of Patrick, scared and angry and broken and bitter. He’s the worst of Enjolras.

But Rene is the best of Grantaire, and if Enjolras can love him at his worst, Rene can do the same.

“They’re going to be a fucking disaster,” Enjolras says, incredibly cheered by the idea of the two of them floundering around in everyday life together. “Oh god, can you imagine living together?” It’s sheer schadenfreude glee at the thought of stress-cleaning Rene and completely apathetic to organization Patrick trying to survive without murdering each other.

“Yes, I can,” Grantaire says softly.

There would be massive fights, but there would be warm beds and shared breakfasts and coming home to the man you love. It would be difficult, infuriating, and completely worth every single screaming match.

God, every single part of him wants that. Every part there ever could be, past, present, or future. He aches for it.

He leans forward, and barely manages to whisper, “I’m going to kiss you now.”

There’s a not-quite-gasp, a hitch in already shaky breathing, and it’s some chaotic blend of fear and elation and anxiety closing the distance between their lips. They press together softly, it’s beautiful, gentle, perfect pressure

And Patrick never wants it to stop.

He couldn’t open his eyes even if he wanted to, even when Rene pulls away. His lips tingle, and he loosens his grip on Rene’s hand in favor of letting his fingers brush against the top of Rene’s hand.

“Patrick?” Rene asks.

He feels drained and on fire all at the same time, and opens his eyes slowly. Rene looks anxious, to the point that Patrick ends up smiling. It’s weak, but honest. “At least you aren’t crying this time,” Patrick says.

Patrick can’t name the emotion that crosses Rene’s face, just that it’s lightning-fast between shock, and relief, and determination, and Patrick doesn’t have time to see what else because Rene drags Patrick forward and kisses him fiercely. His tea falls and spills across the floor, and Patrick doesn’t give a fuck because Rene kisses like a wildfire and Patrick is ready to just climb into his lap and kiss him like they’re dying all over again.

Rene separates to breathe and say, “I thought I’d lost you, I thought-”

“You didn’t,” Patrick says firmly. “You never will. If it happens again, we come back again. It’s that simple.”

“That’s shockingly optimistic for you,” Rene says.

Patrick smiles at him, and has to kiss him. He has to, there’s no way he could ever do anything else.

He can’t remember all of it. He can’t remember most of it, really, and the things Patrick can remember make him almost grateful for it. Enjolras is – was? – not a pleasant person to be. He has a landfill full of issues to deal with. Patrick might be kind of crazy, and touch-sensitive, and have an obnoxiously cynical viewpoint of the world, but he would choose to be Patrick over Enjolras in a heartbeat.

“They left fan mail,” Rene points out.

“I don’t care,” Patrick says.

He doesn’t know how to word it. He feels like he’s lived his entire life with a boulder hanging around his neck, and it’s disappeared, and he could fly off from happiness. There’s no ever-present fury. It’s still there, still simmering, but it’s not all-consuming. It’s a bonfire instead of a whole fucking forest burning to the ground. He kisses Rene again, wraps his fingers around the base of Rene’s skull and feels him move as they drag their lips together.

Someone nearby clears their throat, and Patrick freezes, because he remembers they’re in a café, and this is not an appropriate place to make out. He blushes bright red, humiliatingly scarlet, which just makes it worse. He’s so glad he doesn’t drink coffee because now there will never be another reason to ever come back here ever in his entire lifetime.

Rene, on the other hand, bursts out laughing.

“It’s not funny,” Patrick says, and Rene only laughs harder. “Oh my god, it is not funny, you – shit, let’s get out of here, okay? Just take me home.”

Rene still can’t stop laughing, but he manages to subdue himself to snickering. He grabs the envelopes and stands, and Patrick is more than happy to follow his example. Tea is still spilled all over the floor, and the man behind the counter looks very unhappy with them, but that just makes Patrick blush more and Rene start laughing again. “Okay, out the door, we’re leaving,” Rene manages to say, and hooks an arm around Patrick’s waist. “And what exactly are you going to tell Luc about being temporarily possessed by the spirit of your previous life?”

“I’ll say it was a waking night terror or something. I’ll figure it out,” Patrick says firmly. And he will.

Rene is still grinning, and gives him a doubting yet still amused glance. “You’d better start figuring fast, you don’t exactly live far from here,” he says.

Patrick frowns, and then clears his throat, because that’s fine. That’s absolutely fine.

“Oh,” Rene breathes out. “Oh, you meant – oh. I am so okay with that if you actually meant what I think you meant. I think.”

“Oh thank fuck, I was going to die,” Patrick says.

Rene says, “Let’s not do that quite yet. I don’t want to wait another two hundred years.”

And with that in mind, the walk back to Rene’s apartment doesn’t feel too long at all.

---

It takes Patrick a good two weeks to be willing to open his envelope, because he really doesn’t want anything to do with Enjolras. But, Rene keeps giving him giving him an expectant look and refusing to open the Rene envelope before Patrick opens his, even though Rene’s envelope is much, much thicker.

They’re sprawled on Rene’s bed when Patrick just groans and says, “Fine, give it to me.”

Rene has it in his hand with a puppy-like excitement barely three seconds later, and god, Patrick can’t deal with how ready to start jumping on the bed he looks.

“Don’t you try to be inspiring and someone people can believe in?” Patrick mutters, opening the envelope.

“Not right now I don’t,” Rene says. “What’s in it?”

Patrick rolls his eyes, and holds up a grand total of two things – one small slip of paper, and one two-page letter that’s written in a perfect cursive that definitely speaks of 1800s. He sighs at the sight. His life is stupidly complicated. He can appreciate how straightforward it is, though.

Patrick, it begins.

I apologize for the complications you have to deal with in your life because of me. As you probably know by now, most of the nightmares are from me. The rage is, too. To be fair, you’d be angry too.

A few notes for you:

Actually do something with your life. You’re studying philosophy and enjoy philosophy, and would enjoy your classes. Go to them. ~~Gra~~ Rene can encourage you.

I didn’t know it, so you might not: Rene is a recovered alcoholic. Support him or I WILL find a way to make your life hell. Again.

You underestimate yourself. I fucked up so deeply that it’s affecting my reincarnation, but I did something amazing. Even if it was terrible. You are much more than you think you are.

I have no idea how you are 100% French, yet named Patrick. Disregard any advice your parents ever give you, they’re obviously idiots.

Hug every one of your friends at least once a week and be grateful you have them. Each and every one of them is a miraculous act of God and deserves to know that. Since that’s unlikely, and probably awkward for you to say when you haven’t had to watch them all die, hugging will suffice.

Take care of Jehan. I don’t know how he’ll react to all of this. He’s the bravest of us all.

Be brave. Wear red.

There’s probably a man somewhere out there who used to be Marius Pontmercy. I don’t know if he’ll ever show up, but keep an eye out for anyone clueless and in need and help him. He’s a good man. Introduce him to Courfeyrac/Luc.

Never ever ever ever EVER get in a fight and avoid violence at all costs I will probably pop back up and neither of us want that.

I don’t quite know what might rouse Grantaire, but if he comes back and you don’t wake me up I will do something particularly nasty to you.

In the event that you do end up in a fight or any sort of violence, remember that I will probably pop back up, and I do know what I’m doing. I have accepted the fact that I am incredibly traumatized. This means that if I wake up in a fight, I will almost definitely finish it, regardless of who it’s with. Be careful.

Take care of Rene. I don’t know enough about him, but I know Grantaire, and Grantaire has many, many problems. Some of these undoubtedly carried over – if alcoholism did, who knows what else. Watch out for him.

Love your friends.

Love Rene.

Love yourself.

Love living.

Regards,

Enjolras.
d. 1832.

P.S. No relevant medical history I can think of, I was relatively healthy, you’re also older than me now so good luck with aging, try to avoid tuberculosis.

Sometimes Patrick is so incredibly grateful that he will never actually talk to Enjolras, because he is so, so weird.

When he looks at the small slip of paper, it’s a scrawl, but the same quill-ready writing, and obviously from Grantaire.

Dear Patrick…

You are brilliant, you are loved, you are beautiful, you are capable of more than you would ever believe, if anyone tells you otherwise they are a liar and you should let Rene punch them.

DO NOT WAKE ENJOLRAS UP.

- R

When he shows them to Rene, he makes an approving noise. “I like Grantaire,” Rene decides.

“You would. He sounds like an asshole to me,” Patrick says, and gives Rene an expectant look.

He opens the Rene envelope, and what seems like dozens of photographs fall out. Two small papers fall out along with them, and as much as Patrick wants to sort through the pictures, Rene picks up the papers and reads them before handing them over to Patrick.

Rene, Enjolras’ handwriting begins.

You are a good man. I can only imagine the things you struggle with daily, and I can do nothing but be amazed and humbled by all you’ve achieved. You already know my feelings on the Rene vs Grantaire debate (or lack thereof) but allow me to say that you should be proud of yourself, and I am proud of you.

Take care of Patrick, he’s kind of messed up.

- Enjolras

The second letter is definitely from Grantaire.

New living me -

1. I am very proud of you for being sober. If I wake up again, I make no promises I can keep that up, so try to avoid that.

2. I heard I made you cry when you kissed Patrick. For explanation: there was a lot of pining involved with Enjolras. Years of it. You should be grateful it was just crying.
2a. You have it so good with Patrick you have no idea I will never forgive you if you fuck this up.
2b. Seriously I will rise from the grave to strangle you if you hurt him I am not even joking.

3. You’re leading our friends. Don’t be stupid. When in doubt, ask Alain and Luc and Patrick. But mostly Alain and Luc. Which you already know, but I’ll repeat: ALAIN AND LUC KNOW BETTER THAN YOU EVER WILL.

4. Try painting again.

- Old dead you

“I don’t even know what to do with that,” Rene says when Patrick is done reading it.

Neither does Patrick, so he just moves on to the pictures without comment.

The pictures are of varying quality, and Patrick can tell quickly enough that the quality changes with the time of day. Grantaire started learning photography, and he picked it up very quickly.

There are a lot of pictures.

The first is blurry and terrible, and the only reason they can make out what it is comes from the fact it’s a picture of the bed. It’s incredibly strange, almost queasy, to see a picture of his own face when it’s so different. He’s pretty sure it’s Enjolras drooling into a pillow, and it’s an incredibly horrible picture. It’s crooked and out of focus and makes Rene wince.

They quickly improve, though. There’s a series of three experimental pictures, where Grantaire is obviously figuring out the camera. One is the street outside of Rene’s bedroom window through the glass, another is the same street after Grantaire had the good sense to open the window, and a third is Grantaire starting to get a hold of focus.

Then there’s a hilarious selfie of Grantaire squinting into the camera’s lens. It’s followed by Grantaire taking a picture in the bathroom mirror.

And then Grantaire moves on to Enjolras.

The window is still open. It’s afternoon, and Enjolras is sprawled inelegantly in bed (“I knew it,” Rene says) and Grantaire is definitely getting the hang of this photography thing. He frames it like a painting, straight on and focusing on lighting.

Patrick assumes Enjolras woke up after that, since the next picture is Enjolras scowling directly into the camera while he’s eating cereal.

“I have no idea why Grantaire decided to keep the terrible ones and then skip through the other pictures he must’ve taken when they got out of the apartment,” Patrick says.

“Oh, he’s showing off,” Rene says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “You know, ‘I’m 200 years old and I’m still a better photographer than you’.” He pauses. “Grantaire really is kind of an asshole, isn’t he?”

“Yep,” Patrick says, and he has pictorial evidence, because there’s a picture of Enjolras staring open-mouthed at woman in shorts on a moped.

There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire out on a walk. There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire carefully eating sushi. There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire on the Eiffel Tower. There are pictures of Enjolras and Grantaire eating cotton candy. There are pictures of Enjolras shouting at someone on a raised platform, and the entire group had turned to look only at him.

Don’t wake him up again or you might be out of a job, cynic with PTSD or not – R is written on the back of that one.

The final picture is obviously posed, or planned, at least. They’re standing in front of the window and Enjolras looks terrified, grabbing on to Grantaire’s hand with both of his own. Grantaire has his eyes closed and looks like he’s in physical pain while he kisses Enjolras’ cheek. Enjolras looks like he can’t even feel it. He is rigid to the point of almost passing out and staring at the camera like it’s a firing squad.

On the back, Grantaire wrote, E&R, d. 1832.

Thanks for one day more.

[FIC] Fatalitas! (Joly/Musichetta, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta; G)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 03 Dec 2013 23:15:11 GMT

Author: mickkey_bones (AO3)
Title: Fatalitas!
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Joly/Musichetta, Joly/Bossuet/Musichetta
Rating: G
Summary: The year is 1905. Joly, Bossuet, and Grantaire stage a robbery, and consider themselves gentlemen burglars; Grantaire considers the inevitable end of their professional careers.
Warnings (if any): burglary, anarchy
Total Word Count/Length: 2,598w
Original prompt number: #29
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): The title was inspired by a common phrase used by Gaston Leroux in his French pulp novel series Chéri-Bibi; it's also common in prison tattoos of the era.

The story itself was inspired by the activities of anarchist gangs in the Belle Epoque, and the character of Arsène Lupin, gentleman cambrioleur, who was in turn inspired by an anarchist named Marius. It all comes full circle.

( Read on AO3 )

[FIC] What Goes Around, Comes Around (Gen; PG)

rueplumetmod — Fri, 29 Nov 2013 20:37:06 GMT

Author: Wallflower (AO3)
Title: What Goes Around, Comes Around
Characters: Jean Valjean, Javert
Rating: PG, I think.
Summary: Valjean's past comes back to haunt him.
Warnings: Um. This was written in two pieces and then stuck together, beware of the seam? I can't think of anything else.
Total Word Count/Length: 2,919
Original prompt number: #26
Author's notes: The author is dissatisfied with the quality here, but my beta reminds me that I'm always dissatisfied with my work and she likes it anyway. Constructive criticisms welcome, is all I can say.
Beta: Asselin.

( Read on AO3 )

When the new inspector arrives at the factory one morning, Madeleine’s first thought is: I know this man. He forces it aside, standing very still as he gazes upwards to this man who stands so straight and tall in his dark greatcoat, impassively returning Madeleine's gaze. He looks like someone Madeleine remembers. Like someone who knows who he is.

Someone who knows... That face...

He shakes his head violently to clear it of foolish thoughts and makes his way to the stairs leading to his office. He hears the low hum behind him of curious voices gossiping, the clatter of the craftsmen at work, but all that seems surreal when compared to this man who reminds him of his past.

“Monsieur,” the man says as Madeleine enters the room, and bows briefly in a manner that can only reinforce how very tall he is when he straightens. His gaze is penetrating. “I am Inspector Javert, formerly of the Paris police. I trust you were informed that I was arriving?”

Madeleine stares at him for a split second, resisting the urge to ask the first question that comes into his head: Do I know you? “You are very welcome here, Inspector,” he says instead. “This town will profit greatly from your presence.”

“Thank you.” After a pause, Javert says, “Somehow I feel as if we have met before, Monsieur.”

As do I, thinks Madeleine.

“I find it doubtful, but..." he begins, then falters, fearing himself transparent in asking but too uneasy to do otherwise. “Are you Parisian yourself, or did you perhaps live elsewhere in your youth?”

"Paris was an opportunity, Monsieur. Nothing more. Surely you can understand, as Monsieur le Maire tells me you came up from the southward countryside before settling here to make your fortune."

Suspicion is not the thing flickering in the inspector's gaze, though it isn't far off. The eyes themselves are a shade of pale, piercing gray that squeezes suffocating fingers around the pounding of Madeleine's heart. It is an uncommon color, one he has seen only once before, and then in the eyes of a galley slave.

Madeleine lifts and lowers one shoulder slowly. "At times there is little hope of fortune if one cannot travel to greener pastures. A poor man flees his poverty."

"And a rich man his conscience," parries Javert with an aborted arch of his lip that could have become smile or snarl. "We all have our burdens to bear, Monsieur, but you do seem to be bearing yours more ably than most."

Cold sweat prickles down Madeleine's spine. Indecision seals his mouth as he searches the inspector's gaze for some sign as to whether the words are meant as insult or implication. Or compliment?

Inscrutable, Javert continues into the quiet, "Monsieur le Maire speaks well of you; he suggested I make your acquaintance and I see it was good that he did so. I should hope to make your life and business more secure, if it is in my power, and to see you continue on as fine as your workers say you have begun in Montreuil sur Mer. Good day, Monsieur."

His bow is as perfunctory as the first. Madeleine is left frozen behind his desk with damp palms and a dream-like sensation of having been flung out into empty space. The sound of Javert's steady footsteps fades away down the stairs and across the factory floor below.

**

He avoids crossing paths with Javert as much as he can manage and, apparently preoccupied with rooting out Montreuil sur Mer's darker vices, the Inspector allows him his space, though his gaze often seeks Madeleine across streets and through crowds. From afar, Madeleine watches and tries to convince himself of the ridiculousness of his suspicions.

There was once a boy in Toulon, lean and cunning as a feral cat. He shared Jean Valjean's chain and his labor, said nothing of his helpless tears during those first, unbearable months in the bagne, only nudged him roughly in the right direction until he began to understand the daily routines. Not a soft boy, not even a gentle one, but the lack of malice in his hands had seemed as comforting as a caress in that place where every other touch seemed to bring pain.

The Inspector was not that boy. He cannot have been.

But his eyes... and that arch of the lip that is not a smile. In Toulon he would have shown his teeth and perhaps a guard would have struck him for insubordination.

An ex-convict cannot become a police inspector.

Why not, if an ex-convict can become a wealthy and well-respected citizen?

It is nothing like the same thing, the process would be far too complicated and risky. For Valjean to tear up his parole papers and become Madeleine was simple by comparison, yet only by the grace of God had he managed to escape scrutiny upon entering Montreuil sur Mer. A police inspector would be forever under the eyes of his fellow officers, in constant danger of running across an old acquaintance from his prison days, or of being called to testify against one. Forged papers can only solve so many problems for a man.

Javert cannot have been that boy.

**

In a small town, two people can avoid each other for only so long. It is this that Madeleine tells himself when he almost literally runs into Javert coming around a corner one evening. Javert murmurs an apology, stepping aside to make room.

“I did not expect to see you out so late, Monsieur,” he says. “Are you returning home?”

It takes Madeleine’s brain a moment to properly process the question. “Yes, as a matter of fact,” he replies, and nods quickly as he makes to brush past Javert, hoping to be out of sight before the man begins to taunt him again.

“Good,” Javert says as he passes. “The nighttime is for thieves and policemen...not upstanding citizens such as yourself.”

Madeleine pauses mid-step. "Do you have some complaint to make of me, Inspector?" he asks tightly.

"Several," Javert replies, blunt as can be. "But none that are fit for airing in such a public venue."

"Then perhaps we should go elsewhere and speak plainly, once and for all." The words should terrify him. Their finality is what he has fashioned so many lies to escape, but resentment is stirring, a flush of heat he can feel in his cheeks. He avoided Javert these past weeks because he was afraid, of the truth, of his own deceit, but that fear is nowhere to be found. Stubborn temper fills its place.

Javert only smiles his disquieting smile in the dark. "Choose your ground."

"I? You yield the advantage."

"Do I?"

As if there could be any advantage in this madness. Still, if there is, it belongs to the man who stands so brusquely amused on the brink of it, and the location of the plunge will change nothing.

"...Very well. The factory has closed for the day and the workers gone home. Come, we can talk in my office there without fear of interruption. Or eavesdroppers."

**

Apparently at his ease, Javert stands before the desk in the small office as if preparing to give a report. He had refused Madeleine's invitation to be seated, claiming he was more comfortable on his feet. The only suggestion of unease is the restless stroke of his fingers through the dish of wood shavings Madeleine keeps for blotting ink.

"Toulon is never as far behind us as we like to think," he remarks conversationally, making Madeleine flinch in surprise. "We both have a great deal at stake, too much to prevaricate any longer. I think you will agree that trust is key to our lives continuing as they are in this place, but we have no reason to trust each other yet."

"Have I seemed so untrustworthy since you came to Montreuil sur Mer?"

"On the contrary. A more trustworthy face I have known only once, before Toulon, and it belonged to the most treacherous snake I ever had the misfortune to believe in. You see my dilemma."

"Then I hope you realize mine. When we were in - " He tries but his mouth can not produce the name that rolled so easily from Javert's tongue. The thought of speaking it brings a shudder, and he amends, "When last we knew each other, you did things beyond my comprehension, with no explanation, and I trusted you then to do me no harm. But that was years ago. Where have you been since then? What have you done? And what of Montreuil sur Mer? These people are innocents, if you mean them ill by this - "

"Innocents!" With a contemptuous hand Javert flicks away the notion. "You have been too well schooled for such fairytales, 24601."

Madeleine recoils. Torn between anger and dread at the address, he winds his hands tightly together beneath the edge of the desk, white-knuckled and trembling. "Do not call me that, Inspector! I am not that man anymore. How would it please you if I called you by your number?"

"It might indicate a level of honesty we are sorely lacking. You know I am not an inspector, of police or anything else."

"Honesty, you say! But it does not come so easy in this."

An unsettled laugh jolts out of him as he considers the absurdity. "Inspector. Inspector Javert. Good God, what were you thinking? We thought you fearless in the galleys but nothing you did there compares to this bit of brazenness!"

"It was not so hard as all that. Javert was indeed the name of an inspector sent from Paris to help police Montreuil sur Mer. He forfeited it and his papers to me, so now they are mine, fairly won."

"You cannot expect me to believe he just surrendered his identity to you and disappeared, without any trouble?" Madeleine sobers abruptly. "You didn't..."

He doesn't recall having seen his old chain-mate offended before.

"Killing a man to get what you want from him indicates a dearth of imagination," Javert pronounces with exaggerated care, as if speaking to a dullard. The silver of his eyes is chill, insulted. "Did I not tell you the man was an inspector, and should you not know what sort of poor, patched sloven that suggests? I made him a handsome offer and he accepted. That is all."

The silence that follows remains, both of them unwilling to break it for differing reasons. The anger that had spurred him into breaking cover now slipping away, Madeleine contemplates his companion and the rush of the old, wary fondness locked up in his chest with nowhere to go. Javert has paced to the window, ducking his head to stare out at the darkness, shoulders stiff, perhaps realizing only now how very uncertain of him Madeleine has been these past months.

"I am sorry," Madeleine tells him finally. "But I truly know nothing of you but the boy you were in - back then. We were neither of us very fine human beings at the time, and I know too well the sort of monster I could have become."

"Yet here you are, tender as a lamb. Tell me, what happened?"

"Not long after I was released on parole, I stole the Bishop of Digne's silver."

Javert barks a startled laugh, turning back from the blackness outside, and Madeleine smiles a little in reply.

"I was caught, of course. But the Bishop lied to the gendarmes to have me set free and made me a gift of the silver I had stolen. He said my soul was bought for God with that silver."

"So the holy man gave you a miracle."

"Yes," he agrees, disregarding the sardonic tone. "I was given God's mercy by the hands of the Bishop of Digne, but later that same day I stole yet again, from a child. That was what finally struck through to me; I saw what I had become and it sickened me. I broke parole and left my name behind me. Since then I have tried to be worthy of the grace shown to me, but unlike you I had no papers when I arrived here, 'borrowed' or otherwise. There have been a great many lies to cover for that lack."

"That is what brought you here?"

"The parts no one else can tell you, yes. I assume you have already gleaned everything else from one person or another, of my arrival and establishment."

"With ease. Small towns are very loose-tongued."

Curious, Madeleine rises from his seat and leans forward, his hands braced on the desk. Javert has retreated into silhouette, a sliver of new moon casting its light through the window at his back, the tumble of dark hair over his forehead throwing shadow over his face. He stirs.

"It is a strange tale you tell. I hope you will not be too disappointed if there is no divine intervention in mine."

"You are free and whole, is that not enough?"

"Perhaps." Javert blows a sigh and begins, "For a year after my release, I abided by the law. I worked an honest job for the pittance offered, obeyed the man in charge of my parole though he was as corrupt as the guards in Toulon, tolerated the contempt of my neighbors, and starved as nobly as I knew how, but by the end of that first year the conditions I found myself in had well and truly palled. So I exposed some of my parole officer's choicer misdeeds to the public eye and slipped away during the eruption that followed. There was a forger in Paris who had worked with me and my family in the past; he helped me to disappear. New papers, a clean record."

"How did you ever pay him?"

"With my savings. Inadequately, to say it plain, but it left me utterly ruined until I could find employment to finish paying him. For a few months after that I made my living within the law. What little spare time I could find was for learning, from borrowed books or on the streets, and I thought it best to focus on memorizing the laws of the land. Thus it was very annoying to find myself jailed again. No need to look so, the crime was not mine. My forger had decided that I should pay off my debt by helping him execute a certain illegal venture; when I refused he framed me for it. The prison sentence was not long, so I decided to serve it out before committing the crime I had been imprisoned for."

"You what?"

Javert pauses to give him a scathing look. "I evened the scales of Justice," he paraphrases, "if you prefer to think of it that way. It was not particularly profitable, but the man responsible for the whole affair agreed to help fund my departure from Paris in return for remaining free of the police. That was when I met the inspector whose place I have taken. To have such purpose in my life and duties has been a great satisfaction, however dangerous the part I play."

He falls quiet again.

Busy absorbing a nostalgic sense of shock, Madeleine can only shake his head wordlessly. He recalls having been unnerved by the sheer, energetic cunning of his chain-mate when he bestirred himself to acquire tools or plot escapes for the others, but that was in Toulon, almost another world where men were driven to extraordinary lengths on a daily basis. It had not occurred to him until now that the same spirit might be far more intimidating when expressed in ordinary surroundings.

They observe each other across the barrier of the desk.

"I learned enough of the law to perform my duties well," says Javert steadily. "And though I have not believed in innocents since I was very small, I swear to you that I have no interest in harming this town. If honesty is difficult in this matter then trust will be slower still to build - but understand that if I have my way, my past will remain behind me this time."

The man has been Montreuil sur Mer's inspector for months without attracting undue notice except by the merciless speed with which he reduced the petty crime by the docks. He has settled without complaint into what is at once a thankless, dangerous, and ill-paid job, and though he understands mercy as little as he did in Toulon, he has held himself to a standard of conduct quite as high as the one by which he measures others.

Yes, trusting each other will still take a long time. But mercy is not so hard to learn, and the boy was always swifter than Valjean to grasp a concept.

Stepping cautiously out from behind the desk to join the other man by the window, Madeleine reaches across the distance between them. "Whatever your past held, you must know that I have no desire to turn you in. Or to drive you away. If you are truly willing to continue honorably as Montreuil sur Mer's inspector, I would be very glad for you to stay on."

Briefly, Javert considers him and the proffered hand. Then closes the distance to grasp it. "Monsieur Madeleine," he says, and makes his swift, not quite mocking bow over their joined hands.

Madeleine dips his own head gently in return. "Monsieur l’Inspecteur."

[ART] I See You (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG)

rueplumetmod — Thu, 28 Nov 2013 22:34:26 GMT

Author/Artist: standbymi (AO3)
Title: I See You
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire
Rating: PG
Summary: n/a
Warnings (if any): n/a
Total Word Count/Length: n/a
Original prompt number: #49
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): Art fill for Mika's I See You :)

( View on AO3 )

[FIC] Of Freckled Constellations and Words Written in Dust (Grantaire/Jehan; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Thu, 28 Nov 2013 02:43:36 GMT

Author: killhimwithyourawesome (AO3)/kilihimwithyourawesome/Hewhoknowsbest (tumblr)
Title: Of Freckled Constellations and Words Written in Dust
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Grantaire/Jehan
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sometimes bad days are the best time to remember the reasons you have each other.
Warnings (if any): inferred Eating Disorder, Alcohol, Self-Hatred, self-harm
Total Word Count/Length: 1072w
Original prompt number: #32

( Read on AO3 )

Grantaire found his sunrise muse on the bathroom floor of their flat, crying into his sweater sleeves as he curled himself into a tight ball. It wasn’t abnormal, per-say, for Jehan to be in tears.

This, however, felt like one of those abnormal times.

The artist slowly set his bag down, approaching the poet just as slowly. “Jehan?”

The younger man’s head shot up, and he proceeded to sob harder, reaching out for Grantaire who instantly and willingly scooped him into his arms and held him tightly.

“Sweet muse, what is wrong?”

“I fucked up,” was the small response, so fragile. “I truly fucked up.”

~

This cycle of pickups and drop offs had begun 2 years previous when Grantaire had told Jehan he looked like he belonged in a Rococo painting. Jehan had denied it fervently on the grounds of “Bourgeoisie Symbolism” and Grantaire knew he would simply love this boy.

They bonded over rich coffee and history texts, over romance and justice. They bonded over the arts and they bonded over the sciences. Jehan wrote poetry up Grantaire’s arms and Grantaire painted constellations in Jehan’s freckles. There are words about dust crawling across Grantaire’s spine, and Jehan’s freckles have been turned into mythological tales on his right shoulder, both forever inked into their skin and minds. Grantaire learned how to braid flowers into sunrise colored hair and Jehan knows the different ways to prepare canvas. They dance the tango to whatever the radio will play at three in the morning until they are left breathless and craving a cigarette that they take together on patios or rooftops.

They counted the stars and Jehan listened as Grantaire recited every myth he’s ever learned straight from memory –down to the most miniscule detail – of heroes and queens and monsters and suddenly Jehan understood those patterns etched into his skin. He heard stories of a child whose parents wanted too much of him, of a boy who was a man far before his time, who took up drinking because it was easier to disappoint then it was to breath clean air and think clear thoughts, and suddenly the reason the stars meant so much to Grantaire was just as obvious as the scars that lined his wrists, there for all to see if only they looked close enough.

And Grantaire heard words weaved together, about the sunrise that brought new days and the sunset that ended the ones too hard to bare, and about dust. He heard a lot about dust, about how gravel turned to dust beneath feet, about how dirt paths sprayed dust when the wind got too strong and about how a boy, so small and fragile sometimes wished he would turn into dust. And the words that looped around his ribs in the beautiful handwriting of his best friend made him want to cry, and he had them permanently added to his body as a promise to help carry his best friend through the hard times, to help him eat when it got to hard and praise his progress and carry him when he fell.

~

Grantaire had gone into full coddling mode.

Jehan had been placed their bed – a nest, more like it, thanks to Grantaire’s love of blankets and pillows to an end that made having a mattress almost unnecessary – bundled up in his favorite blankets. Tea was brewing -the only thing Jehan could digest after an episode - and Grantaire was resisting the urge to give into the shaking of his hands. Tea made and poured into Jehan’s favorite cup - the disaster from Grantaire’s ceramics class that Jehan insisted on keeping – and Grantaire was slipping himself into the nest to wrap himself around the shaking poet.

“How are you feeling?” He murmured softly, holding him close as Jehan drank from his cup.

“’m sorry…” Jehan whined softly, burring himself into Grantaire. “’m sorry…”

“No more of that, you have nothing to apologize to me for.” Grantaire took the half empty cup from Jehan’s shaking fingers, placing it safely outside the nest. “Talk to me.”

And Jehan did talk, and he talked in prose and he talked in speeches. He rambled and he burst into tears until Grantaire silenced him with a kiss, waiting for the tears to slow once more and the boy to curl into him.

And this, Grantaire realized as he pulled a blanket over them – a ragged old thing with books that Jehan found at a yard sale – and fixed the pillows at their heads – dyed from the many paint fights that ensued over the year of officially living together, – turned off the lamp – a lava lamp, a joke from Courfeyrac that Jehan had placed next to their bed with all the seriousness of Enjolras in the midst of a speech – all of this was what they were made of.

They had their problems, yes. But they were not in this to fix one another, they were in this to hold one another while they were on this crazy journey. And so Grantaire said this. He talked about the lamp, the pillows, and the blankets. He talked about the crazy-ass mug outside their nest, the taste of the cigarettes Jehan buys compared to the ones Grantaire buys. He talked about the way Jehan mixes Vodka with Soda in a way that Grantaire was sure made him a wizard, and how he loved the way Jehan forced him to drink water between each drink. He talked about how the freckles on Jehan’s skin formed constellations for the millionth time since they met, about how his hair was the color of the sunrise and how Jehan was his one true muse.

He talked about the taste of Jehan’s kisses, how they taste like Vanilla and honey and the brand of cigarettes he buys. He talked about how Jehan’s hair was softer than a kitten’s and his skin silkier than Courfeyrac’s shirts.

“My favorite thing though, my favorite thing in the entire world,” he murmured right into Jehan’s ear, whose face was pressed into his neck in an attempt to hide his blush and his smile. “My favorite thing is the way you feel, so close to me, so I can feel your heart beat and your chest rise and fall as you breathe and know that you, my sunrise muse, are mine.”

Jehan smiled up at him. “We’ll be okay…?”

“Yeah, we’ll be okay.”

[FIC] The Power of a Touch (Javert/Valjean; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Tue, 26 Nov 2013 22:48:49 GMT

Author: Leviafan (AO3)/hcborn
Title: The Power of a Touch
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Javert/Valjean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Madeleine intends it as a simple gesture, an attempt at conciliation; but it has very unexpected consequences.
Warnings (if any): Suicide
Total Word Count/Length: 8,990w
Original prompt number: #24
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): I apologize for any anachronisms or other errors. This is mostly Brick ‘verse, but there are probably influences from the musical also. I’m not sure about the pacing at the end, but I didn’t want to basically rehash ‘Javert derailed.’

( Read on AO3 )

When does a touch, a mere brush of the hand, amount to a blow?

This was the perplexing problem confronting—and being confronted by—a man who was watching the second candle of the night gutter and die. At the sight, this man, who was an inspector and his name was Javert, grimaced and leaned back. The chair beneath him chirped its protest, but he ignored it. Time to settle this. The second candle was also his last. He would soon be in darkness, true darkness, not just the black of puzzlement that currently shrouded his thoughts.

It was a pity his pay was not enough to warrant three candles, but most days he only needed one. He let the sun dictate his hours. He read until it was dark, and then he slept. Tonight was different. Tonight, before he could rest, he must get to the root of this. What, then, was this? It was like this. The morning, before he had received a reply to a certain denunciation he had sent to the prefecture at Paris. This reply had shaken him, but he was not devastated by it until he went to Arras and saw for himself.

The old convict, Jean Valjean, was indeed there, and like the sly dog Javert knew he was, he pretended, very convincingly too, that he was not Jean Valjean but Champmathieu. How could that be, when four convicts, who had been shackled to the same chain with him for years, had recognized him, and Javert too? No, this rogue was Jean Valjean, they had him, within the month he would go to court and be sent back to the galleys for life. He had broken parole, he had robbed again, he had stolen from a bishop.

This surety created another for Javert. The inspector had already denounced another man as Jean Valjean. He had his reasons for suspicion and still considered them valid, but to act on them against a mayor—that was unconscionable. He could see that now. And so as soon as he returned from Arras, at the earliest hour the mayor would admit him, Javert went to request his dismissal. But even after he had explained it all, after the full infamy of what he had done was revealed, M. Madeleine sat calmly at his desk and offered a forgiveness the inspector had not earned.

He continued to argue against it, all but demanding his dismissal—he could not demand from a mayor, even one he distrusted as much as he did Madeleine. In response the man stood up, came around the desk, and laid his hand briefly across Javert's. It was then that Javert, who had thought his troubles complete and absolute, discovered that yet again he was wrong. The touch was fleeting, gentle, meant to be kind; it was hardly Madeleine's fault that Javert at that moment wanted no kindness, but rectitude.

Even kindness though never produced the kind of violent irruption that the hand of the mayor did. He didn't flinch. His expression gave nothing away. But inside, it was as if a blow had been struck. Javert left the office of M. Madeleine deeply unsettled. Not only had he been refused what was only right, now he was troubled by this question. What did it mean?

By necessity it waited until evening. It had nothing to do with seeing that the gutters were kept clean or that the bakers weren't leavening their loaves with sawdust. But once the day was finished, Javert settled to the task over a meal of bread and cheese. He had gotten nowhere by the time darkness fell, so he lit a candle and carried on. It had to have some cause, he knew that. But what? It wasn't only the unwanted kindness, it couldn't be. Precious few people had tried to be kind to Javert in the course of his life, but enough to know it wasn't that. What then?

He kept coming back to one answer, an answer that was impossible, and so he discarded it every time. But what if somehow it was true? The feeling—of repulsion, of profound horror as of the unwanted recognition of a kindred spirit—was one which he had experienced so strongly only once in his life. Shades of it were there in every encounter with a malefactor in the streets, but the full force of it had only struck him once before, under the steady and baleful stare of that same Jean Valjean. But this convict was in prison, he had seen it for himself. So how could he be there and also here? He was only a convict, terrible ignominy though that was, not a witch.

The only thing to do with an uncertainty was to turn it into a certainty through proof. After his first mistake, Javert wasn't willing to risk making not just another, but the very same one. If as he suspected he had been right after all, he had to be really sure, not just for himself, but with proof. What more proof could he gather? He had already the following.

Corresponding dates—Jean Valjean had been released from Toulon late in the summer of 1815, his thefts had been noted as occurring in early October; Father Madeleine had arrived at M-sur-M in December of that year. No one had asked him for his passport, because he had saved the captain of the gendarmerie's children. It was common knowledge that the man who was now mayor had made inquiries at Faverolles, where Jean Valjean had been a pruner. Jean Valjean had been a poacher; Madeleine was, by all accounts, an excellent shot. The mayor favored one of his legs, as if the other were troubled by some old wound—perhaps from being shackled by it for nineteen years. Then too there was his prodigious strength, the like of which Javert had not seen before or since Toulon—until now.

All this had decided Javert, it was why he had denounced the mayor, and though he was unsure now, these facts still remained. They would not, however, hold up a case in court, not when there were four men to attest to another Jean Valjean. If he were to pursue this, unless somehow he got the man to confess, it would be for his own tranquility only. Javert cherished his peace of mind because it was so seldom disturbed. That settled it. He would devise a way of coming into contact with the mayor again, to reassure himself he had not been imagining it. This confirmed, he could proceed. To what? To know for certain, the instinct of a predator would have to be set aside. Javert was not a man practiced in friendship, but by reputation at least the mayor was no more so. They might be better matched than he supposed.

---

Javert lost no time in putting his plan into action. Instead of sending them with a factory worker or one of the professional loiterers as he usually did, he took his reports to the mayor in person. This time he wasn't kept waiting but was admitted at once, and Madeleine seemed marginally more genial toward him. It didn't matter to his mission, but was significant enough a change that Javert noticed. Had the inspector given himself away, did he suspect? That didn't matter either. He didn't expect anything fruitful to come of this, only assurance for himself.

Laying the sheaf of papers on the mayor's desk before him, Javert lingered there a few moments longer than necessary, finally withdrawing when Madeleine showed no signs of movement. He was evidently waiting for this, because as soon as Javert's hand was gone, he reached for them.

"Well?"

The mayor, already engrossed in the reports, glanced up. "What is it?"

"Are they satisfactory?"

Here he seemed surprised. "They come from you, I am sure they are," he answered. For a moment Javert thought he detected a note of something in the man's voice, something like reassurance. Was this left over from the day before? Did he think Javert now doubted his own abilities? If so, he was off the mark. The inspector had slipped, had deserved to fall—but he did still know how to walk.

He could think of no excuse to stay in the mayor's presence, however. He was only an inspector, there was no reason Madeleine should discuss the affairs of the town with him. That was why it was his turn to be surprised when the mayor addressed him, though without looking up from the report. "It says here we are to receive a commissaire? I thought that was reserved for towns larger than ours."

"It is on account of your great success. The préfet thinks there is greater need to protect this town from bandits."

"Bandits, here? Well, whatever they think is right, but I do not agree." He paused, reading further, and still without glancing up said, "Do you know the man they're sending?"

"I do not."

Madeleine sighed, then set the report back on his desk. "We shall see, then." He seemed to be speaking to himself more than to Javert, but the inspector too was curious about this new development. "As mayor I will need to meet with him. Perhaps you'd like to be present?"

"Me?" Javert nearly recoiled at the suggestion. "You forget I am only an inspector. He will wonder why I am there, and rightly so."

For the first time since he had taken up the report, Madeleine looked directly at Javert, his gaze bold but guarded. "Nevertheless, I would value your opinion, inspector."

Ah, thought Javert, he is trying to get in my good graces! Still, it was an excuse to spend more time in his presence, so though he met the suggestion with suspicion rather than accepting it as a compliment, he finally agreed with a curt nod. "Summon me, I will be there. You know where to find me." The mayor dismissed him, and he withdrew, assuming that would be the end of it. He'd only offered as a courtesy, surely. But several days later, he received a note summoning him to the office of monsieur le maire. It said simply, 'M. Favreau is arrived.'

In the intervening days Javert had done all he could to find out about this man who was coming to possibly upend the town. Reports were scarce, especially at such short notice, but it seemed he had been in the south, some of their time served overlapped. Javert did not recall him, but that meant little. Guards came and went like flies in those floating prisons. Even when face to face with M. Favreau, Javert did not recognize him, and he was sure he would have known that florid, sweaty countenance anywhere.

He was just dabbing his face when Javert entered. His only greeting was a perfunctory nod. This didn't bother Javert who thought it was only right he should be treated thus; but when the man turned that same manner on the mayor, then he had cause to object. It was his right to scowl at the mayor, to be curt with him, after all he'd learned about the man. This Favreau, this commissaire—he thought almost bitterly of it—he knew nothing of Madeleine, yet still treated him as though he were his peon instead of the other way around. Therefore, to the surprise even of himself, Javert was seized with a profound dislike of the commissaire. But as the grain of sand would never deign to criticize a statue no matter how artlessly carved, the inspector stood to one side and simply observed all that took place.

The two men had been speaking when he came in, and after a brief acknowledgment, they continued. "You are welcome here, monsieur. Inspector Javert—that is he, there in the corner—and his fellow officers will be glad of the assistance, I am sure."

"What kind of resources can you give me?"

Madeleine's face darkened slightly and he glanced away. "Not as much as you are used to. As you've no doubt been informed, we are a small town and have never before had a commissaire."

"But I've heard things about you, how you're rich as Croesus. You can spare a few louis for the safety of the town."

Javert noted how Favreau was not even bothering to address him as 'monsieur,' let alone his full title.

"Croesus was defeated and possibly burned at the stake. I hope I do not resemble him," Madeleine said mildly before continuing, "I will consider all your requests fairly, monsieur, but to be frank I see no need for a commissaire."

"No need!" Favreau's face reddened further, if it were possible. "No need! May I remind you that every day there are bandits that go about unchecked in the country, and that a band of them might well decide to come here if its mayor is foolish enough to leave it unguarded!"

This was a double blow to Javert, for though he agreed with the commissaire in principle, in fact he was offended. Madeleine was many things, but foolish was not among them, not in practical matters at least. He clearly had a head for business even if once that business concluded he was less judicious about how he spent his profits. And it was absurd to say he didn't care about the safety of the town. The irritation was beginning to be visible in the inspector's expression, a fact that by itself showed the profundity of it.

"I am sorry you think the town's defenses are so inadequate, but monsieur, we are not at war here."

"That's where you're wrong, my man. It's a war whether you're fighting it or not. You better decide what side you're on. Good day." He made no acknowledgment at all of the mayor's position, just turned and stalked out with a stiff awkward gait.

After a few seconds' silence Javert said, "Well!" and there was a rough, simple eloquence in that single word. It expressed his astonishment, that a commissaire had dared speak to a mayor, even this mayor, in such a way; but also at the same time his admiration for the man's attitude.

From his desk, Madeleine looked to the inspector. "Well, what do you think?"

What a question, 'what do you think?' But Javert did have an opinion here, and when asked for it, he gave it. "I think that one bears watching," he answered carefully. As he spoke he moved closer to the desk until he stood next to Madeleine, towering above the seated man. The mayor didn't look up.

Javert hadn't forgotten his resolve. He put his hand on Madeleine's shoulder and this at last got him to glance up. "Don't let him bully you. He is an agent of the government as you are, but you were specially appointed by the king." There was a moment in which they stared at each other, predator and unwitting prey, then the spell was broken. Madeleine covered Javert's hand with his own. A brief gesture, but it produced the exact same reaction as before.

"Thank you for your concern, inspector, but I have dealt with such men before. I will not be pressed into doing something I do not wish to do."

As he left the mayor's office, Javert was more troubled, not less. How much, he wondered, had been a revolt against the touch itself, and how much at the fact that he had been the instigator?

---

For the next several days, Javert contented himself with visiting Madeleine's office every morning to deliver his reports. each day making an effort to be personable, which in his case mostly constituted a shallower frown. But as subtle as the change was, the mayor was perceptive enough to notice it, or so it seemed, for on the third day after some hesitation he detained the inspector a little longer to ask his opinion on this or that matter to do with the town. Javert was reluctant to offer any, but when pressed he relented. And the very next day he was rewarded for his patience with an invitation to dinner at the mayor's house. With Commissaire Favreau, true, but an invitation, something he would never have expected before it happened.

He was quick to accept, thinking that he might get some opportunity to search for proof, if indeed Madeleine kept it so near danger. He was cunning, so perhaps he had done away with it entirely or hidden it elsewhere, but without looking, they would never be found. He wasn't sure what the proper dress should be, but only spent half a second on considering it before he realized he only had the two sets of identical clothes anyway, neither of which were in particularly good condition, though well cared for. So he showed up at Madeleine's door in his threadbare coat and trousers, and was admitted without hesitation by the portress.

No doubt she'd been warned of his arrival, but even so Javert was struck by her alacrity in accepting such a ragged person into the mayor's home. He narrowed his eyes slightly at her as he passed by her into the entryway. She should take care who she let in. The inspector was a special case, being expected and also well known throughout the town. Still, he had a suspicion she would have been so profligate with nearly anyone. And then a second thought occurred to him. Even that might be on her master's orders. Yes, that would be like Madeleine.

The man himself soon appeared on the scene and beckoned him inside, instructing the portress to take his coat and hat. He relinquished them only reluctantly, as though they would be snatched away to some hidden recess of the house never to be seen again. But even if that had been the intention, the mayor knew it would be no use, for this was no ordinary denizen of Montreuil, this was Javert, and he had no illusions that Madeleine didn't think he still harbored suspicions. Instead they were hung in the hallway with some of the mayor's coarser garments.

"Dinner is ready, and M. Favreau arrived just a few minutes before this. Follow me please, inspector." He led the way to a small dining room where a modest repast had been laid out. Favreau sat with both hands at the table's edge as though if he let go, he might fall into some chaotic abyss out of sheer weakness of hunger. He glanced up at Javert's entry and gave him a fishlike stare—somewhat crosseyed and unblinking.

"What's he doing here? I thought I made it clear to you I don't fraternize off-duty, Madeleine."

The mayor gave him a mildly reproving look before retreating back to complete serenity. "He is my guest, monsieur, so I ask only that you tolerate each other while you are under my roof." He looked as though he might be regretting his decision, and Javert didn't blame him. A more perfectly matched triangle of hatred could not be found even if sought for. Javert distrusted the mayor, who disliked Favreau, who looked down on both of them.

The one thing Javert wasn't sure was where the mayor's feelings regarding him fell. Madeleine's expression was always hard to read, as was his tone. Interpreting them was more work than Javert had been willing to put into it. The only thing that might be of use to him was if he had slipped up and shown some fear or sign of nerves, but no, he was always the placid surface of a lake, almost unnaturally smooth.

Dinner was an uncomfortable affair, plagued with long stretches of silence, awkward prompts by Madeleine, which inevitably were twisted into a demand for more funding from Favreau, and Javert perched between the two of them, trying to pinpoint where his loyalties lay and finding it strangely difficult.

Then at last his mind was made up for him. Favreau went too far, crossed a line and in doing so revealed its location to Javert so that he could stand on the other side of it. The commissaire was in the middle of a bite of chicken, a flap of fried skin dangling from one corner of his mouth, even as he spoke. "You're doing a terrible job here, Madeleine. I honestly don't know why the king was so eager to appoint you. Clearly he's got cotton for brains."

That settled it. Javert had his own set of feelings towards Madeleine and even thought he was duping everyone around him, but that didn't make them—including the king—stupid, it just made them less cunning, less full of guile. Besides, the inspector still resented the man's attitude towards the mayor. Whatever else he was, he was Favreau's superior, and the commissaire ought to have behaved accordingly. "You are lucky the king is not here to hear you speak of him like that," Javert growled with as much contempt in his voice as he could muster. Favreau barely glanced at him.

"He's just a man like any other. If he deserves criticism, I'll damned well dish it out. What, I suppose you're on a first-name basis?"

"No, but I know my place, unlike you."

"My place? And what's that?"

Javert met his gaze, undaunted. "Below the mayor. He could get you dismissed, that makes him your superior. You should remember that."

"What for, he doesn't exactly act like it."

That Javert had to concede was true. "Respect the office then, if you can't respect the man."

"Hmm. And is that what you do then? I've seen the way you look at him. You don't trust him an inch more than I do."

He couldn't help glancing at Madeleine at that, but the man didn't appear affected. Unsurprised? Probably. Untroubled? Possibly. After eyeing him for several seconds, he turned back to Favreau, brows furrowed. "It is my right to suspect him, and believe me, there is plenty of cause; but it is different to withhold the minimum of courtesy when he is the mayor and you the commissaire. He's not as terrible as you think." He didn't know why he'd added that, especially to the end of what had come before, but out of the corner of his eye he saw that it had equally shocked Madeleine. Well, as long as he didn't get the idea Javert would start making a habit of it.

Favreau fixed him with an uncharacteristically keen look. "You're telling me how to go about my job? You, monsieur l'inspecteur?" he demanded, lacing the title with a strong dose of bile, which Javert took no notice of.

"Only when you give signs of not knowing it," he replied coolly. The other two men at the table were both astonished at this, Favreau on principle, Madeleine because he knew it must have taken a great deal to elicit such insubordination.

"That seems like dangerous talk to your superior," Favreau said, and he sounded halfway dangerous as he said it.

"And what of you? You take advantage of monsieur le maire's kindness at every turn. Another man would have dismissed you long ago if he were talking as you have."

"He keeps me on because I'm effective."

"You detestable little peacock, I don't know why he keeps you on, but it's certainly not on account of your competence! Dismiss me if you like, but I've lost all patience with you."

They both stared at him; he stared back at Favreau defiantly as though challenging him to act. The commissaire just shrugged, wiped his mouth with his napkin, and stood up from the table. "Well, I think it's best I leave you two to your... fraternity. Good evening." And without another word, he turned and walked out of the small dining room, leaving behind him an astonished silence. It lasted at least a minute before Javert finally spoke.

"Why am I not dismissed?"

Madeleine looked thoughtful. "Perhaps he fears retribution."

"What, from you?"

"It's possible that's what he thinks."

"He must be mad."

"He doesn't know me." Madeleine shrugged, then looked directly at the inspector. "Thank you for defending me."

"That wasn't for you."

"I know, but thank you all the same."

Javert just grunted acknowledgment, staring down at his empty plate. "Why did you invite me here?"

"I imagine you don't often get to eat good meals. And... I enjoy your company."

This caused the inspector to look up sharply. Here at last was proof, the man was trying to get on his good side. Well, let him think he's succeeded, see where it leads, he thought. "Not many do."

"It is their loss." He paused and gestured to the still-full glass in front of Javert. "You haven't drunk your wine. Did you not like it?"

"I don't drink."

"Not even wine?"

"Not even wine," he confirmed, but he could see the mayor was about to argue with him about it, so he reached for the glass and took a small sip. "Not bad."

Madeleine smiled and rose with Javert. "Must you go?"

"Dinner is finished," he ventured, not sure why he would stay past that.

"We could talk."

"About what?" he demanded with a scoffing laugh.

Madeleine appeared to hesitate, then reaching some kind of decision, leaned forward, said, "Or there are other things besides talking," and kissed him.

It took Javert completely by surprise. He didn't even have the presence of mind to draw back. But if the action surprised him at first, as he thought about it, it made sense from everything else he knew, and thought he knew, about the man. He smiled in satisfaction, which Madeleine chose to misinterpret as assent. Well, that was all right. Javert wanted to see how far the old convict would go in attempting to bribe him.

Meanwhile the mayor was looking at him with an expression he couldn't quite read. It seemed almost like pity, but how did that fit? "I thought so," he said, "the way you've been acting... I am glad I was right. Come, the bed will be more comfortable."

As if in a dream, Javert allowed himself to be led by the hand, though inwardly he was thrown into a mixture of jubilation and consternation. This would give him the perfect opportunity to search the man's chamber... why was he making it so easy? Surely he didn't think this would put Javert off his guard? Well, it wouldn't. This was working out far better than he could have dreamed, and if something a little distasteful was required, so be it.

Like the rest of his house, Madeleine's bedroom was simple to the point of penury. A chair, a table, a dresser, and a bed were all that were there, and all of them were rough-hewn and cheap. Why did he live this way when he had a fortune at his fingertips? At least it would make the search easier. Because they stood out, Javert noticed the nicest things in the room, a pair of silver candlesticks perched on the mantle. Madeleine saw him examining these and drew him towards the bed instead. "We both have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow," he said.

Somehow Javert managed to conceal the worst of his skepticism, but as he allowed himself to be drawn towards the bed he continued to glance at the two pieces of silver out of the corner of his eye. He knew instantly what they must be, trophies from that first theft—not the one which would send him back to the galleys, since the bishop hadn't wanted to press the issue and now the old turtle was dead, but they were more ostentatious and visible than the other memento, just a little coin stolen from a Savoyard. Without the bishop's testimony they were worthless, except that they confirmed the fact yet again in the inspector's mind.

Javert was a large man himself, but as the mayor, who he was now convinced was in fact Jean Valjean, propped himself above him with one arm to each side, he was reminded uncomfortably of just how strong the man was. What had he gotten himself into anyway? This was ridiculous, there ought to be limits—and he was dangerous... Christ, Javert thought, teeth clenched; I'm an idiot, and half-dead already, and I have no one to blame but me.

And yet the face looming over him didn't look dangerous, not yet. What if he were to change his mind, what then? Did he want to risk it? But before he could decide one way or the other, Jean Valjean's perceptive gaze—it had always seen everything—caught something of his reluctance and he responded to it. "Are you sure about this? If not, just say so."

Well, there was the answer to that. But then he'd probably be leaping at a chance to get out of this, since he was only doing it to appease the ferocious wolf of the law. Perversely that made Javert more determined to go through with it, so he just glared up at the convict, then reached out and seized the back of his head, pulling him into a rough, strictly instinctual kiss. There was none of the tenderness that might normally be associated with the gesture, just lips and teeth, animalistic.

He received the exact same shock as before, but this time he could ignore it, because he knew exactly where it came from and what he was going to do about it. After all this was over he would gather his evidence, and then he would send word to Arras, and then... and then he would have him exactly where he belonged, at last after eight years of stolen freedom. He'd fight like a tiger, yes, but Javert would be ready for him.

First, however, he had to endure this humiliating ordeal. Humiliating, because what in hell did a person even do? Javert was vaguely aware of the basic mechanics where it concerned men and women, God knew he had to deal with enough of it with the whores of the town. But his only experience of whatever this was came from... well! No doubt the same place that had incubated these twisted desires in the convict, except that Javert had always turned a blind eye to what the prisoners got up to in their spare time. Now he almost wished he'd paid attention. Almost.

Anyway, surprisingly Jean Valjean didn't seem interested in the sort of roughness that would have passed for intimacy in the galleys. He didn't respond in kind to Javert's kiss, replying instead with a gentleness so unexpected that it took the inspector aback. He pulled away to see the other man's face and found that he was staring down with the same look he'd worn earlier. Javert would have sworn it was a cousin to pity.

"It's all right," he said, shifting an unruly lock of hair away from his forehead so tenderly that Javert had to struggle not to reject it outright. And when the convict leaned down for another kiss, he finally resigned himself entirely to the situation and let it happen.

---

Later, when it was finished, Javert had to admit it hadn't been as unpleasant as he'd expected, and now he had his reward ahead of him. That would have been good, except that somehow, inexplicably, he'd fallen asleep. What a moronic idea, in the bed of a dangerous convict! If he was killed in his sleep, he would have deserved it. But no, he woke with a start before dawn, grey hints of light seeping in through a miniscule crack in the curtains. During the night his body had chosen to interpret his actions as acceptance, because instead of instinctually keeping away, it had decided to sprawl all over the small bed. Well, at least it had made certain Jean Valjean stayed put.

It was as he became aware that his arm was flung over the broad shoulders of the convict that a thought sparked his interest. He let his fingers slip delicately beneath the loosened shirt, tracing a path along his chest. Javert knew exactly what he was looking for and it wasn't long until he found it. The curves and lines of numbers seared onto the man's skin years ago. They had aged well, and would still be legible if he hadn't known what the were already.

He'd set them to memory years earlier in Toulon and was incapable of forgetting them. Like a ringing bell he heard it now and again in odd moments and served as a reminder of a particular lawbreaker. They were all filed away there, close to hand should he need to recall them. And so here was the final proof he needed. The skin couldn't lie. THis was indeed the old convict, prisoner number 24601.

He knew it too. He had been awoken and, feeling Javert's fingers, had gone completely still. Javert could smell his fear, though he couldn't see his face.

"Jean Valjean," he accused.

For the longest time the man stayed silent, and then he spoke, quiet but clear. His voice was serene, not even resigned, just completely calm. Imperturbable.

"What will you do?"

That was a question that they both knew the answer to before it was asked. "It's to the jail with you until I send word to Arras. How are you so calm?"

"I knew this moment would come, someday. I just always hoped it would be later rather than sooner."

"You won't try to escape." A statement, not a question.

"No. The chase is over. There is just one thing."

Javert let his silence be an assent.

"You remember the woman Fantine. I would like to make sure her daughter is brought here to her."

A grimace twisted Javert's features, and he didn't answer for quite some time, as though he were wrestling with himself. "Would you give me your word?"

"What?" Finally Jean Valjean turned over, his look perplexed.

"Your word, would you give it? If I were to fetch the child, would I return to a penned convict or an empty cell?" The words seemed almost as if they were dragged from him. The man stared back at Javert, completely astonished, before regaining enough equilibrium to respond.

"Of course. I would still be here if you were to do that, and then you can escort me back to the galleys if that's what you want."

That was what he wanted, Javert reminded himself. Whatever had happened the night before, that was all a ruse, a failed ruse no less, and wouldn't keep Valjean from the double chain.

"I must be mad," he muttered to himself, "to trust an old convict! Yes, if they have me committed they'll be well within their rights. If you break your promise, I will find you."

"I have no doubt of that," the man replied smoothly. "I give you my word, I will remain wherever you put me, But you should know. I was going to give myself up. At Champmathieu's trial."

Javert couldn't bring himself to believe that. Such clear sincerity in that tone, and yet, it came from the mouth of a convict, the very dregs of society. He was saying it to bolster his image even now, so it couldn't be anything but lies. "That makes no difference."

"To me it does. I couldn't have lived with myself knowing another man was suffering in my place... because of me. Believe me, I would have done it."

Such a strained tone. Mother of God, Javert almost did believe him. Through gritted teeth he said, "It's a moot point, Valjean. You're going, and in handcuffs." He was surprised the man wasn't going to try and use his position as mayor to weasel out of this. Certainly he could have gotten away with it; the only proof was the scarred flesh, and the town wouldn't believe that without seeing it for themselves, a difficult thing to arrange. As it stood right now, no one wanted to hear a bad word about Mayor Madeleine—Javert should know, since he'd been against the rogue all along, and been laughed at for his probity.

But instead he just lay there quietly, waiting to see what the inspector's next orders might be. The tame pup, or the wolf cub who bides his time? The latter, of course. Javert swung himself upright so that he was perched at the edge of the bed and began to reassemble his clothes. His state of nakedness didn't feel awkward. He'd half-expected it to, but it just felt neutral. Bland, even. That was what came of something done for the sake of duty; not one scrap of it could be embarrassing.

A thought came to him, one that was ridiculous enough that he shoved it away. But as he arrayed himself for the rest of the day, it kept recurring. Jean Valjean was a cunning man, and if he wanted to escape, he would have no difficulty doing so. It was in fact one of his best skills. So if Javert trusted him in the cell, what was the very great distance between that and trusting him in his factory? Besides, the authorities at Arras would want to see the proof for themselves, and if somehow they got the idea he had been wrong, again, this time he would be dismissed. He would prefer to avoid that when it was based on falsities.

The decision made, he turned crisply back towards the bed, where the convict still lay, watching him with that unreadable expression. But faced with the man who should be his prisoner, Javert found he couldn't speak. Instead he nodded, spat out the trio of words "monsieur le maire" with snarling irony, and stalked out of the room. He was fortunate enough not to encounter anyone else on the way out, for which Javert was glad. The ploy, in which he'd taken advantage of whatever strange assumptions had come into Jean Valjean's head, had been successful beyond what he could have hoped; but until the man was unmasked, this situation would have appeared as something else entirely.

The morning air, chilly for March, felt refreshing after the stifling atmosphere of Jean Valjean's house. Javert spent the rest of the day in a strange mood. He sent word to Arras and should have been pleased at this final vindication, but there was also the matter of what he had not done. He had not arrested the convict, he still roamed free and at any moment could bolt. And then there was the matter of this child. He'd promised to fetch her all the way from Montfermeil, halfway across the country. It would take him four or five days at best, there and back. In that time anything could happen, Jean Valjean might do anything—not just escape but possibly something even more heinous.

So Javert performed all his usual duties with no apparent change, and for once he did not chafe at their dull nature. He welcomed it.

---

The child had very large eyes. Almost unnaturally so. Javert had occasion to notice this because she did nothing but stare at him for the entire stretch between Montfermeil and Montreuil. She hardly seemed to need to blink, even. He took this in his usual scowling stride, but he was in fact bothered by it. He didn't much care for being under such close surveillance, especially for no reason. What was she staring at him for? If she was that interested, he'd have expected to field a question or two, but she didn't say a word. Maybe she was an idiot. There was a certain blankness to those eyes. But from the brief scenes he'd witnessed at the inn, it could just as easily come from mistreatment.

Maybe that was why he was so bothered. He knew that look because it had once been his.

Anyway, she was going to see her mother. Even he had to admit that some mother would be better than none, and the Thénardier woman wasn't any mother at all, not to this child. That reunion might animate her. As it was, she seemed more like a ghost than a living being. Her impact on the world was about the same. Javert might as well have been sitting across from empty space for all the notice she attracted. It was disconcerting, and he was relieved when the carriage finally rolled into Montreuil, coming to a stop in front of the hospital.

"Come along," he said roughly to the child as he stepped out, because she hadn't moved. Even when he said this, she continued to stare at him with a perfectly neutral expression, so he added, "Don't you want to see your mother?"

After a few excruciating seconds, she finally nodded, and with the somber air of a nun at a funeral she climbed out of the carriage and still without a word followed Javert up the stairs to the infirmary. A few quick words to the sister guarding the entrance, and they were let in. The inspector, simultaneously aware that his presence would not be welcome and not particularly wanting to remain anyway, stayed at the door and shooed the child towards the sick woman's bed. "You might as well take it from here," he muttered to the sister on duty, then turned on his heels and went out.

His feet had a mind of their own, it seemed. He had planned on going home, but instead he found himself outside the mayor's house. Well, he had to see for himself, didn't he? Javert expected to find an empty shell of a building, but when he knocked, the portress answered, and when he asked for Madeleine, he was admitted. "He is at home?" he asked, unable to keep a slight note of skepticism from his voice.

"Why, naturally," the old woman answered. "He always is, of the evenings. You're in luck, inspector, he'll have finished his supper by now." She led him first to the dining room and when that was empty, to his sleeping chamber. Turning in so early? Javert thought, but then remembered the table and chair. That would be more comfortable for a single man than sitting all alone at that too-large dining table.

At the portress's knock came a voice, rough but amiable. "What is it?"

"Inspector Javert is here to see you, monsieur."

A silence, then: "Send him in."

At this prompting, Javert went inside, shutting the door behind him. There sat Jean Valjean, large as life in his chair, which he'd pulled up next to the fireplace. A book was still clutched in his hand, instantly forgotten at the sight of the inspector. He didn't smile, but he also didn't seem troubled. "Good evening, Javert."

"Monsieur l'inspecteur," he insisted, but without giving him a chance to correct his mistake he continued, "I brought back the child. She is with her mother now."

At last, this elicited a reaction—complete astonishment. The sight of it rankled Javert, because he was so infallibly a man of his word. But when the convict finally said, "Thank you," he acknowledged it with a nod. "And are they happy?"

"Probably. I didn't stay around to watch. That's not my concern. Let the sisters deal with it." Given the way he felt about Fantine, about all the wrong choices she'd made, it was for the best he'd left when he did.

This occurred to Jean Valjean too, who declined to argue further. Instead he just said again, "Thank you. I would have gone myself, but I doubt you would have trusted me that far."

"That far? What the devil do you mean? You could as easily escape if I remained behind here and you went to Paris. Have I just wasted four days?"

"I don't know, but either way I am grateful. You didn't have to do that." A brief pause, then he added, "Why did you?"

"Because I'm mad, clearly," Javert grumbled.

"Enough to stay and sit a while with me?"

The inspector's eyebrows came together. "You know by now I only went along with that to find proof of who you are?"

"Yes... and no. I think you are still a very lonely man."

"And if I am, what then? It would be hard to find a more mismatched pair, one man of the police and the other of the galleys."

Jean Valjean shrugged. Throughout this he hadn't once looked away. "It's up to you."

Of course it was. He was in the right here. But the chair opposite the convict looked inviting. Damn this insanity! Javert wanted to say no, wanted to walk out. Come to it, he wanted to arrest this man. But Jean Valjean had kept his word, and Javert must keep his. It would have to wait until Champmathieu’s trial. There was nothing for him here then, so why hadn’t he gone? He continued to stare at the seated man, who stared right back, pretending to be meek. Why? There was no point to it anymore…

Then before he could think properly about what he was doing, he strode across the small stretch of space still separating them and kissed that same Jean Valjean whom he still wanted to send back to the galleys. It was beyond perplexing, and yet the moment the deed was done, he knew it was something he had been thinking about these past four days. Only the good Lord knew why. He drew back with a grimace, but even so, still didn’t leave, just sat down opposite the convict and glared at him.

“This won’t save you,” he growled. “You’re still going to Arras when the time comes.”

Jean Valjean nodded. “I know. But why deny happiness just because it may be fleeting?”

“Happiness? This is the opposite of happiness.” But then, would Javert have known it, if it had shown itself to him? “I should be arresting you. I am not, so I am your accomplice. And as if that weren’t enough…” He waved a hand towards the fire vaguely, this nebulousness a sign of his supreme discomfort with all this.

“Just accept it for what it is,” Jean Valjean said. “Nothing is anything but how God ordains it, so it cannot be wrong. I am still bound for Arras in a week, and then on to Toulon—or perhaps they’ll assign me a change in scenery and send me to Brest. But in the meantime, there is life to be lived, and it doesn’t have to be miserable.”

Javert had never encountered anyone so calm in the face of—well, of hell than this man. It didn’t fit with the image of him that he had, the image of a dangerous convict, desperate, willing to do whatever it took to escape the double chain. It left the inspector confused and in no small part angry. Yet he clearly did want this… what would it hurt, so long as the prisoner ended in Arras? The thought was foreign and painful to him, but it refused to leave him alone.

They both fell silent, each gazing at each other; Javert with consternation, Jean Valjean with serene, open beneficence. Javert resented that look—what, did he see this as some kind of charity? He didn't know which was worse, that or the fact he was accepting it... or even that it existed. Kindness from a convict! Impossible! But he struggled to see what else it could be. They had already established that by the end of the week, Jean Valjean would be on his way back to the galleys. Nothing he could do or say between now and then could change that. So why else would he bother with this? The question kept battering away at Javert's defenses and he was ignoring it for now, but soon enough it would be deafening.

"Why are you doing this?" Staccato words hurled in a fit of pique; but the man he was most angry with was himself.

"I like you." A long pause, in which Jean Valjean finally looked away to the fire. "No, as strange as it seems, I love you." He ignored Javert's sharp hiss—of protest? disbelief—and continued, "I thought it was no more than the love of one Christian for another, but I know better now. Despite yourself you trusted me. Despite yourself you fetched Fantine's child, no easy thing, especially for you since you have nothing but contempt to spare for her. So, I know you are a man in search of the right path. No, let me finish. You want to be on the side of the angels, but you don't see. The law is the law, it is neither right nor wrong. It simply is. Sometimes it may be just, others it is unjust. With all the certainty trapping Champmathieu, if I had not been discovered, an innocent man would have gone to the galleys."

"He's hardly innocent," Javert observed. "You're forgetting he was unmasked only because he was arrested and in prison."

"All right then, innocent of the crimes of which he was accused. He didn't steal from the bishop of Digne—I did. He didn't pinch the little Savoyard's coin—I did. He had no parole to break. I will be going back to the galleys in the double chain most likely. That would have been Champmathieu, when he had not earned it at all."

It should have been easy for Javert to listen to this. Or rather, to let it pass from one ear to the other without stopping to be considered by the conscious mind. But like the roll of distant thunder, he could hear it. Most of it still didn't make sense and he had no desire to pursue untangling it, but enough did that it stirred the normally placid surface of his being. Should he get up and leave? He knew the answer to that. He also knew he would not, and it tore at him like wild dogs.

Later, when he lay in the bed beside Jean Valjean, their shoulders touching, it drove him to rise in the depths of the night. He couldn't possibly sleep. He couldn't even hear himself think. But dressed and stalking the streets of Montreuil, finally gone quiet at this late hour, it was no better. His thoughts still clamored, a din he was unaccustomed to. How to silence them?

He found himself at the city's ramparts, staring out across the night-blackened landscape. There was no moon, no stars. Nothing was clearly visible. That was fitting, it matched his state of mind perfectly. He no longer knew where he stood.

And where a man could not stand, he fell.

---

Jean Valjean awoke to an empty bed, which he had expected. He was, however, surprised to find a note left on the table. Its brevity was entirely characteristic of Javert; its mysteriousness was not. It read simply: 'do what you must.'

He suspected nothing of the reason for Javert's absence, thinking only that he hadn't wanted to remain. He had never been more than a grudging visitor, after all. But the news had already spread like a brushfire by the time he reached the factory. He stayed only long enough to hear the barest details before rushing to the west edge of the citadel.

For now, the body had been left where it landed. It lay with limbs in the most impossible of positions, a pile of disjointed pieces that still somehow constituted a whole. The only blood had come from the split skull, the excess draining away beneath the grass that had not been enough cushion. A portion had been halted in its tracks by thick black hair; it had dried there, leaving behind a stiff inseparable mass, the blood dyeing it a dull brown.

Jean Valjean stared at this scene, uncomprehending. Just the night before, this man had been with him, alive, hale if slightly troubled in mind. This couldn't be... or if it was, then he was at fault. There must have been something he didn't see, which if he'd noticed, he could have prevented this. He knelt down beside the body; no one stopped him. Jean Valjean extended a hand, laid it tentatively on the now-cold shoulder that had so often been hunched against him. He couldn't understand why this had happened. And when he wept, it was for the loss of what had come before, and what might have been—if only for a week.

That week was not at all as he'd pictured it. Instead of evenings spent with someone he cared for, it was taken up with municipal duties he almost didn't have the heart to perform. Arrangements for the investigation of the death (conclusion: suicide), and for the placement of the body. Even the wealth and influence of Mayor Madeleine counted for nothing against the mortal sin of suicide, and Javert was buried in unconsecrated ground. The one thing he could ensure, a poor consolation, was that it was not also an unmarked grave. He arranged for a small, flat stone to be placed over the spot, so unobtrusive as not to offend anyone. It read:

Inspector Javert, of the police
Man of honor and of justice
At the end he saw, but not far enough.

A week later, Jean Valjean had revealed himself, Champmathieu was Champmathieu once more, Fantine was finally at peace, and an old man and a child were seen along the road from Montreuil to Paris.

But the stone remained behind, silent testimony until its simple words were at last effaced by time and weather, and it became overgrown with grass and weeds.

[FIC] All of the Above, and Much More Besides (Enjolras/Grantaire; NC-17)

rueplumetmod — Mon, 25 Nov 2013 21:46:02 GMT

Author/Artist: eirenical (chibi1723) @ AO3, rchan @ LJ/DW
Title: All of the Above, and Much More Besides
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire, Enjolras, Grantaire, Courfeyrac, Combeferre, Joly, Musichetta, Jean Prouvaire, Eponine, Cosette, Valjean, Javert
Rating: NC-17
Summary: "I can't decide if you're as much of an elitist little shit as you're coming across or if you're just scared."

Written for the following prompt on Rue Plumet Fest 2013:
Enjolras works as a teacher at a highschool and Grantaire works at the AV guy and Enjolras is hopelessly lost among all the new technology and he has to call Grantaire in every other day to deal with problems and Grantaire being himself picks arguments with Enjolras’ powerpoints and videos that he shows and they argue but he helps out and fixes everything anyways and eventually Enjolras ends up just coming up with problems for Grantaire to help him with and Grantaire is all “i can fix that” and even the students ship them.
Warnings (if any): None
Total Word Count/Length: 11,690
Original prompt number: #14
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): November 16, 2013: When I saw this prompt on Rue Plumet Fest I fell instantly in love with it and the headcanon for the fic blossomed in my head almost immediately. Thank you so much, anon recipient, for giving me the opportunity to explore the wonderful world of this prompt in more detail. I had a lot of fun with it and I hope it lives up to your expectations!

( Read on AO3 )

[FIC] show me the glint of light on broken glass (Enjolras/Grantaire; PG)

rueplumetmod — Sat, 23 Nov 2013 22:51:21 GMT

Author: Emily
Title: show me the glint of light on broken glass
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Enjolras/Grantaire, other amis
Rating: PG
Summary: Creative writing isn't Enjolras's best class. When he gets paired with Grantaire for a project, they have more than a few disagreements.

(Sometimes two wildly different styles can come together beautifully.)
Warnings (if any): cursing (very little)
Total Word Count/Length: 8,740w
Original prompt number: #10
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any):
Title from:
“Don't tell me the moon is shining; show me the glint of light on broken glass.”
― Anton Chekhov
Prompt originally from this post, involving Enjolras and Grantaire being paired together for a creative writing project.
Beta: Abigail

( Read on AO3 )

To be fair, Enjolras doesn’t even remember Grantaire is in his creative writing class until the fourth week of the semester when Lamarque takes his glasses off, cleans them, and very calmly and politely proceeds tells Enjolras that he absolutely may not do his peer edits with Combeferre again. Enjolras blinks a few times and hands Combeferre’s paper back to him, a bit stunned. Combeferre simply smiles and twists around to address someone behind him (because of course he knows everyone’s name already). Enjolras is left floundering.

When he finally turns around, Jehan is already chatting with a pretty blonde girl, exchanging papers. Enjolras scans the room and sees nothing but pairs. He turns back to the front when Lamarque clears his throat.

“Grantaire is absent today, but I am sure he has done his paper. You can partner with him,” Lamarque continues, “Do you need his email?”

Enjolras blinks again, feeling gobsmacked for the second time in as many minutes. He isn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this.

“No,” he answers. “No, I know Grantaire.” Bitter, sarcastic, cynic that he is.

Actually, it makes sense that Grantaire would be in this class. At least his major (something literary, Enjolras is sure of that much at least) is relevant. Enjolras, on the other hand, is just here to satisfy a general requirement and hopefully pick up some writing skills along the way.

He’s not used to churning out anything except argument after analysis after argument. His political theory papers are solid and he turns grays into black and white with no effort; his words are concise and clear. He can construct persuasive essays in his sleep.

Creative writing is a whole new world.

The three papers he has so far in his portfolio for creative writing have C’s on them. (Well, one is a B-, but still. If it’s not an A, it’s a failing grade.) His work in this class is far from the phenomenal grades and accolades he receives in the political science department.

And now Professor Lamarque wants him to work with Grantaire. Grantaire, who never gets along with Enjolras on any level. Enjolras takes a deep breath. Okay. Grantaire never misses a meeting, so Enjolras will try to speak with him tonight.

When class wraps up, Enjolras slings his messenger bag across his side. He’s still frowning as he walks out of the building, so Combeferre sighs and steers him toward the dining hall. If it weren’t for Combeferre, Enjolras would probably forget to eat.

“You didn’t even realize Grantaire was in creative writing, did you?” His tone is dry and Enjolras is only half-sure he’s not being mocked, but he’s decided to be petulant about it either way so he gives an annoyed huff.

“I knew,” he counters defensively. “I just...forgot,” he grumbles. Combeferre raises his eyebrows and hands his card to be swiped with another sigh in Enjolras’s general direction.

“You never look towards the back of the class, do you? Are you really that focused on Lamarque?”

Combeferre waits a moment, but then sighs again. Enjolras briefly wonders how much Combeferre sighed before they became friends. Probably not as much as he does now.

“Of course you are,” Combeferre mumbles the answer to his own question. And after a moment, “but it won’t be so bad, working with Grantaire. And stop making that face, Enjolras.” He spoons out some potatoes on his plate and moves down the buffet line while continuing to talk.

“You weren’t even looking, so how do you know what face I was making?” Combeferre actually puts down his tray and turns to look at Enjolras boredly.

“Please, you make the same face for everything Grantaire. It’s like the thought of him confuses and frustrates you so much you can’t even use your nose properly.” He is back to moving down the line, nonplussed despite having just thrown out a dry response to Enjolras’s heated words.

It’s surprisingly characteristic of their relationship.

“If it bothers you that much–” Combeferre starts again, and no, Enjolras will not concede to this one.

“No,” Enjolras hesitates. “I can figure it out.” He swears he catches Combeferre smile slightly at that.

*

He watches Grantaire throughout the meeting with small, quick glances. He only catches Grantaire looking back once or twice, and when he does, he can’t read the expression on the other man’s face.

Enjolras only approaches Grantaire after the meeting is wrapped up, his friends are chatting, drinks are ordered (yes, on a Wednesday) and the atmosphere is lighter than the earlier heated one that had built up during a discussion about the government’s use of drones.

He pulls up a chair next to Grantaire, who is smiling, but sitting a bit apart from the rest of Amis, making wide arcs in a sketchbook. His knees are drawn up in front of him and he leans over them, edge of his tongue peeking out of his smile. Dark curls are swept away from his eyes periodically, but other than that, he doesn’t move except to sketch.

Enjolras clears his throat and gets no response. He takes a calming breath before trying again.

“Grantaire.” The artist’s head spins up and his pencil pauses. Enjolras’s eyes flick down to the sketchpad, but Grantaire tips it towards his chest and leans back in his chair. When Enjolras looks back at his face, he is smiling softly.

“To what do I owe the honor?” Tucking his pencil behind his ear, he leans forward to fold his arms over his knees. Enjolras holds out his paper as a peace offering.

“We’re peer editing together in creative writing,” he begins, as Grantaire takes his paper with raised eyebrows. Honestly, Enjolras is just surprised he hasn’t been laughed at yet. He can only imagine what kind of scorn will be written all over his paper when it comes back to him. “Um...Lamarque paired us up,” he continues, and Grantaire nods. Once again, he expects a caustic comment or a wave of Grantaire’s hand to say he hasn’t done the assignment, but he only pulls out a battered folder and hands the paper inside to Enjolras.

“Did you want to meet up and talk about them?” Grantaire’s gaze has not left Enjolras’s, and it’s a bit disconcerting to have those bluegreengreywhatever eyes tracing the contours of his face.

“We don’t need to meet until next class,” he offers, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow suspiciously.

“You’re telling me that you and Combeferre only discussed your papers in class?” Well, he has a fair point there. But Enjolras packs his schedule pretty full.

“Lunch tomorrow?” he muses, trying to figure out how to fit it in.

“Sounds good,” Grantaire says, “I’ll meet you outside the dining hall at one.” Enjolras nods his assent while Grantaire shoves his folder back into his bag and pulls a sweatshirt over his head.

“Please actually have it done by then,” he requests, and Grantaire crosses his arms.

“You positively wound me, Enjolras. Would I let you down?” The last sentence is thrown over Grantaire’s shoulder as he makes his way out of the café.

Enjolras gives a half-smile at Grantaire’s retreating form before tucking the paper into his bag. Come to think of it, Grantaire hasn’t ever actually let him down (unless he counts drunken rambling at important protests).

Or maybe he’s never specifically let Enjolras down because Enjolras has never trusted him enough to actually give him something to do.

*

Enjolras doesn’t actually get to Grantaire’s paper until late that night, having shoved it to the bottom of his stack of work. So by the time he uncaps one of his red pens and smoothes the paper out habitually, Combeferre has already bid him goodnight and retreated from their apartment’s living room.

This week’s prompt is a short story in the horror genre, and Lamarque had given the class a list of tropes with instructions to include at least three of them. Enjolras takes a deep breath and begins, ready for an amalgamation of spelling errors and gibberish.

To his surprise, the first line is gorgeous, stunning prose – fluid but ornate with engaging character introductions. Stylistically, it’s as far cry from what Enjolras usually writes. The story continues in much the same way, weaving in metaphors and constructing lines that sound more like they should be in a book of poetry rather than in a college paper.

For god’s sake, Grantaire has included no less than twelve classical allusions as well as puns in at least three different languages. And Enjolras is not above admitting that he’s probably missing a few as well.

However, Grantaire’s five-page story starts to crumble around page three, when his plot goes to hell and he kills off the main character. Death and decay suddenly permeate the work as his characters die off one by one for no reason other than, as far as Enjolras can tell, that Grantaire has several thousand creative ways for people to meet gruesome deaths.

Red marks litter the paper when he’s done with it. He’s never been so constructive in his life. He even sketches out a basic story line on the back of the last page, outlining where the story should peak and no, Grantaire, it’s not foreshadowing if you just say outright that everyone is going to die.

Still.

Enjolras has never been interested in campaigning for office, but he would consider it, if only to have Grantaire write his speeches. Grantaire is more intelligent than Enjolras has ever given him credit for (and definitely more than Grantaire perceives himself to be). Enjolras sees the potential there and wonders why he hasn’t noticed it before.

The character arcs he traces out on the back next to the plot line are concise and clear while taking into account the marvelous characterization Grantaire has created. He fills the rest of the margins with comments and finally sets it aside to get some much needed sleep.

*

“How many red pens did you use for this, Enjolras?” Grantaire laughs through a bite of his chicken Caesar wrap. “Eight? Nine? Just tell me if I’m above or below.” Enjolras rolls his eyes. Grantaire snorts.

He should’ve known working with Grantaire would be a pain in the ass – it’s not like he ever cuts Enjolras any slack when they hang out with their friends. He refutes every single point Enjolras tries to make with caustic cynicism and incredible intelligence. Enjolras has spent entire afternoons wondering how he is so articulate, so able to eloquently crush the most well-thought out arguments even after eight drinks.

And it’s not that they aren’t friends, but this may be the first time they’ve ever been alone together. Enjolras generally spends most of his time with Combeferre (or Courfeyrac, if he’s being dragged out to “have fun for once in his life”). But he’s even been taken to events by Joly, or cornered by Jehan to read over poems. Being alone with Grantaire is new and it puts an uneasy itch between his shoulderblades, like he’s waiting for an attack.

Grantaire doesn’t look like he’s about to attack, though. If anything, he look a bit fidgety and uneasy himself. The absence of alcohol does make it less likely for him to throw a wrench into Enjolras’s rhetoric, and it’s not late enough for him to be drinking yet; he still has class this afternoon.

Even Enjolras doesn’t make the mistake of thinking that Grantaire puts alcohol above his precious Greek composition course. Enjolras had been floored finding out that there was something Grantaire held onto so dearly, but when he’d mentioned it earlier, pulling folders out of his bag in an effort to find Enjolras’s paper, his eyes had sparkled and he had grinned just at the thought.

Granted, smiling is something Grantaire does a lot. However, Enjolras has never seen it so pure and genuine, not like this. There’s the thinly veiled amusement at Bossuet’s misfortunes, the smirks he throws over his shoulder at Courfeyrac paired with a well-placed pun, and the downright evil grins Enjolras gets right before Grantaire’s about to tear him to shreds.

But then the conversation turns to creative writing, and Grantaire’s face morphs into a mask of focus and contemplation.

Grantaire flicks through the pages and Enjolras waits to look over his so he can answer any of Grantaire’s questions, instead eating his salad. Grantaire’s face goes through a myriad of expressions, but he does not speak. When he finally looks up, Enjolras isn’t sure what to expect.

Grantaire shrugs.

“Fair enough. I’ve never been good at storylines that actually make sense.”

Well, that’s definitely not what he’d expected.

“Wait. You aren’t going to argue about any of it?” This is not the Grantaire he’s familiar with.

“It’s called peer reviews, Enjolras. The entire point of them is to improve our writing by getting another perspective. Jehan may have, um,” he laughs, “Jehan goes a bit soft on editing.”

Enjolras raises his eyebrows.

“So what about yours?” Grantaire asks, before picking up and draining his Coke. Enjolras finally looks down at his paper, which is heavily marked up with green ink. (And Grantaire really shouldn’t have said anything about Enjolras’s edits because he’s written between nearly every line, either with comments, remarks, or revision marks). Enjolras’s brow furrows and he looks up.

Grantaire chuckles at his unasked question.

“You have absolutely no style whatever. It’s worse than those political theory textbooks you read for fun.” Enjolras’s jaw clenches, and Grantaire looks down for a moment with a small smile. When he looks back up, Enjolras still hasn’t spoken. He can feel his lips twitching, itching to fight the criticism, but Grantaire had taken his so well. Enjolras instead takes two deep breaths through his nose and attempts to quell his raging thoughts.

“Go ahead, Enjolras,” he chuckles, after a long minute of tense silence. “I know you want to argue.” He doesn’t sound angry; he sounds amused. Amused and indulgent.

“Isn’t it better to be straightforward and get your point across?”

As usual, Grantaire doesn’t even need a moment to formulate a response.

“There’s a difference between straightforward in an essay and straightforward in a story. Sure it works fine with your essays, where you’re hashing out eviscerating arguments. You like telling people they’re wrong and exactly why. And you’re very good at it. But you can’t outline your narrative at the beginning and then still tell it effectively.”

“I do not–”

“Enjolras,” Grantaire’s voice is surprisingly serious, “your foreshadowing isn’t even shadowing. You tell your reader what’s going to happen like a topic sentence.” He gestures with his hands in a chopping motion to better get his point across, knocking over his empty cup in the process. “Also, I don’t think a rumination about the plight of the people was what Lamarque was thinking of when he assigned the horror genre.” Enjolras rolls his eyes at Grantaire’s smirk. “Your eyes are going to get stuck that way if you keep doing that, you know,” he warns.

Enjolras goes to roll his eyes again, but stops and makes a frustrated noise in his throat instead.

“It would be entirely your fault if they did,” he grumbles, feeling all the more like a petulant child. His headache ebbs as he rubs his temples. The next few pages of his paper, he sees, are much like the first. Grantaire has added everything from adjectives to sentences and has even gone so far as to cross out entire lines.

“Be that as it may, whining won’t help your writing.” Grantaire’s smirk is infuriating. Actually, everything about Grantaire is infuriating, why had be expected anything else?

“So how do I fix it?” Grantaire drums his fingers against the table and makes a face. Enjolras lets out an exasperated throaty noise that is most certainly not a whine.

“Write about what you know. It’s the biggest cliché ever, but-”

“I know about-”

“Jesus Christ, Enjolras. Things you know personally. Not things you know from books.”

“And you know mass murderers who slit throats and suffocate people?”

Now it’s Grantaire’s turn to roll his eyes.

“No,” he allows, “but I do know someone who would drops plates at the worst possible moment. I know someone who would fight back until her last breath. I know someone afraid of dying alone.”

And oh, that’s why his characterization is so amazing. Enjolras looks at him with an air of suspicion. “You killed off our friends for an English paper?”

Grantaire laughs.

“I just borrowed real characteristics. Real quotes, in some cases. It’s not a crime.”

“You do realize that you never wrapped up any of your loose points and that your ending doesn’t fit with the last eight paragraphs? The murderer’s terrible childhood doesn’t really seem to matter that much after you’ve already graphically depicted him strangling three people for no reason.” Grantaire grimaces.

“Don’t hold back, now. Tell me what you really think,” Grantaire says, before flipping through his paper once more.

“Between the two of us, we could probably write a decent story,” Enjolras allows grudgingly. Grantaire snorts, then puts his head in his hands.

“What?” Enjolras asks tentatively.

“We have a pairs project coming up.” Enjolras is silent. Grantaire continues. “Lamarque is assigning partners.”

“Ah.” Enjolras bites his lip.

“Sometimes I hate how smart Lamarque is.” And oh, Enjolras does too.

Still, Grantaire sits and explains every edit that he’s made on Enjolras’s paper while Enjolras grits his teeth and tries to understand the constructive part of constructive criticism.

*

It turns out that Grantaire isn’t wrong. The following week they get their assignment: a piece of historical fiction that they’ll be submitting to a national writing contest, the winners to be published in an anthology. Lamarque reads off pairs, and Enjolras twists back around in his seat to grimace at Grantaire. The latter is sketching something out in his notebook with a look of concentration on his face. Enjolras clears his throat and raises his eyebrows when Grantaire's eyes meet his own. Grantaire smiles before making his way to sit in Combeferre’s empty seat.

The awkwardness is not helped by the fact that they had fought last night in the Musain. But then again, they fight most nights in the Musain. It’s not really an unusual occurrence. They’ve learned to live with the tension of always being half out of step with each other.

“So,” Grantaire begins, trailing off into nowhere.

“I already have a list of ideas,” Enjolras says, sliding his notebook over. He finds he wants to win, which is not an unusual occurrence.

“Of course you do,” is the reply he gets, the corners of Grantaire’s mouth quirked up.

As soon as he’d gotten the assignment, Enjolras had a list of ten things in his mind. History is one of his passions, and well, fictionalizing history is pretty much his dream prompt. He’s listed all of his favorite revolts and revolutions, spanning centuries.

As Grantaire reads the list, his eyebrows inch farther and farther up his brow.

“You certainly have a one track mind,” he quips.

“At least it’s going somewhere.”

“Ouch.” He wheezes, faking a shot to the chest. “Come on, Enjolras, it’s like you didn’t even try. I know you can hit harder than that.”

“Do you want to fight?”

“Sure, why not? It’s the only way we talk, anyways.” He sounds tired, but not upset. Suddenly Enjolras feels weary as well.

“Maybe we wouldn’t fight if you cared about something besides criticizing everything I do.” It’s weak and he knows it; they’ve had more biting arguments while half-asleep.

Grantaire snorts.

“We both know that’s not true. Can we just pick a topic and argue about it later? I’ll meet you for dinner or something.” He’s shoving things in his backpack now and pulling out his headphones to attach to his phone.

“Yeah, sure. Musain at seven?”

“You mean before the meeting?”

Shit, yeah, meeting. He has to look up figures or nonprofits or something. Les Amis are important, yeah, but he also needs to graduate. While Enjolras runs over his internal monologue of self-justification, Grantaire stands awkwardly and waves a hand in front of Enjolras’s face.

“Hello, earth to Enjolras? Meet you before the meeting?” Enjolras blinks and looks up at him.

“Sure. See you then.” Enjolras watches him leave and rubs at his eyes. “Why do I feel like we just defused a bomb?” he asks.

(He doesn’t get a response, but he doesn’t really need one.)

*

When their friends start filtering into the café around eight, Enjolras and Grantaire are arguing. It’s not loud and it’s not disruptive, but it’s apparently distressing his friends because when he looks over, Feuilly is staring at him with a pained expression. Courfeyrac has an unreadable expression on his face.

“What?” Enjolras searches Feuilly’s face, trying to remember any major transgression he’s made recently that would put that look on anyone’s face. He comes up with a blank, and Feuilly blinks.

“You two are arguing,” he says weakly.

“We argue all the time,” Grantaire frowns.

“Yeah, but,” Feuilly takes a deep breath. “You’re arguing about the Oxford comma.” Enjolras and Grantaire both blush at that and Grantaire laughs weakly. The chair scrapes across the ground as he pushes out and rises, heading to the counter to get something to drink before the meeting begins.

“We can continue later if you like. I’ll type up the outline tonight,” Grantaire offers over his shoulder and adds from the counter, "Want anything?" Enjolras shakes his head. "Feuilly? Courf?" Instead of answering, they still look back and forth between Grantaire and Enjolras with pained expressions. Feuilly shakes his head, and sits down next to Enjolras.

"Did you get the figures from the housing department?" He asks. Enjolras cringes before shaking his head no.

"I've just been so busy, with-" Feuilly cuts him off with a wave of his hand.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not like we’re working on anything big at the moment.” Feuilly smiles, but Enjolras winces. They haven’t done anything in ages because he’s been wrapped up in school, classes and work and essays and the mess that is his creative writing class. (He supposes it is not going to get any better, now that he’s working on this project with Grantaire.) He’s the driving force behind Les Amis, but he hasn’t been very...driving this semester.

“I know, I’m sorry.” Feuilly rolls his eyes again.

“Don’t be, Enjolras. There are still important issue to discuss, even if we’re not applying for rally permits or organizing a fundraiser.”

“But-”

“Shh,” he placates, and looks over his shoulder at Combeferre. “‘Ferre, tell Enjolras to stop worrying about ABC’s lack of activity this semester.” Enjolras frowns and feels slightly more miserable, but Combeferre laughs, and moves to sit next to Enjolras and Feuilly.

“Relax, Enjolras. God knows you need it. It’s okay if we’re not protesting for a new cause every weekend. We can still help. Courfeyrac and I were talking earlier about the work study program and improvements we think we could make,” Combeferre smiles, “Why don’t we talk about that? I can draft up an email later.” Enjolras smiles back and nods, taking a deep breath through his nose.

He zones out for a moment to try and get his bearings again, but his thoughts end up swirling down to anxiety about school and graduation and the club and the eight thousand other things he needs to get done by next Friday. A motion from behind his chair startles him out of his inattention.

“Drink. Eat,” Grantaire orders from behind Enjolras, setting down a Coke in front of him followed by a plate with a muffin. “I know for a fact you haven’t eaten anything today. I saw you at both lunch and dinner time.”

“What if I ate something in between?”

“We both know you didn’t, angelface.” Enjolras glowers at the patronizing nickname, but indulgently breaks off a piece of the muffin and washes it down with a long gulp of soda. And, well, he actually feels a lot better almost immediately. He glances at Grantaire suspiciously.

“Looked like you needed it,” he shrugs and saunters over to the corner where his cushy armchair awaits. Bahorel and Jehan are laughing nearby and easily welcome him into conversation.

If Enjolras argues with him a little less that evening, it’s only because he feels like he owes him. For the muffin, that is.

*

“Come on, Enjolras. Like they wouldn’t have had alcohol on the barricades?” Enjolras is regretting their topic - deciding to write about the Paris Uprising of 1832 had been a bad idea. Fictionalizing a historical period he is passionate about had sounded like a wonderful and engaging concept at the time, but now Grantaire is poking holes through his beloved historical conceptions.

“No, Grantaire. I’m saying they would not have chosen a night like that to get drunk, not with the National Guard about to come down on them.”

“A toast then? After all, they are about to die. What better time? With alcohol comes a sense of camaraderie, you have to admit.”

Enjolras grimaces.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire is in earnest, but quietly. “The story doesn’t work if you don’t add some human aspects. They believe in their cause, yes. Well, most of them. Probably. But the rebellion isn’t their only motivation; it can’t be their defining characteristic. They have friends, families, lovers. That depth has to come through in writing. Otherwise, how do you expect your readers to care about the characters?”

“Fine, fine. Why don’t you work on that and I’ll do a bit of research to come up with the information we’re missing? We can reconvene tomorrow afternoon.” Enjolras has another paper to write and an online quiz to take by midnight on a Friday, of all days. He needs a break, or even just a day off, but cannot allow himself the luxury.

“Tomorrow is Saturday,” Grantaire remarks. His tone is light, but with an edge, as if he’s trying to remind Enjolras of something. Oh, right. ‘Normal’ people don’t work on Saturdays, according to Courfeyrac.

“You’ll be awake by three, right?” Grantaire goes out with Courfeyrac on most Friday nights, Enjolras knows. Courfeyrac usually sleeps until late in the day, but he’s not familiar with Grantaire’s habits.

“I can be, if you need me to be.” It’s a simple answer, but Enjolras frowns.

“I need you to be.” He half expects Grantaire to scoff and roll his eyes, but he is strangely accommodating.

“Well, then I’ll be awake by three. Want me to come over?”

“No, I can come by your place.” Courfeyrac doesn’t like when he does work on Saturdays – he prefers to put a carton of ice cream in Enjolras’s hands and sit on him until he relents and watches a movie with him and Combeferre. If Grantaire comes over, between Courfeyrac and Grantaire, they’ll never get anything done.

“Sounds like a plan. Jehan is visiting home this weekend, so we’ll have the room to ourselves.”

“Oh, you still live on campus, don’t you?” Enjolras hasn’t lived on campus since freshman year, instead opting to room with Courfeyrac and Combeferre off campus in a small apartment since then.

“Unfortunately,” Grantaire laments, “but it’s covered under scholarship and it doesn’t really make sense for me to move off when I would have to pay more than I do now.”

Enjolras blinks and wonders how he never knew Grantaire was here on scholarship.

"Oh. Well, just text me your room number and I'll come over when you're awake."

Later Grantaire texts him the building and room number. He also sends Enjolras a detailed character description of the leader at the barricades, painting him as a savage Antinous, a leader golden as Apollo.

The more Enjolras reads, the more the words take his breath away. He smiles and replies to Grantaire's message saying that he hopes Grantaire and Courfeyrac won't get into too much trouble tonight, and sits down to work on editing what they have so far.

*

When he shows up at Grantaire’s door with a coffee tray the next afternoon, Grantaire exalts him as if he were a god and ushers him in. Enjolras is surprised to find Granatire showered and dressed and the room somewhat clean. He deposits his laptop on Grantaire’s bed and his bag on the floor. He settles against the wall while cradling his coffee cup in both hands, and Grantaire yawns loudly before climbing up next to him with his own laptop.

“How was your night with Courfeyrac?” Enjolras mutters as he scrolls through his Facebook newsfeed.

“I came back around one – I couldn’t stop thinking about stupid revolution shit.” Enjolras starts sputtering in indignation at his comment but Grantaire continues, “I wrote another few thousand words. Hopefully you can string them together with some semblance of plot.”

Enjolras just glares at him, but opens the story on Google docs and begins to scroll through. There are several more pages there than when he went to bed last night.

“How late did you stay up?” He asks in amazement. Grantaire yawns.

“Haven’t been to sleep yet,” he grins. Enjolras narrows his eyes. “I also finished three essays, dusted the room, and cleaned the pizza off the floor.” Enjolras frowns in disgust and Grantaire laughs, which segues into a yawn. He clutches the coffee cup even tighter. After rolling his eyes in exasperation, Enjolras takes the cup out of Grantaire’s hand and goes to set it on the dresser.

“What?” Grantaire asks, confused, blinking up at him and looking personally wronged.

“Take a nap. I’m going to edit this.”

“But-”

“You’re no good to me if you’re delirious and falling asleep.”

“I can handle all-nighters, Enjolras, I’m…” he trails off as Enjolras levels him with his best glare. “Jesus, fine. Only here for three minutes and already barking orders.” Enjolras would contest that, but the grumbling is good-natured.

Enjolras scoots up father on the bed to give Grantaire more space. He would move to Jehan’s bed, but it’s unmade, and he’s walked in on Courfeyrac and Jehan enough times to know not to sit in any space where the two of them spend time. The lack of space is obviously not an issue however, as Grantaire curls up like a cat at Enjolras’s side. When Enjolras murmurs his name softly just a few minutes later, he receives no response.

Enjolras finds that Grantaire talks in his sleep. It’s soft murmuring, but Enjolras catches some real words amidst the mumbles. Grantaire also twitches and shifts in his sleep, still curled up but inching towards Enjolras until his head is pressed against Enjolras’s leg. Enjolras stops in the middle of a sentence to look down at the black curls pressing against his sweatpants.

It is horribly domestic and unsettlingly adorable.

He tries to scoot away, but Grantaire frowns and protests, features scrunching up even in rest. Enjolras lets out a theatrical sigh and rolls his eyes before realizing Grantaire isn’t actually awake to experience his exasperation. It’s completely ridiculous and Enjolras wants to throw up his hands, but Combeferre would tell Enjolras he’s being overdramatic and didn’t you want him to take a nap, Enjolras?

So, Enjolras lets Grantaire rest and goes back to typing furiously, occasionally getting sidetracked on an argumentative tangent that he is sure Grantaire will contest later.

“Mmmm,” Grantaire hums, from near Enjolras’s hip, “good.”

“What?” Enjolras asks absentmindedly, while adding a description of the barricade.

“Smells good,” murmurs Grantaire with a smile. Enjolras colors immediately, hyperaware of the cologne he’d put on this morning. He watches Grantaire’s eyes blink open and find his almost immediately. Grantaire’s cheeks flush as well and he bites his lip. “Um.”

“Um,” Enjolras echoes.

“How long was I asleep for?”

Enjolras checks the clock on his laptop.

“A little over two hours?” Grantaire sits up quickly and rubs the back of his neck.

“Shit, sorry. Here, let me type for a while.” He opens his laptop and looks through what Enjolras has done so far. He nods in agreement while Enjolras explains his edits, but snorts when he starts to read some of Enjolras’s new material.

Enjolras grimaces, but holds his peace.

“Do you think we have a chance at getting it published?” Enjolras asks mildly. He didn’t think it would be important to him; it’s just a writing contest. They wouldn’t even receive a monetary award. Still, he has been thinking about it – maybe Les Amis could reach more people through stories like this. After all, fiction is a powerful form of communication.

“Who knows,” Grantaire sounds equal parts bored and indulgent. “It’s a nationwide contest, Enjolras. We’re up against a lot of people.” When he sees Grantaire deleting whole lines, Enjolras makes a strained noise in the back of his throat.

“What-”

“Calm down.” He sets his laptop on the bed and turns to face Enjolras. “You should write a beginning.”

“We already started with the funeral procession.”

“Write something before it, some exposition. Put your idealism there and not in the middle of the story where good men are dying for their cause.”

“So-” Enjolras tries to start again.

“Even just a couple lines, like in Pride and Prejudice, or Moby-Dick. Something to set the stage. And there you can mention revolution and ‘the people’ as often as you like.”

“I haven’t read-” he begins, but Grantaire waves him off.

“On the desk.”

Enjolras slides off the bed and stands in front of the desk, wondering where to begin. There’s a shelf above filled with books, but there are also stacks filling the entire right hand of the desk and overflowing from a drawer. They’ve also managed to take over the chair and most of the floor.

“If it’s a short story, isn’t it better to just jump right in?” Enjolras huffs, moving books around to try and find one of the few books Grantaire listed off.

“Maybe, yeah. But a few lines will help to set the stage, especially for those who aren’t so historically inclined. Not everyone knows about émeutes and the history of the French monarchy.”

Which is, of course, true. Enjolras frowns, but throws a few choice books back on the bed and climbs up next to Grantaire to start reading. Grantaire has grabbed the old cup of coffee and is drinking it in several large gulps. Enjolras feels like he’s going to throw up all over Grantaire’s bed.

“That is disgusting,” he bites out, watching with morbid fascination as Grantaire downs the entire thing. “You just drank an entire large cold coffee.”

“Does the same thing as when it’s hot,” he says amicably. “I really like this line,” he continues, changing the topic, and Enjolras leans over to read. Surprisingly, it’s something he wrote. He smiles.

“Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” Enjolras says, but there’s no malice behind it.

“Shut up and work on your revolutionary spiel.”

Enjolras resists the impulse to throw a book at his head.

*

“Are you sure it’s done?” Grantaire asks, worrying over the paper as he flips through it again. They’re hovering just outside the classroom, watching as people file in.

“We were up until two, it is done,” Enjolras affirms. He feels the strain of sleep deprivation and all he wants to do is curl up and take a nap. He’s spent the past two weeks working on this paper every other day, fitting in frequent editing sessions with Grantaire. They had spent the last evening cutting it down to maximum length and fine-tuning the language.

Enjolras really needs to do well on this paper. His GPA cannot take a hit, especially from a supposedly easy senior elective. But what’s done is done, and the paper is due in ten minutes.

“But don’t you think-” Grantaire begins, and Enjolras lays a hand on Grantaire’s shoulder.

“Grantaire,” he reassures, “it is fine. We worked really hard on this. Even if we could do anything else, it’s due now and we don’t have time to change anything. We already submitted the electronic copy for the contest anyways.”

“I suppose.” It’s grumbled below his breath, but Grantaire follows him inside the classroom and places their paper on Lamarque’s desk. Grantaire takes his typical seat at the back of the classroom and Enjolras sits down next to Combeferre in the front.

“So, how did it go?” he asks casually. Enjolras shrugs.

“It went well, I think.”

“The two of you have been fighting a lot less,” he remarks, as Lamarque comes in the door. Enjolras laughs.

“Probably because we fight when we’re alone now, and we’re too exhausted to continue around everyone else.”

“Courfeyrac wants to know, and I quote, ‘what is up with all of the unresolved sexual tension?’”

“We do not have unresolved sexual tension,” Enjolras forces out, tensely.

“You don’t?” Combeferre smirks.

“Shit,” Enjolras hisses. “I mean we don’t have sexual tension. At all.” He looks back at Grantaire, whose eyes flick up to his. Grantaire smiles easily, and Enjolras flushes red. Grantaire looks at him questioningly, but he only spins back around and slumps around in his seat.

“Whatever you say,” Combeferre says lightly, with the hint of a smile.

Enjolras crosses his arms and tries not to think about his friends’ totally unfounded queries. He tries not to think about French revolutionaries. He tries not to think about arguing with Grantaire over coffee in the middle of the night. He tries not to think about how easy it has been to just go over to Grantaire’s room and rant and let off steam. He tries not to think about how their project is over, and how he doesn’t really have a reason to be in constant contact with Grantaire anymore.

*

On all counts, he fails miserably.

It is not until Enjolras finishes an essay and two study guides that he realizes he is exasperated and agitated, with no outlet for his pent-up frustration. He drums his fingers against the arm of the couch for a solid five minutes before Combeferre closes his book and very pointedly puts it down on the coffee table. Courfeyrac looks up from his sudoku puzzle, where he is sprawled out on the floor. They look at Enjolras expectantly.

“What?”

“It’s okay to want to be friends with Grantaire,” Combeferre notes. “You don’t need to be working on a project with him to spend time with him.”

“I never said anything about Grantaire,” Enjolras splutters defensively. Courfeyrac laughs and puts his chin on his hands.

“You have spent three of the last five evenings with him, and now you are glaring at the wall,” Courfeyrac offers.

“Yes,” Combeferre agrees, “so forgive me for making assumptions.” He moves to pick up his book, but Enjolras pulls his feet up on the couch and hugs them to his chest. Courfeyrac moves to sit on the sturdy coffee table, completing the triangle.

“I’ve never really been friends with Grantaire before, have I?” Enjolras asks. Combeferre takes a breath slowly through his nose and adopts a look of concentration.

“You have never shunned Grantaire,” he muses. “But where you praise Feuilly, you ignore Grantaire. Where you laugh with Jehan, you rebuke Grantaire. Where you indulge Courfeyrac, you glare at Grantaire. I do not think you have been overly cruel, but you’ve certainly not made an effort where he is concerned. Does that make sense?”

“It does,” Enjolras furrows his brow as he thinks it over in his head.

“It may be something you have to work at. The two of you don’t have an easy friendship. You obviously can work well together in an academic setting. But for something more, you may have to put in more effort. The question you have to ask yourself is if that is something you want.”

“It’s not so hard,” Courfeyrac interjects softly, “if you want it to, it will fall into place.”

Enjolras looks at his phone.

“I do like arguing with him,” he allows. Courfeyrac snorts and puts his head in his hands.

“Yeah, that is the part you would focus on,” he groans.

“But what if he doesn’t want to spend time with me?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-” Courfeyrac starts.

“Courf,” Combeferre says exasperatedly. “Just….just let it go.” Enjolras narrows his eyes and looks back and forth between them. Combeferre sighs loudly, and turns to Enjolras. “Invite him over for a movie or something. If he doesn’t want to come, he won’t.”

It seems simple enough, so he sends Grantaire a text.

Grantaire replies back in the affirmative, and Enjolras sits back on the couch, relaxing a bit.

“So?” Courfeyrac asks.

(And now that he’s not seeking the advice of his friends, Enjolras thinks Courfeyrac’s being a nosy shit.)

“He’s on his way over.”

“Well done, Enjolras,” Combeferre replies with a smile.

*

They fall into a routine in the following week. Not much changes except that Enjolras usually meets Grantaire for breakfast at the café in the student center and they half-argue about whatever is on their minds. It's pretty early to get it in before both of their classes, but the semester is ending and they are both busy on most weekday evenings.

During meetings, Grantaire continues to heckle from the corner and Enjolras continues to glare at him. But then after, they laugh and Grantaire will walk him home or he'll walk Grantaire home. It is easier than Enjolras assumed it would be and he doesn't even realize how much he enjoys spending time with Grantaire until he calls him on a Saturday morning. Usually he’ll ask Combeferre to do something, or go out himself.

"I'm bored," is his opening statement. Grantaire's laughter comes down the line, and then a pause.

"Yes, and?"

"Entertain me," he whines, and smiles reflexively when he hears Grantaire laugh again.

"What's your poison today? Disney movies? A lively debate on the state of financial aid? A quiet afternoon-"

"Let's go for a walk," he decides spontaneously.

"Sure. Now?" Enjolras checks the time; it's eleven, not too early for Grantaire to be up.

"Why not?" He’s feeling good. No exams this week, essays all done.

"Uh, okay. I'll be there in ten minutes?"

"Sounds great."

"Make coffee?"

"I think that could be arranged."

When Grantaire knocks on Enjolras’s door fifteen minutes later, he puts on his black peacoat and grabs the two cups of coffee off the counter. Grantaire is grinning on the doorstep, black curls peeking out of his blue hoodie. He makes grabby hands at the cup and Enjolras hands it to him indulgently.

“Mmm, thank you,” he inhales, eyes closed in bliss. Enjolras locks the door behind him and starts off on the sidewalk, heading somewhere towards campus. Grantaire walks amiably by his side, sipping at the beverage.

The sun is out and bright, but they are having an unseasonably cold November and the wind whips at Enjolras’s nose enough to be annoying. It’s lovely and crisp.

“You are uncharacteristically happy,” Grantaire remarks, with a smile. Enjolras takes a drink from his travel cup. He can already feel the effects of the caffeine and it is wondrous.

“I had two tests this week and turned in three essays.” It feels so good to be done, just for now. Finals are around the corner, but far enough away to not be frightening yet.

“Ah, so free for the moment?” They’re heading towards the campus quad and there are only a few people out and about - some still obviously coming back from Friday night adventures.

“For the day, I think.” He could do anything, he could take a nap, he could watch an entire season of Game of Thrones, he could make cookies.

“And you wanted to go for a walk? With me?”

Enjolras turns and smiles at him. he could make up something, say Courfeyrac and Combeferre are busy. But...

“Yeah,” is all he offers. Grantaire’s answering smile is worth the admission.

Grantaire mentions something about pancakes, a slight blush coloring his cheeks, and Enjolras steers them in the direction of the nearest IHOP.

*

Enjolras’s creative writing class is winding down flash fiction in-class edits when Lamarque clears his throat to end class. Enjolras hands Jehan’s paper back to him with a smile and a quick comment before they turn to face the front.

“Maybe move this part first? Alright class, your edited flash fiction is due to my email by eight this evening. And a friendly reminder that today the anthology is listing online the student works being published – the results should be on their website right about now. Have a wonderful day, and I will see you all next Tuesday.” The class begins to pack up, absentminded chatter filling the empty space. Enjolras begins to make his way out of the room, but lingers outside the door and waits for Grantaire, who grins when he spots him waiting.

“See you back at home,” Combeferre says, and Enjolras and Granatire wave at him.

“Do you want to check the website?” Grantaire asks immediately, pushing open the doors of the building and heading out onto the sidewalk. Enjolras already has his phone open and is typing in the address on his phone’s browser.

They already received their grade on the paper (a resounding A, much better than any other grade he had earned in the class so far). However, Enjolras has been excited about this paper from the start and he just needs to know if they’ve made it. Grantaire has rolled his eyes a hundred times, reminding Enjolras that they’re up against the best writers from across the nation, and really, does this anthology actually mean anything to anyone besides him and Lamarque? It’s of no real consequence, after all. Despite the protestations, Enjolras is still incredibly excited.

“Here is the list,” Enjolras is breathless, and they stop on an empty street corner to look. Grantaire cranes his head next to Enjolras’s, blocking the sunlight so they can see the phone. His breath hitches as they scroll down, and Enjolras’s heart drops into his feet when he sees their names. Grantaire starts laughing.

He keeps laughing and Enjolras shoves his phone in his pocket and looks at Grantaire, who has a stupid happy grin on his face and it’s so gorgeous that Enjolras can’t stop himself from cupping the back of Grantaire’s neck and fitting their lips together.

It’s quick and forceful and the loveliest thing he’s done all semester, but Grantaire pulls away after a long moment with a choked expression.

“No,” he chokes out, looking like it’s physically painful to back away, “no,” and he turns and leaves, tucking his head against his chest and not looking back. Enjolras can see from the corner that Grantaire is shaking, but he can’t make his feet move, can’t open his mouth to call after him.

The soaring feeling in his chest is suddenly constricting his airway and his stomach is filling with lead. It’s a matter of minutes before he can even move.

He had been so sure, too.

*

Enjolras arrives at Grantaire’s door that evening with the intent to apologize, a coffee tray clutched tightly in his hands. It is Jehan who answers the door and his eyebrows shoot upwards upon seeing Enjolras.

“Grantaire,” he calls, “for you,” as he lets the door fall shut in Enjolras’s face.

He can hear a quick argument on the other side of the door and shifts uneasily from foot to foot. After a few moments, Jehan is out the door, jacket clutched in one hand and phone in the other. He smiles encouragingly at Enjolras, but Enjolras is more focused on the door, and how it opens slowly.

“Hey,” Grantaire mumbles. His arms are crossed protectively over his chest and he’s looking at Enjolras’s feet.

“Hey,” Enjolras replies, for once feeling at a loss for words. They stand in silence for a moment. He clenches his jaw and tries to ignore the impulse to run. “Can I come in? I promise, um…” he trails off. “I promise I won’t try to kiss you again? And I brought coffee?”

“Um,” Grantaire hesitates and stands to the side of the door, holding it open for Enjolras. “Sure?”

For two students who are going to have their work in a national anthology, they’re being rather ineloquent.

Enjolras doesn’t take his coat off, instead setting the coffee tray down and wringing his fingers together. Grantaire locks the door and moves to stand in front of him. He eyes the coffees warily.

“What’s up?”

“I came to apologize.” Grantaire blinks, so he continues, slowly sitting down on Grantaire’s bed. “For kissing you. I’m sorry, I should not have assumed you felt that way; I should have asked. I’m sorry.” He picks at the hem of his coat and waits for Grantaire to say something.

“Wait,” Grantaire says, and it sounds strangled. Enjolras looks up to see a battle of emotions playing out of Grantaire’s face, and he aches to reach out and grab his hand. It’s like with that one kiss, all his emotions came flooding out and he can’t keep a lid on them anymore.

“Yes?”

“What exactly are you apologizing for?”

“Kissing you. Specifically without your consent, especially since you don’t…”

“Like you?” Granatire finishes his sentence. Enjolras cringes.

“Since you don’t like me, yes,” he finishes in a small voice. He looks at the floor, and sees Grantaire’s scuffed converses a step to him. He doesn’t expect Grantaire to lift his chin with a finger. It is hard, but Enjolras meets his eyes and takes a slow breath.

“You think I don’t like you?” Grantaire’s voice is unfathomably kind and his eyes are soft. He desn’t give him a chance to respond. “Enjolras, you must be the stupidest person I have ever met.”

Enjolras frowns and wants to argue, because what even is going on?

“Okay, so to be sure,” Granatire begins. “You are sorry that you kissed me even though you didn’t have my permission, not because you think it was a stupid thing to do and you regret it?” He looks mildly nervous, but it’s also the look he gets when he’s about to jump into something headfirst.

“Why would I regret-” he begins, but Grantaire smiles and cuts him off with a kiss. It is without a doubt the most confusing thing that has happened all day (and it has been a whirlwind of a day) but he’s not complaining. Grantaire’s lips are soft and chapped and he’s still smiling, which makes Enjolras laugh into his mouth. Grantaire slides a hand into Enjolras’s hair and deepens the kiss for a moment. When he pulls away he lets their foreheads rest together.

“What?” Enjolras asks, breathless and a bit flustered. “I’m not complaining, but what?” He isn’t quite sure how they got to this point.

“Apparently in that big brain of yours, you managed to miss the fact that I am absolutely head over heels for you.”

“You’re-” his eyes go wide and he looks at Grantaire, who is pulling away and unbuttoning Enjolras’s jacket for him.

“Yup.” He slides the jacket off his shoulders.

“Oh.”

Enjolras wraps his arms around Grantaire’s waist from where he’s sitting on the bed, and buries his face into Grantaire’s chest, taking a shaky breath. He feels a kiss being dropped on the top of his head, and he smiles into Grantaire’s t-shirt.

“Head over heels,” he muses, voice muffled. Grantaire pulls back a bit to smile down at him. Enjolras finds his hands gravitate to Grantaire’s hips to pulls him closer by his belt loops.

“Yeah.”

“So then why did you run earlier?” he asks. Grantaire shrugs.

“You had just found out something really exciting that I helped with. You were emotional, I was there. You’re a very passionate person.”

“So you thought I didn’t mean it?”

“Well, yeah. It’s me.” His furrowed brow is adorable, and Enjolras finds he wants to smooth it out with kisses.

“I never do things I don’t mean,” he emphasizes, raising a hand to pull Grantaire toward him. Grantaire follows willingly, leaning against the bed to duck his head down to meet Enjolras’s lips.

“My mistake,” Grantaire chuckles, and then he’s kissing him again.

Neither of them could have written a better ending themselves.

[ART] Real (Javert/Valjean; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Thu, 21 Nov 2013 21:04:46 GMT

Author: Chrissy24601 (AO3)/chrissy-24601 (tumblr)
Title: Real
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Javert/Valjean
Rating: PG-13
Summary: While driving to Montreuil-sur-mer one night, Valjean comes across a car that has swerved off the road and crashed into a tree. But when he goes to check on the driver, he discovers that the unconscious man behind the wheel is not just anyone.
Warnings (if any): (possibly) car crash, visible (but non-lethal) injury
Total Word Count/Length: 8 pages
Original prompt number: #16
Author's/Artist's/Vidder's notes (if any): Absolute amateur comic artist, but I hope that doesn't show too much. Enjoy!
Betas: Hannah (http://rainbows-end-thus.tumblr.com) and esteven (http://archiveofourown.org/users/esteven)

( View on AO3 )

[FIC] Trinity (Joly/Musichetta/Bossuet; PG-13)

rueplumetmod — Wed, 20 Nov 2013 22:58:10 GMT

Author: Drunkpylades (pyladesdrunk @AO3)
Title: Trinity
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Joly/Musichetta/Bossuet, mention of les amis.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: She's there, with the smile he learned to recognize life after life, with her wild green eyes; she's there in front of him, shaking Bossuet's hand like it's not important.
She's there. And Bossuet is there too. This is new. This is bad.
She's not supposed to be there, not in this lifetime, not with Bossuet already here.
Warnings (if any): None
Total Word Count/Length: 14,614
Original prompt number: #27
Beta: tumblr user theladyinapanicroom

( Read at AO3 )