#is that Grantaire's blood on his face? it's perhaps so

[sachart]

and we are entering a tomb all flooded with the dawn

#is that Grantaire's blood on his face? it's perhaps so #sach art #les mis #les miserables #les amis de l'abc #les amis #enjolras #barricade day

[vinelark]

do you have any whumpy fic recs (ideally romance, but gen would do in a pinch)? Open to any fandoms. I feel like I used to see them a lot more, but they are harder to find these days. Bbts really hits the spot tho btw haha.

ANY fandoms? oh boy do i.

Hotel Heart by Laughsalot3412 (and its sequel Safe as Houses): not quite romance but not NOT romance ot3 leverage psychics au where eliot is a hitman who used to be under the control of a horrible empath who left him with major mental scars and huge trust issues. he reluctantly ends up protecting another empath (hardison) and thief (parker) and sloooowly starts to work through the aforementioned trauma while they take down the aforementioned evil empath together. excellent series with excellent pangy plot. also i knew nothing about leverage when i first read it and it’s what got me to watch the show.

Hold my Eyes to the Sky by myrmidryad: an enjoltaire/les mis longfic set in a 1970s(?) wizarding au in which grantaire is a very sad and lonely werewolf and the idealistic activist he’s hopelessly in love with just got himself turned as well, and grantaire has to help him navigate the changes while dealing with his own self-worth issues and tragic backstory. you want whump? look no further.

Occultation by Geese_in_flight & pineapplesquid: a novel-length au of the book Winter’s Orbit, in which the main difference is that kiem, not jainan, is the one dealing with a previous, horrible arranged marriage. somehow this simple switch brings so much fresh potential to the characters (i loved seeing how this played into kiem’s self-worth issues, and also loved this exploration of what jainan’s character would be like if he had been able to flourish the last few years), with a whole new set of pangs. i recommend both the book and the fic!

爱不释手; never let me go by yiqie: a post-cql wangxian getting together fic with the classic amounts of yiqie pain & pining & h/c & devastatingly beautiful writing about the devastatingly beautiful experience of being in love. also blood. honestly most fics by yiqie probably fulfill this request (are you into vashwood, perhaps?)

Morning, keep the streets empty for me by feyburner: a wangxian modern au oneshot with self-sacrificing wei ying getting into trouble and landing himself in the hospital while pining very very hard for his cultivation partner. i’m reccing this one out of all feyburner fics because it has the obvious physical hurt but fey is so good at weaving pangs into fic that tbh there’s emotional whump to be found in most of them. also, god-tier writing in general.

the kite string and the anchor rope by fleurdeliser: a wangxian canon-divergence au that falls into the sickfic whump subgenre. the pangs! wangxian’s love for each other and for a-yuan and the way wwx’s desperation and powerlessness in the face of a sick child (and his own illness) clash with how the world perceives him at the time is so 🤌🤌. this is saved in my h/c favs folder for a reason.

The Long Way Home by itsnatalie: extremely whumpy batfam tim & jason fic, which i’ve definitely rec’d here before but if i’m reccing whumpy longfics it HAS to be on the list. good god this fic is a masterpiece, both for the angst and for the absolute beautiful worldbuilding/navigation of its horror tropes.

and since you like bbts, i’ll also self-rec a few of my older fics! i think you’d probably enjoy this river runs to you, a wangxian/mdzs modern cultivation longfic feat. (sort of) identity shenanigans, angsty backstories, self-worth issues, and the main character getting all manner of hurt. also: you’re the trouble that i always find, a wenzhou/shl dreamsharing/amnesia/sort-of-timeloop fic in which the main character is supposed to dream about killing his love interest but said love interest keeps dreamcrashing to change the plot.

this reclist could’ve been dozens of fics long tbh. i live for The Pangs which usually go hand in hand with good whump, and seek those fics out whenever possible, so as always this is a super incomplete reclist! also i welcome any and all recs in return.

#fic rec #asks #a buffet table of fandoms #i KNOW i’m forgetting like 75% of my favs here #my organization system exists in my heart #anyway these span years and years of reading and i will probably come back to add to this post #the whump in wangxian fandom alone could power a small city for a week #also i wish i could manifest the 500 incredible pangy fics my friends and i have brainstormed in the DMs because whew. the angst #i forget they don’t exist outside of our brains because they’re part of my own mental canon

[stardancerluv]

A Time to Love and to Fight

Part 18

Summary: Clashes with the Royal Army finally take place. Other sides of Enjolras revealed…and new developments take place for Enjolras and his gal.

Notes/Warnings: 18 & above please. There are two collages…enjoy! Wound/Blood, War violence…briefly mentioned…

“My sweet angel. So brave coming to see me.” Mon doux ange. Tellement courageux de venir me voir. My angel. Mon ange.

It is not necessary that whilst I live I live happily; but it is necessary that so long as I live I should live honourably. - Quote from philosopher Immanual Kant

Thank you, for reading! Be nice! Feedback is welcome! Want to be tagged, please let me know! ❤️ and of course…Enjoy!

Glancing skyward, Enjolras saw scarlet flags flapping brilliantly against the clear morning sky. With the right push all of these men, women could all raise up their anger fueling them. Perhaps, their voices could would finally be heard. A smiled curled his lips. His heart lifted in hope. The gods, were on their side. Reaching up, absently he gave your ribbon a gentle tug.

Moving among the throngs mourners and his comrades, he gave the nod. In a breath, they reacted. Easily six of them took over pulling the carriage that carried the casket of General Lamarque. There was practically no resistance. Elation began to fill him. Perhaps, all of this would be easier then any of them thought.

His breath caught in his throat when he saw the sheer number of those that turned out. There were several men and women, old and young alike crowding into the city center. This was exactly what they needed.

The further and deeper they moved into the city, Royal Guards rode high above on their white horses. The numbers of them grew. He knew they would there but his stomach began churn at saw how large their presence was.

A crack of thunder, made him look around. There was no storm clouds. His his grew when he realized that what he had heard was a bullet cracking out of his barrel. He watched as a lieutenant of Royal Army slid from his saddle, a scarlet spot over where the man’s heart should be grew as he fell. Panic hit the crowd moments later, screams fill the sky.

As he began to back up, he watched the small groups of the Royal army. It did not take them long before they came together and formed bigger, tighter bunches. One a fair distance away drew his sword, calling out a command and they began riding at anyone in their path. Guns were pulled from their holsters, swords are drawn and people are running different directions.

Despite his heart thudding hard in his chest a steadiness comes over him. He grew focused. He urged the men and woman around him to run.

“We have to get out of here. Run!” He commanded.

They listened and he ran with them. Looking back when he could, many anguished, terrified faces filled his line of vision. Though none of them were the faces, he hoped to see. The faces he wished to see belonged to Courfeyrac and Grantaire; he knew Gavroche was as sneaky and small. He knew how to get himself out of a scrap. Yet, he did not spot them anywhere.

As he neared the end of the city center, hoping for the best he chose one of the narrow streets closest to him and began to run down that one. Deep down, he knew the army would struggle there, they just had to.

Hearing his name he glanced up ahead of him. He saw far off, very far off his two friends. It brought little comfort, they needed to survive today to fight another day. He kept on running. Around him, men and women continued to run.

The screams around him rose, glancing over his shoulder he saw the Royal army were riding hard towards him. A man close to him stood fear obviously consumed him.

He had to do something, he pulled the man aside, the Royal solider drew his sword and he drew his gun. The galloping of the horse filled his ears. He aimed, he he shot and the sword came down.

Before he even knew what had happened, he found himself on the ground. He barely was aware that the old man managed to scramble up and he ran off.

Pain ripped at him. That’s when he saw his hand, the solider’s sword contacted with the back of his hand. There was a deep slice across it.

Glancing back, the warmth of triumph filled him as he saw people throwing rocks and other stuff down upon the Royal Soldiers from their windows. The people were fighting back. Reaching for his pistol, not entirely sure how but he did manage to holster it the best he could.

Sitting back he pulled his scarf free. He glanced behind him once again before he quickly wrapped his scarf around his hand. Biting one end, he made a tight knot. That would have to do.

******

Certain the soldiers and their horses had run off, he took a deep breath. Grantaire, came up to him almost gave him a fright as his arm wrapped around his shouldlers. “Enjolras, we did it. We survived.”

He nodded. He tried to gather his words

He felt his friend step back. “Your hand.” His voice cracked. “What happened to your hand?”

He shrugged. “I’ll be alright.”

He ran off ahead. His heart picked up with his new idea of what the should do.

“Citizens! Citizens!” The words were sharp and stronger then he had hoped for. “Now is the time to make our stand!” He continued, the people cheered and rose their fists skyward.

******

The moon was full and bright in the inky sky. He had survived another day. Chewing the inside of his cheek, he was grateful not more were killed in this scuffle. Yet, his core group of comrades had made it out alive and for that he was grateful.

Lingering in the doorway, he eyed the barricade they had built. It was solid. He wished there was a way to spy on the royal army. But it was much too dangerous , the risk was too high. They would just have to remain at the ready.

“Enjolras, you scoundrel get over here.”

Raising his eyebrows, he turned in the direction of the voice. It came from the doctor who was in their ranks and believed in their cause.

Pushing, himself off the doorframe he went over to the older man. He noticed he had gathered a few of their supplies. They shouldn’t be waste it on him.

“I’m sure its nothing.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

He settled on the desk besides the supplies. The worn wood was scratched and creaked under his weight. Many a night had they poured under candle light, looking at maps. Tracing the the lines of streets and roads; with a steady finger as they would discuss away around the royal arm.

“You’ll see nothing to worry about.” He gat gotten you used to the soft throb of pain. It would pass. There were greater things to be worried about.

The man had a natural gentle touch as he took his hand. He smiled at him. “You tied this good.”

Ejolras shrugged. He had to keep fighting. He had not had the time to stop and think if it had been a good knot. He gritted his teeth as the man tugged and finally loosened the knot.

“Enjolras.” The man shook his head. “That is quite the gash.”

But his eyes to grew seeing the wound. It was far worse then he expected, that was proudly why it had still hurt.

The man handed his scarf to Gavroche who had wandered up. “Go and soak rinse that in the water barrel.”

“We shouldn’t, we may need that.” Enjolras spoke up.

The man waved him off. “I can get more from the Seine. When we do.”

He shook his head. That was a risk that may not be worth taking but Enjolras remained silent at the moment. One did not argue with a doctor.

“Well, alright. Let’s get this done with.”

Enjolras, would not look away. He watched as the man pulled the stopper from small glass jar. The scent of the alcohol is strong and stung his nose.

“It’s going to sting.” The man warned.

He shrugged.

The man poured and then rubbed the wound clean, along with what blood had dried.

“That’s a rather clean blow.”

“You read my thoughts, just grateful he didn’t take off my hand when he slashed down.” He gave the man a half smile.

“Yes. Those swords can be either completely dull or as sharp as a razor, all depends on the man who wields them.”

“This one must not have cared too much.” The man gave a short, choked off chuckle. “Alright.” He made quick work of threading a needle. “You may not want to watch this bit.”

“I need my hand.”

The man rose an eyebrow. “I did this on the battlefield, my boy.”

“I know.” Enjolras grimaced.

******

He opened and closed his hand once the man was done. He smiled. “You are a miracle worker.”

Just as the pain of the stitching began to lessen it strengthened as they wrapped and tied his scarf around it again.

“I know where my talents lay.”

“Glad you are on our side.” He clapped the man on the back.”

******

Going to one of the side rooms in the warehouse, Enjolras went to think. He snatched up scrap of bread and cheese. Barely, chewing them before swallowing. His stomach finally reminding him, he had forgotten to eat.

He needed a moment, away from the others. The quietness of the room gave him a chance clear his head. Eyeing his wrapped hand and simultaneously was grateful for the doctor but also relieved he had not inquired about the ribbon tied to his jacket.

Thoughts of you finally bloomed in his mind. You had taken root a while back but now, he knew body and spirit. These thoughts, these memories of you were different. He welcomed them.

Because of you he remembered the quote, General Lamarque had taught him from the works of Kant, “It is not necessary that whilst I live I live happily; but it is necessary that so long as I live I should live honourably.” With you, he easily could envision both. Which he was very aware was a rare occurrence in one’s life.

Yet, he struggled. Not with how he felt for you but with if was right to establish himself and make himself your…gritting his teeth he turned to Gavroche’s voice interrupted him. He was truly like a younger brother at times. He would only allow this from him. If Grantaire or Courfeyrac did this, he’d brush them off.

As he turned, his boots echoed in the small room.

“What is it?”

“The girl. Y/N is here.”

“What?” He stormed past Gavroche, just barely missing him.

There you were, talking with Grantaire. The man always talked to people. You were clad in a fresh dress, your hair soft and scarf around your shoulders just like the first night, he saw you here. His heart lurched painfully.

“What are you doing here?”

He watched as you turned to him. Your eyes moistened. He sighed at his tone.

“I…I…” Your words did not come.

He easily closed the distance. He grabbed your arm, careful as he did. “Excuse us Grantaire.”

“Come with me.” He gently pulled and you easily came.

He went back to that side room with you, only this time he closed the door.

“Enjolras.” Your voice was soft as his name poured from your lips.

“Answer me.” He realized he had not let go of you. He didn’t necessarily want to. Gently he grazed your arm with his thumb. Your softness was electrifying.

“I heard explosions and screams. I grew worried.”

He drew his wrapped hand to your other arm without thinking. He could watch as surprise and concern washed over your face.

“I’m alright.” He immediately said. “I told you, I’d come tonight. I would meet you by our willow.”

“My worry consumed my heart.”

Letting your arm go, he cupped your cheek.

“Mon doux ange. Tellement courageux de venir me voir.”

His heart squeezed as you leaned into his hand. Your lashes laying gently on your cheeks. He stepped closer, his body brushing yours.

Enjolras was very strong. He could resist lot in this life but you, you tested that. Right now, he wanted to kiss you. Closing the distance, he chose to do so. He sighed into the kiss as he felt your fingers nestle in his hair.

He needed this, this quiet softness. It ended the struggle he was tearing himself apart with mere moments ago.

The door swung open. “Enjolras, they’re coming!” One of the comrades announced and ran back out. His heart stilled.

He nodded, “Stay here. Do not leave this room, no matter what.”

“But, but..”

“Listen, stay here. I can not bare the thought of anything happened.”

He turned and ran away then, grateful he had cleaned and oiled his gun after this morning. Spotting a rifle, he grabbed it along with the bullets that sat beside it.

Quickly he ran to the barricade, climbing it easily his eyes grew seeing the Royal arm walking through the shadowy fog that had rolled in.

“Ready your positions.”

The barricade creaked as people took their positions. He glanced around and saw people in windows and rooftops. They had a strong advantage.

A street away, they formed their positions, some stood others knelt. They raised their rifles.

“Get done!” His shout came from the pit lf his stomach.

Soon bullets burst into the night, the slammed into the wood and stone alike.

The air was tense. “Wait for my signal!”

One of the guns went off behind him. “Hold onto your powder!”

They had to wait till they grew closer or they would have no chance.

“Wait for them to advance!” He glanced through some openings before him. His stomach churned.

He could hear as one of the leaders, card out. “Charge!“

“Hold!” He waited a breath. “Hold.” They needed to get just a touch closer.

“Fire!” He finally shouted and jumping up, he took aim. Not breath later, others join him.

Smoke filled the air. The smell was bitter and sharp. Bullets whizzed by, were random screams coming from both sides. He was caught up in aiming and pulling the trigger. He managed to nab a few.

Soon a smile spread across his face. The Royal army began to group together but withdraw.

“They’re falling back. Keep it up!” He scream. Their advantage had won them this round. They didn’t stop the offense till only the fallen is what remained.

Cheers erupted! Shouts of victory filled the small alley.

*****

Your heart pounded as you managed to reach the warehouse door. Your heart skipped at the memory. This was where you had first met Enjolras. He had to be there. The bar had been shuttered. If he were not here, you would make way to his loft. Though the idea of going there without him made you uneasy.

Taking a breath when you were outside the warehouse; you made a small wish. It was just as heavy as it had been that first night. You were grateful that tonight, rain was not falling from the sky.

Slipping it the warehouse was bright with all the torches and candles that flickered. Men you didn’t recognize were busy with various tasks.

“My dear, Y/N what do we owe this pleasure?” You knew the voice and noted as you turned to it, that his words did not have a slur pulling on them.

“Grantaire.” You smiled. He must be sober, you reasoned. “I am here to see Enjplras.”

He took your hand and gave it a soft squeeze.

“Oh our fearless Enjolras. He is here, I assure you.” He said with a grand air, that almost made you chuckle of you were not so concerned.

Gavoche came up, his youthful exuberance coming off of him in waves. “Y/N, you’re here! Why? Enjolras?” A huge, bright smile was splashed across his face.

You nodded and brought your scarf tighter around your shoulders. “Yes, I am.”

“I know where he is, I’ll go and fetch him.”He ran off.

Grantaire, smiled. “He’s a good kid. Very quick, very stealthy.”

You nodded. “Strong too, he helped me home from the market one day.”

“What are you doing here?” His voice was sharp, as it reached your ears.

As you turned to him, heart picked up speed as tears filled your eyes. You knew you should have stayed home but you couldn’t.

“I…I…” You words twisted in your mouth.

He easily closing the distance, the sound of his boots caused a soft hush to fall over the warehouse. His hand was warm as it just slipped under your scarf to grab your arm.

“Excuse us Grantaire.” You did not resist as he pulled you. “Come with me.”

You did not falter or stumbled as he tugged you to a room a part from vast openness around you. He managed to close the door as the two of you went in. Finally he stopped, his eyes moved over you. As the silence sliced through you.

“Enjolras.” Your finally having the strength to utter his name.

“Answer me.” His grip lessened but he did not let go of you. As you felt his thumb gently graze your skin, it stole your breath. It had felt like it had been an age since he touched you.

“I heard explosions and screams. I grew worried.” Your voice cracked.

You felt as his other hand drifted up your arm but when you saw how it was wrapped, you felt as if someone had hit you, like some had hit you hard. Blinking, you met his eyes. You didn’t even know what you could possibly say.

“I’m alright.” He immediately said. “I told you, I’d come tonight. I would meet you by our willow.”

“My worry consumed my heart.”

Letting your arm go, he cupped your cheek. Sighing, you leaned into his touch. His gentleness, was almost too much. Your worries had caused you so much pain.

You closed your eyes eyes. You did not want him to see how your anguish still battled within you despite him being in front of you.

“Mon doux ange. Tellement courageux de venir me voir.”

You felt as his body against yours. A soft sound came from you, as you felt him kiss you. You wilted against him. Reaching for him, you nestled your fingers into his soft curls. You melted further as you felt the warmth of him sighing. You could have sworn that through his shirt, his vest and your dress, your chemise that you could feel as his heart hard in his chest.

The door swung open. “Enjolras, they’re coming!” A comrade of his announced and ran back out.

Your body stiffened, your worries once again filling you. Your eyes met his they were darker than you had ever seen them.

He nodded, “Stay here. Do not leave this room, no matter what.”

“But, but..”

“Listen, stay here. I can not bare the thought of anything happened.”

********

As you paced back and forth, his kiss lingered on your lips. You could heard so shouting, you were sure it was Enjolras. But you could not be sure.

Once again, your stomach churned. Part of you had wished now that you had stayed home. But seeing him, that kiss had helped but what if he gets killed out there and that would be your last kiss.

You couldn’t take this. You would were going to be ill. Grabbing a chair, you sat down. You wrapped your arms around yourself.

When the shouting and loud bursts filled the air, you tried to ignore them. Desperation filling you, making it hard to breathe you ran to the door that you had used to enter the warehouse. It was far heavier then ever before. It would not budge for you. You could not take it. It was too much. There were so many anguished cries and screams. What if one of them was his?

These all at once all grew silent. Swallowing, you crept back into warehouse. Your heart pounded in your ears.

Exuberant cheers, cries of delight finally traveled to your ears. With your heart leading you, you found yourself at the doorway that ushered in all those good sounds.

Careful, you peered around and seeing that it looked safe; you took a hesitant step out. Surprise over took you and you placed a hand over your heart.

Gun smoke swirled in the night air, you saw many bright and large smiles. You watched as joy washed over Enjolras’s face as shouted in what appeared to be a victory. Slowly you began to draw closer.

You stopped as something else came over his face. “Marius, watch out!” He screamed.

You covered your mouth when suddenly you could have someone shoot their gun. Blinking, distantly you wondered if that really happened. Either way you began backing up.

Your heart stilled watching Enjolras. There was such a difference in him. Silently you watched as he walked down from where he had stood victorious on the top of the barricade.

What was he doing? What if the guy tries to shoot again? You clamped your hands over your mouth as you kept backing up.

He stopped, and with not even a flinch you watched as he aimed and shot. A scream came up from the pit of your stomach but it was muffled by your hands. You turned and ran back into the warehouse.

******

He slipped the gun back into his coat. As he saw, Marius kneel beside Epione, he realized he had better return to you. He easily, moved between those that lingered. Shock still fresh in their hearts with this attack so close their base. He made his way to you and slowly opened the door to the small room. You were pacing.

“Mon ange?” He managed. Inwardly, he was trembling. He longed for a drink.

@aftertheglitterfades @sebastianstvns @dealswiththedevilsblog @randomstory56 @pl1nfa1 @phantomxoxo @ladybug0095 @the-iridescent-phoenix @maryan028 @netusha @kindablackenedsuperhero @amethyst-serenade @crazyworldofsiani @moondev1l @eddiethebloodiedhand @lluviamg06 @samunson83 @craftyhufflepuff @julieteagk @gretavankleep37 @little-wormwood

#joseph quinn #joseph quinn imagine #joseph quinn fanfic #joseph quinn fanfiction #bbc! enjolras #bbc enjolras imagine #bbc enjolras x fem!reader #bbc enjolras x you #bbc enjolras x y/n #bbc les miserables #bbc les miserable imagine #bbc les miserable fanfiction #bbc les miserable fanfic #bbc enjolras fluff #bbc enjolras angst #joe quinn #joe quinn fanfic #a time to love and to fight #part 18

[2460nodone]

Trophies

Title: Trophies Category: Plays/Musicals » Les Misérables Author: AliceInSomewhereland Language: English, Rating: Rated: T Genre: Drama/Romance Published: 05-19-13, Updated: 05-19-13 Chapters: 1, Words: 3,671

Summary: They meet on their respective fields - his, baseball, and hers, soccer - and it changes everything. Enjonine modern AU for the Fic War on tumblr! Oneshot, rated T for language.

originally written for the e/e fic war and posted to ffnet. prompted with “soccer AU, baseball AU” by tumblr user samthenardier.

Chapter 1/1

He's not quite sure when he first noticed her.

Perhaps it was the weekend Courfeyrac hit the ball out of their diamond, and, as he played in the outfield, she reached him first to return it. He hardly paid her any mind, only nodding in thanks. She was clearly just as busy as he, covered in dirt and soaked with sweat, her shin guards smeared with grass stains.

Perhaps it was the weekend that it rained. Bahorel and Grantaire, playing on his team that weekend, were highly distracted when the women with whom she was playing declared their match to be shirts versus skins. She seemed to be the chief in insisting that it be the girls who played as skins, against the shirted boys.

The boys on his baseball team couldn't help but stare as the girls stripped, their shorts rolled low on their hips and clinging to their thighs in the rain, their tops bare, save for their soaked-through sports bras.

He noticed that she and her friends were frequently shooting glances in the direction of the baseball diamond, delighting and giggling when his teammates and opponents fawned over them.

Perhaps he noticed her the weekend that it was so hot they almost had to cancel – she, again, was shirtless, but this time her sports bra was soaked with sweat. They watched as she poured cold water over her face and head and shoulders – his teammates with hunger and desire, he with disinterest.

Perhaps it was the weekend he saw her running to their diamond, soccer ball under her arm and her hand entwined with another girl's, one with dusky skin and dark hair. They sat in the bleachers, watching and cheering and laughing. It was quite distracting. Afterwards, he watched as she made a beeline to Marius, just as Joly and Bossuet appeared to be racing to talk to her friend first.

He paid her little to no mind, though he did notice when she wasn't there sometimes, especially because his baseball team (and often their visiting competition) and the eternal pick-up soccer game that she participated in often went out for drinks together after their respective games were over. It seemed oddly quiet when she wasn't there, rare though that was, but it also irritated him when she was there, because she spent the whole damn time mooning over Marius and trying to get that freckled fool to pay attention to her.

He never bothered to interact with her; in fact, he didn't even know her name. Nor did he try to learn it. Whenever she came into his peripherals, he merely acknowledged her mentally as "Marius' Shadow."

However, everything changed when he was leaving the park one day, and came across her corned up against a tree, an older man who must have been her father screaming in her face as she cowed. When the man hit her across the face, he lost it.

He dropped his things, and suddenly he was next to her, then in between her and the man, then shoving the man away and shouting things that he didn't remember later. They tousled briefly, resulting in a bloody nose on his face and a black eye on the old man. The man stormed away, screaming and cursing at them.

When he turned, he didn't even have time to react before she slapped him sharply across the face. It left him momentarily dumb; he wasn't sure whether to pinch his nose to stop the bleeding or hold his smarting cheek. Then she was shouting at him.

"I don't want your help! I'm not some sort of damsel in distress that needs rescuing from some bourgeois knight in shining armor!" She shoved him, though it was hardly strong.

Her lip was bleeding and was starting to swell from where the man hit her.

Ten minutes later, he was in the dugout, trying to stop the bleeding.

"Hey," a voice said behind him, startling him. He turned, and there she was – fat lip, messy dark hair, long, thin legs and a torso hidden by an oversized jersey. She held a plastic bag in her hand.

He just sniffed blood, trying to keep it from running down his face more, and stared at her. He was hardly forgiving; if she resented his interference, he wouldn't interfere. He had a bloody nose and probably a black eye (try explaining that one at work tomorrow), all because he was trying to help her. So as far as he was concerned, they had no reason, especially now, to interact at all. He wanted nothing from her.

"Sit down," she ordered. Her tone surprised him; it reminded him of how his mother or his teachers would talk to him as a child. He wondered where she picked it up. Then he sat.

She put the bag on the bench beside him, digging around inside. From it, she pulled gauze, an ice pack, hydrogen peroxide, and band-aids. Without a word, she began mopping up the blood on his face.

"I'm sorry I slapped you," she murmured, keeping her eyes fixed on the blood that was still gushing from his nose.

He shrugged.

"It was my dad. It wasn't the first time," she told him quietly. He wondered why she was telling him this; from the look on her face, she was wondering the same thing. Then, "I'm Eponine. Eponine Jondrette."

He regarded her for a moment, and she finally met his eyes. They were a beautiful, bright brown, flecked with gold, but were dark and angry from the memories that were undoubtedly cycling through her mind. He looked at her lips; dried blood had trickled onto her chin, though she hadn't seemed to notice.

"Enjolras," he said. "Gabriel Enjolras."

Eponine's lips twitched into a small smile, then she got back to work on cleaning him up.

When she was finished, she threw the first aid supplies into her backpack. "I'll buy you a beer," she offered, "as a thanks – and an apology."

*

He's not quite sure why he kissed her.

It was several months after the day he fought her father.

They were heading off to the park together. His league's season was over, but he and his friends still met each weekend for pickup games. She had wormed her way into his friend group, and they had invited her along, eager to teach her how to play baseball. In return, she was going to teach them a little bit about soccer.

She met him on the corner near his apartment – it was more convenient for her to cut through his neighborhood to reach the park, as she lived a few blocks away.

"We need to run to my place," she said when he found her, not bothering to greet him. "I would've gone alone, but my phone was dead and I didn't want you to think I was ditching you.

Though they lived relatively close together, there was a marked difference between his neighborhood and hers. His was more affluent – he was a lawyer, the only son in a wealthy family, and therefore, his apartment was large and well decorated and safe.

Eponine's apartment, however, was one room of a giant, sketchy-looking complex. She joked that this was where the meth-heads came to die.

He worried for her safety.

Inside, however, she had done her best to make the place comfortable. It was colorful, but tasteful – very bohemian, but it worked because it was so Eponine.

She had hung curtains to separate her small bed from the rest of the room, and disappeared behind them for a few moments.

When she reemerged, she beckoned him over. "Enj, these are my soccer trophies from high school. I was being scouted for college, being offered scholarships and even full rides, but then I blew out my knee."

He hadn't known. He knew she was good, but not that she could have started in college. Nor did he know that her knee had ruined her opportunity to get out of – well, out of this life. It broke his heart; she could have truly been something quite incredible. She was smart, she was driven and talented, but lacking the resources to rise out of the life she so despised. To have come so close, only to have an ill-timed physical issue rip her chances away – he couldn't even imagine.

"That sucks, Ep, I'm so sorry," he told her sincerely.

She smiled warmly, though he could see a touch of bitterness in her eyes. "Whatever," she shrugged, "I have all these crazy trophies for my trouble!"

And she did. There must have been more than 30 of all colors and sizes, from participation awards to tournament placements to MVP's.

"My collection would totally kick your collection's ass," he teased, nudging her with his elbow. "I was given a partial scholarship to play in college. I wanted to go pro. I didn't have time for anything else, not even girls. My entire life revolved around baseball and school."

She looked at him. "What happened?"

He stared straight ahead at a trophy she had won her sophomore year of high school for most valuable player. "My priorities changed," was all he said. He could hear the hardness in his own voice; out of the corner of his eye, he saw her searching for something on his face before she turned back towards the trophies. He cleared his throat. "Anyway," he said, reaching out and touching a medal, "all my trophies are at my parents' house."

"I like having mine home with me," was Eponine's soft reply.

He looked at her. There was a faraway look on her face, an absent smile on her lips. "They help me remember a time when I was happy." She seemed to be talking to herself now, and he wondered if she remembered he was there.

He couldn't take his eyes off her, all of a sudden, and he felt something building inside of him that was foreign and, if he had to admit it, a little frightening.

When she turned to him, a questioning look on her face and an inquiry forming on her lips, he kissed her, swallowing whatever it was she was about to say. She responded immediately against him, and he pulled her body flush against his instinctually when her lips parted against his.

*

He's not quite sure why he slept with her.

He had never been with a woman before.

And she was vulnerable; he couldn't shake the feeling that he had taken advantage of her.

Marius and his girlfriend, the perfect, blonde Cosette, had gotten engaged.

Eponine had showed up at his door, in tears and completely inconsolable. So he ordered pizza, and ran to the liquor store around the corner for a bottle of Jack.

Three hours later, she was straddling him on his couch and kissing him wildly, half the bottle abandoned on the table behind her.

The whole experience, as intoxicating and wonderful as it was, was like being with a hurricane. It was wet and strong and dangerous, but he loved every second of it.

When he woke the next morning, she was in his kitchen, dressed in one of his t-shirts, making breakfast.

She kissed him good morning.

*

He's not quite sure when he fell in love with her.

They were out all night.

It was a warm night, in the middle of spring, a summery breeze sweeping through her hair and toying with the hem of her dress as she skipped around him.

Eponine didn't want to go home, and had talked him into staying out with her all night and going down to the docks to watch the sunrise.

"I've never seen the city when it sleeps," she had said.

They weren't together, per se, but Marius was married and Eponine was putting him behind her and now whenever she saw Enjolras she kissed him. He didn't hate it.

They had sat on the docks, swinging their bare feet inches above the water.

She grabbed his hand, humming a song into the wind. She was being strange; it was that mix of happiness and sadness that he'd learned to associate with her. Like she's almost ready to be happy, almost ready to let go of her problems, but she just can't.

She took his hand as the pre-dawn sky turns purple.

She kissed his cheek and then his lips when it turns pink.

When it turned orange, its bright glow lights up her face.

When the sun broke free of the water, she laughed. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

And that was when he knew: he'd fallen for her.

*

He's not quite sure why she wouldn't let him save her.

Eponine was stubborn, and always refused his help. He frequently reminded her that it was his job to help people, that it was his calling, but she would just snap at him that "a calling is a thing for entitled bourgeois boys," and that those he was "called" to help did not always want it.

When her little brother died, hit by a car in the middle of the night, he was not sure she'd ever come back to him.

She pushed him away. Stopped seeing him, stopped meeting him for baseball or soccer, stopped coming to his games and stopped showing up to her own. She wouldn't even answer her calls. Nor would she talk to any of her other friends.

Musichetta, her soccer friend, and Joly were dating, and even Musichetta had not heard from her in weeks.

When he finally saw her again, her face was gaunt. She looked like she hadn't slept in days, and hadn't eaten in weeks. Her already thin frame clung to her bones, her cheeks were sunken in, her hair was dirty and unkempt, and her hollow eyes had dark circles.

He didn't know how to save her, but for god's sake he tried.

*

He's not quite sure why she left him.

It isn't fair – that's the only thought that's cycling through his mind right now.

He's been sitting in this chair for, well, he doesn't even know how long. His friends keep coming to check on him, but he barely hears them. They can't say anything helpful anyway. They don't know.

All he can think of is her, of those precious moments by her side, as he stares straight ahead.

Directly in front of him is her casket. And he can't take his eyes off it, off her lifeless body laying there for those attending the wake to gawk and cry over.

He can't cry, he can't eat, he can't feel. He briefly wonders if this was how it was for her when little Gavroche was killed, and if that was the straw that broke the camel's back in her life.

He wonders, much more extensively, why he couldn't save her. He was always reminding her that saving people was all he wanted to do. He just wanted to help.

Why hadn't he been able to help her?

It was a sunny afternoon. They were sitting on the stairs of her fire escape. She was under his arm, resting her head on his shoulder.

"Not everyone wants to be saved, Enj," she told him. "Not everyone will let you."

"As long as you let me save you, that's fine," he replied.

She said nothing for a long while. "It might be too late for that," she whispered, avoiding his gaze.

And it was. It was far too late.

She was gone.

The only woman he had ever loved, ever cared for, ever had time for, was dead.

This was a woman who had opened up an entire new world for him, and he would never see her again.

He's not sure what comes next; now that he's lived in this world of hers, he isn't sure if he can live without her.

When he's angry at her, angrier than he's ever been before, he curses her name, screaming at her ghost for leaving him behind, for ruining his life.

He hates her; she destroyed everything about him, everything he was, and left this empty shell behind. He was fine before - he didn't know what he was missing, and ignorance truly was bliss. He was settled in his life. But then she appeared in it, and turned it upside-down.

He tries to breathe.

Azlema, her younger sister, walks up to him.

She wraps herself around him, and he lets her, squeezing her tightly. She, of course, knew Eponine too (in a way that his friends didn't), and just as he lost the love of his life, she lost her older sister - and her baby brother. So she understands.

"She loved you, Enjolras," Azelma murmurs, her voice shaking with emotion and thick with the tears that spill from her eyes. "I know she never told you, but she told me. She loved you, and she would've wanted you to know."

He cries.

*

He's not quite sure how he picks up the pieces.

It's been forever, but it's also been no time at all.

His nights are cold and lonely, and his days are torture.

Grantaire has moved in with him, though perhaps that wasn't the best decision on the part of his friends, as the other man is so full of anger and sadness himself that all they do is spend their time drinking.

Combeferre seems to catch on, because then he comes to stay, too.

Suddenly, he's forced to eat the food Combeferre has cooked. He's forced to look at Grantaire's artwork and give his opinions, he's forced to go to work and do a good job again.

He's forced to look at her photographs every day (but that one he does to himself), too. In them, she seems happy. She's bright and beautiful and alive. God, she used to be so alive, even when she was miserable, even when she was depressed. She could be in the worst mood, but being around her was like being in the middle of a beautiful storm.

He misses that.

Eventually, Courfeyrac convinces him to come play a pickup game.

It feels good, being back on the diamond. The power of the ball as it flies from his hand, the feel of the wind in his face as he runs from plate to plate. He especially likes being at bat, because smacking that fucking ball into oblivion is suddenly the most therapeutic thing.

And then the game is over and his friends leave and he's slamming his stupid bat into the ground, raging in the middle of the field, screaming at her at the top of his lungs and undoubtedly causing quite the scene.

He collapses, and then someone is there – Jehan, perhaps? – speaking to him, trying to calm him.

But what does it is Eponine.

No, she's not there, of course, but he sees her team playing soccer on the next field. Or maybe it's a different team, he isn't sure if her friends play here anymore.

He looks up into the overcast sky, closing his eyes to the clouds, and can almost hear her laughter carried to him on the wind.

He goes home, pulls out the trophies he took from her apartment and those he took from his parents' house. He places them in pairs around the apartment, wherever they fit - his next to hers and hers next to his wherever he can find the room for them.

"They help me remember a time when I was happy," she had said that first time he kissed her.

And she was right.

There they were, once again – playing baseball, playing soccer together, just like when they had become friends. This time, however, their endless games were in his apartment. But looking at their trophies together was, for some stupid reason, extremely comforting. It made him feel like she was there, in these dumb objects she had been so proud of.

He sees her in them. They make him think of her. And he misses her, he does, but she would want him to be okay.

She would want him to keep on playing, because she wasn't able to.

And that's exactly what he's going to do.

Fin.

#enjonine #enjonine fanfic #enjonine fic #enjonine fanfiction #e/e #é/e #eponine x enjolras #enjolras x eponine

[your-angle-of-music]

Let Me Sleep Here

Angsty canon-era Enjoltaire conversation, although neither of them quite know it.

Keep reading under the cut or on AO3 :)

Grantaire is a careless man. He is careless with his money, especially on those nights when he can feel his father’s fingerprints on every sou. He is careless with his life, especially on those nights when he rediscovers that absinthe kills quicker than air. He is careless with his canvases (when he can get them), especially on those nights when he dares to believe he is capable of making something beautiful. He is careless with his words, his sticky, staining words, which seem to flow from him like blood from a wound.

But the one thing that Grantaire is very, very careful about, though, is not getting caught sneaking into the Cafe Musain every night, just after one. 

So it is to his utmost surprise, indeed, indignation, that when he enters the familiar back room, he finds Enjolras sitting at the table, writing by candlelight.

“Grantaire?” The other man looks up sharply from the array of papers in front of him. “What are you doing here at this hour?” His tone is neutral, but Grantaire still flinches at the reminder that he is the only member of Les Amis de l’ABC whom Enjolras addresses as vous.

He arranges his features into something resembling a smile. “Late night wanderings are good for the constitution, don’t you think? Besides, we shall all be ghosts someday, perhaps some of us sooner than others, and I do believe it serves me well to practice haunting familiar places at unfamiliar hours. And I am not so presumptuous as other ghosts. Hector’s ghost asked Aeneas to start a city, the King of Denmark’s ghost asked the Prince to end a life, but all I ask is that I be allowed to stay where a while, and bring a little chill to the air. Come now, am I such a great bother? Truly, I shall be as silent as the gra—”

“Grantaire.”

“What are you doing here, then?” Tu, of course. Always tu.

“I am drawing up plans to deliver food and clothes to the poor of Paris. If the government will not give aid, we will. Winter is coming on fast, and I’m calculating all the supplies we can afford, only, finances have been tight this month, and Combeferre is usually the man who does the numbers, but he has been ill all this week, and so very tired. Madame Hucheloup was generous enough to let me work here tonight, instead of our flat, so that I don’t wake Combeferre with my scribbling. ” Enjolras gestures towards the spare key lying on the table. “Oh, and I must remember to lock it up afterwards. It seems she never does.”

Before he can stop himself, Grantaire blurts out, “Please don’t.”

“Excuse me?” 

“Don’t lock up tonight.” 

“Why not?” 

A pause. 

“What, do you plan to pillage Madame Hucheloup’s wine cellar? Is harassing her waitstaff not enough for you?”

“No, I don’t,” says Grantaire, very quietly, and he sinks into the chair across from Enjolras.

“What’s going on, Grantaire?” 

He means to say something funny, something false, something cruel. But as he looks into that face, those cheeks brushed by angel-wing lashes, that marble brow carved in shadow, that hair haloed in candlelight, all he can say is, “Let me sleep here.”

“What’s wrong with your own rooms?”

Grantaire stares at him, and Enjolras’ eyes widen. 

“Oh. Oh! I am so, so sorry. Please forgive—”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire cuts in, too sharply. 

Enjolras nods once, with uncharacteristic uncertainty. “How long?”

“More than long enough to decide that the streets of Paris are not worth the effort of saving, and that I am bored and tired and dying and dead and—”

“But can you not stay with Joly?”

“Ah, but to stay with Joly would be to stay with his Eagle of Meaux and their pretty little nightingale, too, and by God, you should hear their mating calls at night! No, I wouldn’t sleep a wink.” He doesn’t mention that last time he stayed with them, Joly tried to stop him from downing a bottle of brandy before breakfast and Musichietta smacked him when he did anyway.

“And so you sleep here,” says Enjolras.

“And so I sleep here,” says Grantaire, and then he has to look away from the strange gentleness in Enjolras’ eyes. Under the table, he squeezes his hands into fists that he wishes could smash the whole world.

“Grantaire?” 

God, he hates himself for the warmth that blooms inside him when Enjolras says his name. He refuses to glance up at him.

“You…” Enjolras swallows audibly. “You may stay with Combeferre and me. If you please. Until you save enough to pay your rent again.”

Grantaire’s nails are digging so hard into his palms that he feels the slick wetness of blood upon them, mingling with the paint stains in the creases of his hands. He imagines it — a clean and ordered room, a mattress on a bone-cold floor, Enjolras’ soft late-night whisperings with Combeferre. Books and bullets and not a bottle in sight.

 The winter sunlight on Enjolras’ face. The imprint of his hands on the door. The washbasin water sparkling like dew on his rose petal mouth. The space between a floor-banished mattress and a golden-haired man on a bed.

“No, Enjolras,” he says, in a voice that he prays isn’t shaking with the weight of the other man’s name. “There are so many things I want, but your lofty pity isn’t one of them.”

“As you wish,” says Enjolras. If he is offended, he doesn’t show it. He pushes his spread of papers into a neat stack with one hand. With the other, he slides the Cafe Musain key towards Grantaire.

Grantaire snatches it up wordlessly as Enjolras stands and tucks his documents into a satchel. In a handful of heartbeats, Enjolras has disappeared out the door.

The next morning, Madame Hucheloup finds Grantaire curled up in the back room, with an empty wine bottle from her own Cafe’s cellar clutched to his chest. When she wakes him with a kick to the ribs, he barely stirs, but manages a slappable smirk. 

Gone is his sense of sneaking propriety. Let them see. Let them all see him. 

Grantaire is a careless man, and there shall be no exceptions.

#angle o speak #les miserables #les mis #les miserables fanfiction #les mis fanfic #enjoltaire #enjoltaire fanfic #exr #e x r #enjolras #grantaire

[eienloveslesmis]

if Grantaire didn’t wake up

Ouch.

Bloody hell, thought Grantaire. I don't think I’ve ever been this hungover.

Slapping himself awake and looking around, Grantaire became more and more aware of his surroundings as he started to remember, trying and failing to blink away the sleepy blur that had settled in his eyes.

He was sitting in the Cafe Musain, but not as it was meant to be. Its walls were spattered with blood, the bottles on the shelves that were still standing were shattered, and the floor was littered with bodies and pools of blood. Where Grantaire’s happy friends ought to be laughing and drinking, there was instead a deafening silence. 

Enjolras.

Fully awake now, Grantaire sprinted down the stairs. He saw countless bodies, but did not stop to see them. He leapt over Combeferre, skirted Jehan’s body, and actually trod on Joly’s finger, but still he did not stop. Was it disrespectful to pay so little mind to his friends? Perhaps. Let's be honest though, they weren’t really going to mind. There’s only so much damage you can do.

This did not even cross his mind. There was one thought, one single word in his head. 

Enjolras.

Grantaire found himself nearly indignant that things so menial and useless as chairs and rats and bodies had the audacity to exist when he could not find Enjolras in the mess of them.

Until he did.

At the top of the barricade, Grantaire couldn't mistake that angelic face. He wished he could. Enjolras’s cerulean eyes were still open, gazing almost lovingly up at the sky. His lips were white. Aside from that, he could nearly be sleeping. His hair was loose, blowing in the wind as if it were dancing with the flag that Enjolras clutched in his hand.

Grantaire almost smiled at this sight. There was nearly no blood. He must have fallen backwards. 

“Hey, wake up,” Grantaire whispered, fully aware that it was no use. He nearly laughed at himself for doing so. Am I still drunk?

“Seriously, Apollo. This isn’t funny,” Grantaire took Enjolras’s shoulders in his hands and began to shake him. He was gentle at first, hoping to coax him awake kindly.

“You are not dead,” he was hyperventilating now, and knowing that Enjolras was indeed dead didn’t seem relevant. He began to shake Enjolras more violently until he was practically throwing him away and yanking him back, stopping only when he caused something of an avalanche. The table beneath him gave out, and they fell down to the street along with a few bits of broken furniture. 

This woke him up. He pulled Enjolras’s body gently onto his lap, crying softly as he tenderly kissed his forehead.

About five minutes later, he laid Enjolras on the pavement, his arms still around the dead boy, lying down beside him as he nestled his head into the crook of Enjolras’s neck.

He never moved again.

#grantaire #enjolras #enjoltaire #death #death scene #sad #im crying #this hurt #why did i write this #i hurt myself

[wilwywaylan]

The Artist above and the Revolutionnary below - Part 4

Fandom : les Misérables

Modern!AU, Enjolras x Grantaire, 3473 words

Last part of the fic for the Same Prompt Challenge ! Finally, it’s done ! 

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3

Also on AO3 !

- 

Step one : wash self. It would do no good to present himself to Enjolras looking like some kind of cave troll. So Grantaire took a shower, taking great care to wash his hair and untangle the curls. Once mostly dry and dressed in clean clothes, he aimed for the kitchen. Not for the coffee, even if he started by making himself a nice cup, but for something far more ambitious : he was going to cook.

Four hours later, his kitchen was a mess, every horizontal surface was covered in flour and there was even some sticking to some vertical parts, the sink contained more dishes that he believed he owned, and he was in dire need of another shower. But there was a whole plate of cookies in the oven, and it smelled quite good. Not that Grantaire wanted to brag, of course. He didn't have any time for it, anyway, he was way too busy watching the biscuits by the small window. He didn't want...he couldn't mess them up. He didn't have the courage nor the ingredients to start again.

But luckily for him, the cookies got out deliciously golden, and absolutely perfect. He transferred them into a metal box, resisting the urge to eat one himself. After a second shower that got rid of most of the flour, he went to sit at his easel. Now came the third, and most important part. Cookies were a nice touch, but he wouldn't be forgiven just with this, Bahorel's super secret recipe notwithstanding. No, he needed to find the perfect present that would melt Enjolras' anger like a cube of ice during summer. And nothing could be more of a perfect present than something handmade, or in his case, hand-drawn.

The white page was almost intimidating, at first, more than during one of his assignments, even. Assignments, he could bullshit his way through them if inspiration didn't strike. But this.... this was way more important. Okay, no, maybe not. He couldn't claim a cute boy was more important than his studies. It was important in a different way, but he couldn't just pretend he knew what he was doing. He needed to know. He needed to make it perfect.

The first strokes were hesitant, almost shy, barely scratching the surface. But as he went, the picture in his mind grew clearer, his gestures became more assured, and he started working faster.

When he finally moved, the sun had set, his neck was sending jolts of pain up his skull, his fingers hurt, and his hoodie had lost all pretention to be an actual color. He stretched, sending his arms above his head, only realizing now that his stomach was growling. Probably loud enough to wake his neighbors up. But he didn't care. He felt well. The painting on his easel was probably one of his finest works since... oh, several years. Enjolras stood in the middle of it ; Grantaire had painted him dressed in a XIXe century style, with a red jacket with a cockade pinned on the lapel, a black cravat resting undone on a white shirt under a black waistcoat. There was a smudge of blood on the cheek, but he was brandishing a red flag above his head. The whole sky behind him was a brilliant whirlwind of pink, orange and yellow, and a timid sun was stroking Enjolras' face with gold rays. Any critic would have dismissed the piece as "overly pompous" and "pretentious", but Grantaire felt a mix of pride and anxiety watching it. It certainly was fine, but didn't he exaggerate, making Enjolras' face softer than it was ? Maybe his eyes weren't fierce enough, not full of fire enough ? And what if Enjolras didn't enjoy a portrait of himself ? Oh well, too late now, it was done. Tomorrow, he would make his move. But for now, he wanted nothing more than sleep. He made his way to his room, abandoning his clothes on the way, and dropped on the bed. The remnants of Bahorel's impromptu breakfast were still on the nightstand, and he devoured the rest of the croissants. Once sated, he wrapped himself in the blankets and just laid there, content and sated, for the first time in days. Maybe things were looking up, after all.

~*~

Next morning saw Grantaire up earlier than he'd been in months. He'd woken up almost with the sun, and had been since tossing and turning under the blankets, trying to keep himself busy until it was a decent time to put his plan in motion. He didn't know about Enjolras' sleeping habits, and didn't want to wake him up. That wouldn't put him in good dispositions. So he browsed the internet, trying to distract himself until it was time to move.

At around 10 AM, he decided to act. He rolled out of bed and got ready, going through the motions with application, concentrating on each gesture to ignore the way his heart seemed to try to get free from his chest. He took the box of cookies, the painting, and snuck out into the hallway. It was dark and deserted. Perfect. He went down the stairs, his socked feet silent on the tiles. Still no one. He managed to reach door 32 without a hitch, without any nosy neighbor opening their door to see who was playing spies in the hallway. He carefully put the painting down, put the box beside it, with a small message he'd spent at least fifteen minutes writing. Nothing fancy, just a heartfelt "I'm sorry I've been an ass". No need to start babbling on writing. Good.

He rang the bell... and ran away, up the stairs, almost falling down and hitting the ramp in his hast. He had barely reached his story, when he heard a door open. There was  a moment of silence. And a thought hit him right between the eyes : what if Enjolras decided to climb here to see who put the presents on his doorstep ? He'd see him crouching behind the railing like an idiot. He dashed inside his apartment, closed the door, then opened it a tiny sliver. No Enjolras materialized on the landing, but there was a rustling. Like things being picked up and carried inside. So he had found the presents. Very good.

Grantaire retreated inside, pondering on the next move for a second. He could start working on his assignments again, clean a bit of his flat, maybe scrub his bathroom. Things would go back to how they were before all these guitar shenanigans. But that wasn't what he wanted, right ? So he needed to follow the plan.

He needed to rummage a little (a lot) through the mess accumulated under his bed and in his cupboard, but he finally unearthed an old, battered case. The guitar inside had lost a bit of its shine, but the intricate patterns on it, flowers and clouds, were still as vivid as always. He took it back to his window and sat as comfortably as possible. It was out of tune, of course, after so much time in storage, but the gestures came back to him easily, and soon, it was fit to play. He stroked the strings, just enjoying the sound for a few seconds, then started to warm up. The notes flew by the window, carried by the wind, soft and round at each vibration of the strings, climbing the scales up and down. His fingers were dancing, almost on their own, modulating the melody almost perfectly.

Under him, a window opened. He didn't hear footsteps, but he imagined them all the same. Time to go to step five. Or six, he didn't remember. He abandoned the scales for real melody. Still no noise coming from under him. Oh well, he could still play for himself, couldn't he ? After all, he did like this song. And so, he started singing softly, almost under his breath.

Lay down in the stars, my bonny lass Lay down in my arms, we'll make it last The senses aspire to this far greater time As the rivers flow your heart will be mine

He played the song from start to finish, enjoying how easily it was all coming back to him, the lyrics and the melody, how delightful it was to play again. The last notes fled outside, fading slowly as the strings stopped singing. Grantaire leaned on the guitar, feeling the vibrations stop under his fingers. The silence after a song always had a special quality, soft and serene, like it was another part, something that completed the song.

- Are you there ?

Enjolras' voice cut the silence, made him jump so hard that he almost dropped the guitar. He did call for him. Enjolras wanted to talk to him ! Do not ruin this, play it cool. He walked to the window and leaned out. Enjolras was peering up at him, and Grantaire's heart gave a little tug at the beautiful eyes fixed on him, so large and so blue that they seemed to hold the whole sky. He also noticed that he didn't look as angry as yesterday. Or perhaps he was very good at hiding his feelings. Grantaire composed himself a friendly smile, and answered :

- I am, yes. Hello, Enjolras.

- Hello. I heard you playing, so I wondered....

- If it was me, or the ghost of Christmas past ?

Enjolras frowned, and Grantaire remembered that he was supposed to be nice and friendly, not rile him up again by making fun of him.

- Sorry, he added. What can I do for you ?

- Someone put a box of cookies and a very nice painting on my doorstep, and I was wondering if you knew something about it.

The urge to roll his eyes was stronger than ever, but he refrained heroically.

- Why yes. Do you enjoy cookies, at least ? Because I didn't really ask...

- Oh, so it was you ?

- Yes ? I mean, I signed the note, so....

Enjolras frowned again, more perplexed that angry this time.

- Yes, but.... you.... didn't really introduce yourself. Your friend called you "R" that time, but I didn't know that it stood for "Grantaire", so...

This time, Grantaire facepalmed. Count on him to be so stupid he forgot to officially introduced himself.

- Sorry. I'm Grantaire. Pleased to meet you.

- Pleased to meet you too.

Grantaire tried not to smile too wildly.

- So, what do I owe the pleasure ?

- I heard the guitar. Were you playing ?

- Ah yes, I felt like getting it out of storage and tickling the strings a little.

- That was really great ! I didn't know you were such a good player !

He really needed to stop complimenting him, because Grantaire wasn't sure he was going to maintain his composure for long.

- It's been a while since I've played, but....

- Do you think you could... come down, and we'll play ?

What ? Did he hear right ? Was he....? This was a dream. This could only be a dream. Did Enjolras really ask him to come back ? But he was watching him with his beautiful eyes, and still looking expectantly up at him, and pinching himself didn't suddenly wake him up. That was reality.

When the information reached his brain, Grantaire grabbed his guitar and, once again, ran all the way to Enjolras' door. As he knocked, he suddenly realized that he had bypassed shoes entirely. Too bad, Enjolras was already opening the door, his cat in his arms. Grantaire scratched the little head between the hair, refrained from doing the same to Enjolras.

- So, he said instead, I heard you wanted to play ?

Enjolras lead him to the balcony again, where two cups of coffee were waiting, smoking quietly. Grantaire was both oddly touched by the welcoming gesture, and impressed at how Enjolras seemed to be sure that he would come done. But then again, maybe Bahorel was right and his crush *was* visible from space.

- Anything you want to play ? Grantaire asked once he’d sat down on the rickety chair.

- Can you play Wonderwall ?

- Of course, I taught you. Together ?

Enjolras picked up his own instrument. He carefully placed his hands as Grantaire had shown him, tuned it a little, then turned to face him. Grantaire counted the rhythm as he had taught it, careful of not going too fast.

It was weird, playing together like this. Enjolras did lack a bit in rhythm, forcing Grantaire to adjust, but nothing he couldn't deal with. He didn't dare sing at first, rather enjoying Enjolras' voice, but after the first verse, he just let himself get carried away. It was great, moving like this, in unison, almost like they were two halves of the same thing. Grantaire didn't want to read too much into the situation, but it was... exhilarating. It felt like flying. Like being, for a few seconds, at the top of the world, with him.

It ended, because of course, it had to end, leaving Grantaire disoriented, and a little breathless. Probably the singing, of course. But Enjolras looked as affected as him, so maybe he hadn't imagined the connexion they shared for a minute or two. He tried to play it cool, picking at the keys to retune the strings. Enjolras watched him do with interest.

- Can you play something else ? he asked suddenly.

- Of course. What do you like ?

- Anything you want.

Anything ? Grantaire didn't have to pick his brain to find a song. Of course, that would be a very daring move, but Fortune favored the bold and all that. What did he risk, except a slap and being thrown over the balcony rail ? (probably not). He started playing the chords, softly at first, then seeing that Enjolras didn't run away, launched into the song.

Wise men say only fools rush in But I can't help falling in love with you...

It was a good thing he knew the words by heart, because Enjolras was so close their knees were brushing, and Grantaire had great trouble stopping himself from jumping each time he touched him. His heart was beating fast, so fast, and he was sure he could hear Enjolras', beating in tune. Or that may just be wishful thinking.

He didn't know how he got to the end of the song without running away or bungling anything. He was ready to jump out of his skin at each light touch. And as he lifted his head, it was to discover the beautiful blue eyes set on him, pinning him in place. He  couldn't turn his head, he couldn't say anything, he could just look at him, and hope his eyes would do the talking.

Suddenly, Jude jumped on his master's lap, almost knocking the guitar over, breaking the spell. Enjolras patted him as he kneading his pants, and asked :

- This song...

- Yes.... Did you like it ?

- A lot... It's very pretty.

- Very, yes.

Perfect. When did they land in a potboiler and get turned into shy teenagers ? Grantaire would have slapped himself if he didn't fear looking like an idiot. He'd always hated that genre, so to suddenly find himself like this, babbling and muttering, incapable of speaking his mind... They'd never get there, not like that. Someone needed to take the reins of the conversation for something to happen, anything. He opened his mouth, but Enjolras beat him to it.

- Did you choose it for a reason ?

Ah, short and to the point. Enjolras certainly didn't embarrass himself with subtleties. But now, he was expecting an answer. And this meant Grantaire needed to think very hard about the answer he was going to give, and quick. And Enjolras was still looking at him, so he needed to focus extra hard to not say anything stupid or incriminating. And he needed to think, and to think quickly, instead of being sidetracked like this.

- I....

Great start, Grantaire. Now say something, or he's going to lose his patience, and maybe his temper. But what could he say ? That he really, really wanted to kiss him ? Hold his hand and the rest too ? Set his life at his feet ? Well, yes, this was what he wanted. But he couldn't say it, or Enjolras would run away. But he needed to say something now. Anything.

- I like it.

Oh great. This time, he hit his head against the guitar, lightly, of course.

- Is that the only reason ?

Grantaire took a deep breath, lifted his head. There they were. No going back now.

- I....

It didn't want to come. He was ready to say it, that was the best moment, the only moment, it was perfect, the atmosphere, the guitar, everything, and he couldn't say it. Count on him to be so stupid he couldn't confess his feelings.

A hand closed on his and squeezed gently. He looked down at their fingers, then back at Enjolras' face, who kept his eyes down.

- I don't want your whole life, he said, but I could... take your hand, if you want.

Grantaire was a bit tempted to laugh, but he refrained.

- Would you, really ? He asked, very low.

- I want to try, at least. If you want to.

He was looking at him, now, with such an open expression that Grantaire almost wanted to scream and tackle him. But no. Act like a normal person. He lifted the hand Enjolras wasn't holding, stroked his cheek, very slowly. His movements were measured, to give him all the time he needed to move back. But Enjolras didn't move back. Not when Grantaire bent down, very, very slowly to kiss him. It was soft, almost too much. Clumsy, too, like Enjolras wasn't used to being kissed. They just kept like this for a moment, barely moving. Not enough for Grantaire, he wanted more, way more, he wanted to ravish him, to leave him red, breathless, to hold him tight and never let go. But it was perfect none-the-less.

They parted for breath, and because Grantaire's neck was starting to hurt. Enjolras was looking at him, his cheeks a little red, his smile a little shy. Positively adorable. Without letting go of Grantaire's hand, he moved his chair a little closer, until he could lean against his shoulder. It was not the most comfortable way to sit, but Grantaire wouldn't have let go for anything in the world. Still, he felt compelled to ask :

- Are you sure you want this ? I mean....

Enjolras moved a little, and he wanted to hold him back, but he didn't step aside, not even a little.

- What do you mean ?

- Well... I'm me, and....

This time, Enjolras shifted to be able to look at him without leaving his shoulder.

- Yes, I know.

- Are you sure this is what I want ? Because....

- I am sure, yes. I know what I'm getting, and what I don't know, I will discover. And I'm sure I will like it.

A very large emotion got stuck in Grantaire's throat, effectively cutting all the words he could have used. So he just held Enjolras' hand tighter, and twisted a little to be able to lay a kiss on his forehead.

They sat like this for a moment in silence, watching the sparrows fly by. Grantaire's thumb was stroking the soft skin on Enjolras' hand, very gently. Suddenly, Enjolras asked :

- It wasn't... too awkward, was it ? When I said... (He gestured vaguely with his free hand.) About your life, and....

- It was, Grantaire chuckled, but that was adorable. It's very... you.

Enjolras laughed a little.

- You better get used to it, it seems that I'm very clumsy at speaking my feelings.

- Don't worry, I like it a lot.

- Good. Now would you maybe play that song for me again ?

Grantaire let go of Enjolras' hand with a hint of regret, and took his guitar back. Immediately, Enjolras settled back against his shoulder. Grantaire didn't know if he could play with someone against him like that, but he certainly wasn't going to ask him to move. Certainly not. He stroked the strings again, and started the song a second time. Enjolras was warm and heavy against him, and it was perfect. The notes started to fly above the roof, to tell everyone listening that they had finally found each other.

-

Songs are True Life Song by Jon Anderson, and Can’t help falling in love with you by Elvis Presley

#les miserables #enjolras #grantaire #enjoltaire #same prompt challenge #dorks #such dorks #they are so dorky #I love them

[barefoot-pianist]

Les Mis – Sondheim Theatre (New Production) – 28/01/20

** HUGE HUGE SPOILER ALERT! CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED**

**second disclaimer: it is nearly half midnight and I’ve been on the go since 5:30am, please forgive rambling, meta commentary to myself, and bad grammar. I just wanted to get this all out whilst it was still fresh**

General

YES the new staging was 90% a hit. I liked it. It was great to see Les Mis performed in a radically different way, I think, and enough was kept (like, for example, the basic structure of One Day More) that it didn’t feel totally alien and I didn’t miss the turntable all that much?. The opening scene is now on a ship, rather than in a mine. More on specific stagings below.

THE. SET. WAS. BEAUTIFUL. There is literally no other word for it. The original Les Mis set is quite minimalist, I think, whereas this one was lush – heavily centred on the idea of houses, which really gave more of a feel to the Paris streets. They had tenements and posh houses, the barricade was still huge, don’t worry, and they had a staircase which was in the café and the Thenardiers’ inn, etc. The scale really worked as well – like in Who Am I, the courtroom felt enormous as opposed to the little mobile thing they had before.

A preface to this point is that I don’t think I’m the right person to offer a critical commentary on race & the cast of Les Mis, but I think it is worth flagging – will 100% defer to folks with more experience/expertise. There were four black cast members – Éponine, Gavroche, and two of the chorus, which is way more than I’ve ever seen in the West End in this damn show. I’m under no illusions that Les Mis in the UK hasn’t got a bit of a problem with race. It is slowly inching its way better – when the Bishop came out and he was black right at the beginning I had a moment of “finally? Are they finally doing this right?” but the diversity wasn’t quite as much as I’d hoped. Especially as in my head, I’ve developed a huge, very multi-racial dream cast for the show, so…yeah. I’d love to see some of the characters who always get played by white people played by folks of colour – Enjolras, for example, Grantaire, Valjean himself. Or have both Éponine and Cosette be not white? For once? This would be great? Please let me know what you all think?? (this is West-End specific, I know there have been some productions working on this elsewhere).

The general mood seemed a bit darker? More violent? Perhaps that was the updated lights and set, idk, but more fake blood abounded I felt, and yeah – more actual deliberate fight scenes. It worked, ngl, the world feels like it’s gotten to a darker place, and the new Les Mis reflects that in a way, doesn’t gloss over the violence. Again, I think more thinking will let me know what I actually think about this, but we’ll see.

ONTO SPECIFIC CHARACTERS & SCENES!

Valjean

·       Jon Robyns – he was brilliant, like, nearly as good as my holy grail (Killian Donnelly). Voice incredibly on-point – I’ve seen some Valjeans with really harsh voices which I don’t think fits the character – his Bring Him Home started so softly and gently and then really soared (until some twat decided to take a FLASH PHOTOGRAPH of him mid-song, whoever it was should have been ASHAMED of themselves).

·       He was so sweet with little Cosette! At the end of the curtain call, he and the actress had their own mini bow and then hugged, and he carried her off into the wings.

·       He really made more of Valjean’s physicality than other actors I’ve seen – perhaps to do with staging too – but his and Javert’s interactions were much more physical, violent, and in your face than they have been. It wasn’t OTT on his end I don’t think, but you definitely got the sense that he was trying to rein himself in and that the violence was still there? You know? But ofc NEVER towards Cosette or anyone unlike SOME adaptations I could mention (yes I am still bitter about the BBC trashfire, sorry to anyone who liked it but eh, imho, gross).

·       At the end, he and the Bishop have a hug in heaven! It was very sweet!

Javert

·       This is the second time I’ve seen Bradley Jaden in the role of Javert and I am a blessed human being (really want to take my Dad to see him too) because he has officially ruined every other Javert for me. Like ever. His characterisation feels very book Javert, very stern and uncompromising but more so than other Javerts, idk, it’s just his sheer stage presence as well, and his facial expressions and his general look…I can’t put my finger on it. He’s just phenomenal.

·       Stars was on this beautiful Parisian bridge (fake stone balustrade-style complete with four hanging lanterns) that came down from the flies, incredible backdrop, and he just brought the house down again.

·       Ngl – they have him actually holding a legit chain during the Confrontation and maybe I’ve read too much ship fic, but it certainly gives a whole new dimension to the line “Msieur le maire, you’ll wear a different chain!” Also especially as the Confrontation was so much more physical as well, they were properly fighting each other instead of just circling.

·       He was much more bloodied at the barricade, and there was this moment where he was being taken offstage as a prisoner and he’s on his knees in front of Enjolras, who’s very blonde hair is all you could see from where I was sitting, and they’re both in a spotlight, and the mood just really reminded me of the dynamic in the fic Les Hommes de la Misericorde by Kchan88 (which is great and you should read if you want to).

·       After the barricade, they incorporated that heartbreaking idea from the movie – Gavroche is lying dead in the front of the stage and Javert bends down to shut his eyes and crosses himself. There’s then a total reversal of the moment with Enjolras described above, but I’ll get to that in more detail in the Enjolras section.

·       In Javert’s Suicide, he did the complete breakdown thing again – which worked as he actually had blood on his face and long hair loose everywhere from the barricade scenes. Back on the pretty bridge, which split in two and he legit FLEW for the drowning scenes, so was thrashing suspended in midair as the lights and backdrop swirled around and behind him. That was something special.

Fantine

·       The one, the only, the Carrie Hope! She played a very understated Fantine? Which…I liked more than I thought I would? Like the voice came out at the end of I Dreamed a Dream, Lovely Ladies etc, but she was so…controlled? It perhaps felt odd after seeing her as Éponine and Veronica in Heathers where she let loose a lot more, but her Fantine just felt a little more mature, a little more resigned?

·       Her Fantine also gets put through the bloody wringer, jeez – the fight with the factory woman is much more physical (and when I say more physical, I actually think they were properly choreographed?) and with Bamabatois, who is just as grim but less slimy than the last actor I saw play him?

·       I’d kind of almost forgotten about her by the time she came out as a ghost at the end, but that bit was lovely, as it always is.

Éponine

·       Shan Ako was a scene stealer. Bloody hell she can sing – she put some pretty riffs in On My Own (small, but noticeable if you know the song) and her belting voice was unbelievable.

·       With the new set, you really get a feel of the Gorbeau tenement – she’s hanging around up there a bit. Also in Attack on the Rue Plumet, with the set the way it is (a house with a wrought iron balcony and a door, with the gate and fence extending out towards centre stage) you again get a feel for the scene in the book when Éponine basically says to her father and his gang that they’re dogs but she’s a wolf and she’s not afraid of them because she’s standing guarding the door with her arms wide…yeah, it really worked.

·       She and Gavroche are either friends or it’s a subtle nod to their siblinghood, as they fist bump right when Gav introduces Éponine.

·       On My Own was a tour de force – second standout of the night after Stars, for me.

·       Her A Little Fall of Rain was also gorgeous, and she had a real fizz with Marius, which was cute.

·       A rather large niggle – Shan Ako is black, and Young Éponine was white. Perhaps there was a last-minute emergency, but surely they could have got a little black actress to play Young Éponine? Idk, it just bothered me.

Cosette & Marius

·       Oh my god, Harry Apps as Marius – he Pontmercied around the place, and was so awkward and adorable! In Éponine’s errand, when he tried to go up the stairs, he banged into the set! During his bit in Red and Black he gets up on the staircase and starts full on declaiming, arms wide etc. His scene with Cosette in Heart Full of Love was gorgeous – he chucks a stone at her window, and she comes out, sees him, and disappears and he’s like “oh god I’m doing everything all wrong” and then she comes hurtling out of the front door instead and then stops and they stare at each other and it’s so cute! And then he’s just so self-conscious for the entire scene? And what’s so interesting is in the reprise at the end and the wedding, he’s so much more sure of himself – I really loved all the little nuances like that?

·       He’s also really young! He’s the complete unknown they cast off the open auditions for the UK tour, and he is bloody amazing – totally deserved that!

·       Lily Kerhoas was very charming as Cosette. I adore the character, but sometimes actresses play her too girly, which drives me a bit nuts, but she managed to pull off young/innocent/naïve/very soprano with a bit of practicality, heart, and edge. And there was a great moment when she and Éponine are both in the garden after, and getting that look in at each other without the gate in the way was really powerful.

·       Cosette and Marius had chemistry! It was lovely!

·       Empty Chairs – wow. So basically Turning (my underrated fave) was a range of women dressed in black who leave candles dotted all over the stage. Marius sings Empty Chairs surrounded by them, and (you guessed it) the dead Amis come in and all pick one up and Marius does too, and then they blow them out and leave and Marius is left holding the only lit one and blows it out then raises it like a toast and WOW MY FEELINGS WERE NOT PREPARED.

 Gavroche

·       This kid STOLE THE SHOW. LITERALLY. He was black too (like Éponine) and they had a proper little thing going, it felt like it really drew on the brother-sister Brick canon. He also felt very book-Gavroche, so cheeky and so serious at times.

·       They’ve changed his first set of lyrics in Look Down to be those from the movie, which…sure. Worked.

·       OKAY – in The Robbery, when Javert is like “everyone about your business/clear this garbage off the street” everyone scatters APART FROM GAV who’s pootling around behind Javert yelling “go on! You heard the man! Go away, even you!” and then when Javert turns to face him, Gav just does this irreverent little salute and saunters offstage and Javert just…lets him?? It was a FANTASTIC moment.

·       At the barricade when Gavroche busts Javert’s disguise, he goes right up to him and on “this only goes to show what little people can do” just cheerfully gives Javert a big old middle finger. Which was SO GREAT.

·       When Éponine is dying, he spends most of a little fall of rain loitering next to Marius and not really knowing what to do and my heart just BROKE.

·       He and Grantaire had a cute bromance going – after Drink With Me, when Grantaire nonverbally tells Enjolras to go fuck off and goes off to the side of the stage, Gavroche just goes over to him and starts hugging his back, and then they have a cuddle on the side of the stage together for Marius’ solo.

·       Because no turntable – Gav didn’t die alone on the other side of the barricade, he makes it just back to the top, gets shot with the bright white light (which they kept) and then just falls over into Enjolras’ arms, who then carries him down the barricade and puts him in Grantaire’s arms who just stands there, centre-stage, cradling a dead Gavroche for a few minutes before lying him down at the front of the stage.

·       At the end, Gavroche gets dumped unceremoniously into the cart with dead Enjolras and idk, it’s just a moment.

Enjolras

·       Right – instant disclaimer that I am incredibly biased and Hyoie O’Grady is and will forever be my Enjolras and I measure everyone against his performance.

·       This guy, Ashley Gilmour, – mostly had the look and the hair and general icy beauty. I was initially disappointed with his voice, but he did grow on me – he just really didn’t have the presence I associate with a great Enjolras. This was especially evident in the speech bits like in Red and Black?. Like, you know they’re not right for the role when you don’t particularly have much to write home about. Maybe I’m being unfair – other people who’ve seen him – what do you think?

·       The one bit of changed staging I didn’t like was Do You Hear the People Sing. I think Enjolras being towed around on the cart (which did come back during the beginning of the barricade) gives the song the momentum it needs & deserves? Whereas they were just marching round a staircase they’d shoved in the middle of the stage which Feuilly got up on for his verse, so…

·       Aside from a few handclasps, there was basically no E/R. Not even a hug during Drink With Me. It wasn’t even like “no homo” bullshit whatever, it just…didn’t happen. Actors didn’t have chemistry, and it’s a fair reading – this Enjolras read ace/too busy for romance quite strongly, I guess, and also very young, but yeah. After the joy that was Sam Edwards, even a bit more chemistry with Hyoie O’Grady (even though he said he didn’t really like that reading (I think??) which totally fair), and some actors I believe ACTUALLY KISSING OMG in other productions (one Enjolras also wore a Pride sash instead of a revolutionary one in Brazil, I think???) it really wasn’t anything. I would love a cast with an outwardly gay & together E/R, but I think the West End has a while to go before that becomes reality.

·       Enjolras’ death: obviously no turntable, end of that iconic spin to reveal him draped across the front of the barricade with his flag. In this version, he basically yeets himself off the front of the barricade very dramatically (there is no other word for it, I promise I’m not using “yeet” gratuitously) and then when Javert comes back after the fall of the barricade, there’s a soldier with the cart from the building of the barricade with a very dead Enjolras on his flag, arms akimbo out the end. Which worked. It was more quiet and understated, but it worked. No complaints from me.

·       At the curtain call he gave us a little hand heart, Taylor-Swift-circa-2010 style. It was cute and I should probably stop being a cow.

Les Amis

·       They’ll never cast them as diverse as they are in my head (I can only hope one day, perhaps, PLEASE!) but they were a good bunch. Their Feuilly looked more like a Jehan to me, but eh. Again, just no real…buzz. Not in the way I’ve seen them performed before? And I think Les Amis depends on a good Enjolras and a good Grantaire, because as the two main Amis in the musical, they set the tone?

·       When the soldiers’ final announcements were happening during the Dawn of Anguish, one of the boys (idk which, they were basically all blonde) was having a very obvious panic attack on the floor by the tables, and one of the others was comforting him and it was like that horrible powerful scene in the 2012 movie and I didn’t like it because it was heartbreaking but it was very effective.

·       They all seemed a bit less tolerant of Grantaire, who wasn’t even that disruptive by other actors standards, which I didn’t like?

·       Grantaire was, again, eh? Funny, fine, but didn’t have interesting things going for him (like Adam Filipe’s pacifism, for example, or any kind of chemistry with Enjolras) in the way others have done, but it was a solid performance.

The Thenardiers

·       Yes, they were great! Master of the House built to Thenardier being given the birthday bumps, which was funny.

·       Madame Thenardier’s solo in Master of the House was delivered in the kitchen all by herself as a bitter monologue, rather than the drunken rowdiness you used to get in the old show.

·       They were a pretty typical funny Thenardier couple, and I’m getting tired, I might remember some more about them tomorrow.

 So yeah. Those are my thoughts. Would love to hear what other people think, and I definitely want to go back and see it again, perhaps with a different cast (a different Enjolras, argh). I’m off to bed, I have class in ten hours. Oops.

#les mis #les miserables #les miserables west end #west end #show notes #les mis notes #sondheim theatre #les miserables 2020 #enjolras #grantaire #valjean #javert #bradley jaden fan service #shan ako fan service too #eponine #fantine #carrie hope fletcher #cosette #marius #meta #les mis analysis #les mis musical

[writteninsunshine]

Conquer The Sun - Grantaire/Enjolras - SFW

Title: Conquer The Sun

Author: Reno

Fandom: Les Misérables

Setting: Grantaire’s Apartment, The Musain

Pairing: Grantaire/Enjolras

Characters: Grantaire, Enjolras

Genre: Angst/Romance

Rating: T

Chapters: 1/1

Word Count: 535

Type Of Work: One-Shot 

Status: Complete

Warnings: Gay, Slash, Yaoi, MLM, Greek Mythology References, Unrequited Love, Canon Character Death

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything. 

Summary: Much like Icarus, Enjolras would not conquer the sun.

AN: Hey guys, it’s me again! Just thought I ought to say, if you want vague updates and to talk to me more, I have Twitter and Tumblr, too! Twitter is Sunnywritings, and Tumblr is Writteninsunshine! I also have a writing Discord that is currently pretty dead. xD I can PM it to people who want it on FFN, for everyone else, it’s here: https://discord.gg/FyaWw25

I have writing requests open on my tumblr! Link here: https://writteninsunshine.tumblr.com/post/633894090732421120/requests-open

I have been listening to Red and Black on repeat over and over and I don’t know how many times I’ve listened to it. It helps me to keep thinking on these two, and a friend of mine mentioned something totally not connected and my brain went ICARUS and so this happened. I really like how it came out, I hope you guys like it!

Les Misérables Fic Masterlist

Conquer The Sun 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Apollo.

Grantaire had compared Enjolras to Apollo since the moment they met. He was the sun that never set, the light that blinded Grantaire in the middle of the night. No, he was a thousand white-hot suns, burning in his chest, fueling the fire of his temper and his righteous desire to fix things. The sun that would arise in the morning wished that it could burn half as brightly as Enjolras and his idealistic speeches. Grantaire did not change his opinions so easily, but the closer the day of their rebellion came, he began to see another figure standing in the light of Enjolras’ beauty.

Icarus.

Icarus flew, on wings of wax and feathers, to the height of the sun. His dreams soared higher than he could climb, his desires were in the forefront of his brain at all times. In ignorance, he flew beyond the safety of the clouds, to the heat of his own heart. In death, he was beautiful and twisted, a boy with an ideal that died with him.

Not to say that Grantaire didn’t put great care into his recreation of The Fall Of Icarus, but he sometimes would grow distracted by the curvature of each muscle. As he painted Enjolras into the distraught hero’s place, he sculpted each of his muscles and every sinewy limb with reverence. The fact that he had the excuse of Icarus wearing little more than his wings and a red sash in order to paint a mostly naked Enjolras never struck him as wrong as long as he had some wine in him. It wasn’t like he would ever get to see him in all of his glory. 

Grantaire was married to his ideals of Enjolras, and Enjolras held no love for anything less than France. Perhaps, he mused sometimes, while taking a sip of his drink, Enjolras, France, and Democracy were in a relationship, and he had to try tirelessly to keep France and Democracy from tearing each other apart. It was another painting sitting half-planned and half-started among the canvases in his apartment. The one with the most color, the most completed, sat before him that afternoon as he began work on the melted wax of the wings, the translucent drips of it over Enjorlas’ torso. 

The sun was setting when he pulled his mind from its current state, and he stumbled from his apartment with a bottle of wine already in his stomach, another in his hand. There would be no way he would miss tonight’s impassioned details to Enjolras’ plans. No doubt Grantaire would say something snarky, he would poke fun and he would laugh at the rumpled, displeased look that would cross his Icarus’ face. 

Just like Icarus, Enjolras would rise to his own challenge and meet his fate. Just like Da Vinci, Grantaire would neglect to finish his magnum opus, leaving it to collect dust as his last testament to his true light. Their blood would run in the streets, in the Musain, useless and for no reason other than a boy flying too close to the sun, following his heart to his death, and another so blinded by him he could not go on without him.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

AN: I probably write Grantaire too sappy, I don’t know why all my fics for him are like this. At any rate, I really wanted to get this idea out, and I hope that it’s good! I hope you guys enjoyed it!

#Les Misérables Fanfic #Les Misérables Fanfiction #Grantaire x Enjolras #SFW

[emptymasks]

How can I live when you are gone?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I do not deserve her.

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

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

And she loves me.

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

Well... isn't it?

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

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

And I love her.

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

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

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

And tomorrow night this will happen again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

#les mis #Les Miserables #marius pontmercy #marius x cosette #marius x enjorlas #if you squint! #Cosette Fauchelevent #fuck it we're using that tag #mywriting #fanfic

[labrador-tea]

Ever wonder what happens when you combine an under-utilized French degree and procrastination? Les Misérables translations, of course.

I present my translation of Volume V, Book the first, Chapter XXIII of the brick, “Oreste à jeun et Pylade ivre” which depicts the death of Enjolras and Grantaire. It’s always been a scene I’ve found particularly moving and I’ve never been totally satisfied with the unabridged translations I’ve seen. I was inspired to do a retranslation after reading the Hapgood (1887) translation and definitely used it for comparison.

Have you read Les Misérables in French? Do you have any favorite translations? I’m totally open to discussion and corrections of any words/expressions I may have misinterpreted (or just plain typos!). The plain text is below the cut. Hope you enjoy!

Finally, by boosting one another up, aided by the skeleton of the staircase, climbing up the walls, clinging to the ceiling, tearing down those final few who resisted by the trapdoor, some twenty besiegers, soldiers, National guardsmen, and municipal guards, in complete chaos, most of their faces marred by the formidable ascent, blinded by blood, furious, turned wild, burst into the first floor room. Only one stood standing- Enjolras. With no ammunition, no sword, he had nothing in his hand but the barrel of his gun, the butt of which he had broken over the head of those who were entering. He had put the billiard table between the assailants and himself; he had drawn back to the corner of the room, and there, with a proud eye, head held high, that stump of a weapon in his hand, he was still so fierce that the space around him seemed untouchable.

A cry arose:

“This is the leader! It was he who killed the artilleryman. How good of him to place himself there. Let him stay there. Let us shoot him on the spot.”

“Shoot me,” said Enjolras.

And, throwing the broken gun aside and folding his arms, he presented his chest.

The audacity to die a good death always moves men. As soon as Enjolras had folded his arms, accepting the end, the din of combat ceased in the room and the chaos suddenly quieted into a sort of hushed solemnity. It seemed that the intimidating majesty of Enjolras, disarmed and immovable, weighed down upon the tumult, and that by nothing but the authority of his tranquil gaze, this young man who alone had no wound, proud, bloody, charming, indifferent as one who is invulnerable, compelled the sinister mob to kill him with respect. His beauty, in that moment augmented by his pride, was radiant, and his cheeks were full of color even after the frightening twenty-four hours that had just passed, as if he could no more be tired than wounded. It was of him, perhaps, that a witness spoke later in front of the war council: “There was an insurgent whom I heard called Apollo.” A National guardsman that had taken aim at Enjolras lowered his weapon and said “It seems as if I am about to shoot a flower.”

Twelve men formed a squad in the corner opposite Enjolras, and readied their rifles in silence.

Then a sergeant cried, “Take aim!”

An officer intervened, “Wait.”

And, addressing Enjolras:

“Do you wish to be blindfolded?”

“No.”

“It was truly you who killed the artillery sergeant?”

“Yes.”

For some moments now, Grantaire had been awake.

Grantaire, remember, had been sleeping ever since last evening in the upper room of the wine shop, sitting in a chair, collapsed forward on the table.

Everything about him completely embodied the old metaphor of “dead drunk.” The hideous potion of absinthe, stout, and alcohol had thrown him into a deep lethargy. His table being small, and of no use in the barricade, had been left to him. He was still in the same position, chest slumped over the table, head flat against his arms, surrounded by glasses, tankards, and bottles. His heavy slumber was that of a torpid bear or gorged leech. Nothing had affected it, neither the gunfire, nor the cannonballs, nor the shrapnel that had flown through the window in the room where he was, nor the tremendous uproar of the assault. He had only responded now and then to the cannon-fire with a snore. He seemed to wait there for a bullet to come save him the effort of waking. Many corpses lay around him; and, at first glance, nothing distinguished him from those in the deep sleep of death.

Noise does not awaken a drunkard, silence does. This peculiarity has been observed more than once. The fall of everything around him only enhanced Grantaire's torpor; the collapse rocked him to sleep. The type of abrupt halt felt in the tumult before Enjolras was a shock to this heavy sleep. It had the same effect as a carriage hurtling at full speed that suddenly stops short. The dozing occupants are jolted awake. Grantaire rose with a start, stretched his arms, rubbed his eyes, looked around, yawned, and understood.

Drunkenness coming to an end is like a curtain that is wrenched aside. One sees in full, and in a single glance, all that was hidden. Everything comes crashing back; and the drunkard, who knows nothing of what has happened in the past twenty-four hours, has not yet finished opening their eyelids before reality catches up. Ideas return with a harsh lucidity; and drunkenness, a sort of mist that blinds the mind, dissipates, and is replaced with the clear and distinct persistence of realities.

Relegated as he was in his corner, and semi-sheltered behind the billiard table, the soldiers, eyes fixed on Enjolras, hadn't even noticed Grantaire, and the sergeant prepared to repeat the order: “Take aim!” when all of a sudden they heard a strong voice shout beside them:

“Long live the Republic! I am one of them.”

Grantaire had risen.

The shining glimmer of all the combat he had missed, and of which he had not been part, appeared in the blazing look of the transfigured drunk.

He repeated: “Long live the Republic!” crossed the room with a firm stride, and placed himself in front of the raised guns, beside Enjolras.

“Take two with one blow,” he said.

And, turning gently to Enjolras he said to him,

“If it's alright with you?”

Enjolras grasped his hand with a smile.

The smile had not faded when the blast sounded.

Enjolras, pierced by eight gunshots, remained with his back against the wall as if the bullets had nailed him there. Only his head was bowed.

Grantaire, shot down, had collapsed at his feet.

A few moments later, the soldiers dislodged the last insurgents who had taken refuge at the top of the house. They fired through a wooden lattice into the loft. They fought in the attic. They threw bodies out the windows, some of them still living. Two infantrymen who tried to lift the shattered omnibus were killed by two gun shots fired from under the eaves. A man in a worker's shirt was then thrown down, a bayonet wound in the chest, and lay gasping on the ground. A soldier and an insurgent slipped together on the edge of the tiled roof, and, neither letting go of the other, fell, locked in a ferocious embrace. The same struggle took place in the cellar. Shouts, gun shots, violent trampling. Then silence. The barricade was taken.

The soldiers began searches of the surrounding houses and the pursuit of fugitives.

#les mis #les miserables #enjolras #grantaire #translation #les mis translation #les miserables translation #enjoltaire #orestes and pylades #the brick #victor hugo #french translation #permets-tu

[williamvapespeare]

77 for exr, OR 18 with whatever ship you prefer :D have a safe trip!!

77. “There is nothingwrong with you.”

i’m sorry this took me forever!! i’ve written a bunch of hardcore angst recently so i tried to write some - hopefully successful - canon era flirting. i hope you like it! (and i did have a safe trip, thanks lol)

-

The sun is low in thesky, sitting softly on the horizon as if it’s waiting for some cue to vanishcompletely. There’s laughter in the air around him, an early spring breeze, andjust enough alcohol in his system to take the edge off living. It’s the kind oflate afternoon-turned evening that makes most people notice they’re alive againfor the first time in months, but Grantaire has never been most people.

He’s spent the afternoon outside, wandering.He’s finally stopped at a café for the evening and taken up residence at one ofthe tables outside, watching as people in the streets stop and look up at the fadingblue of the sky between buildings, look around at each other and smile withsomething like surprise. He’s leaning back in his chair, one foot proppedagainst a leg of the table in front of him, a half full glass in hand.

He looks, to all theworld, like he is simply out, enjoying the last of the unexpected sun, a fronthe is happy to put up, in an attempt to hide the way his mind is running incircles. He is so consumed with the façade, in fact, that he almost doesn’t noticewhen someone peels off from the anonymous lull of people around him andapproaches his table.  

“Grantaire, do you have amoment?” He tries not to let his surprise show on his face as he leans forward andinclines his head slightly.

“Enjolras.” Enjolras soundsso formal, stiff and slightly awkward as he hovers at Grantaire’s shoulder,that Grantaire can’t help but mimic his tone. “I was just,” he glances at thehalf empty bottle in front of him, “I’m sure it’s perfectly clear what I wasdoing. Have you come to join me?”

He half intends it to bea joke. He expects Enjolras to roll his eyes or for the lines of his foreheadto show some small sign of exasperation, but instead he nods.

Never quite one to bedrawn in by fashion, Enjolras has taken off his jacket in the day’s unexpectedheat. It’s draped over his arm, covering a stack of papers and he deposits bothcarefully onto the table as he pulls out an empty chair and sits down.

His sleeves are rolled upto the elbows and as his hands come to rest on the arms of his chair, Grantairenotices flecks of ink on his fingers. Up close, his arms look stronger thanthey should, for someone who spends so much of his time reading and writing. Thoughthat’s not the only thing he does, Grantaire knows. For a moment, he imaginesblood running through those ink stained fingers, up his arms to stain the whiteof his sleeves, pooling crimson around blond curls.

He blinks the thoughtaway, lifts his glass in Enjolras’s direction in a sort of salute, unsure howto proceed.

“Was there something youwanted?”

Enjolras glances at him.

“I haven’t seen much ofyou lately. At meetings or,” He pauses, his expression hesitant, “anywhereelse.”

“Were you worried aboutme?” Grantaire raises an eyebrow in something like disbelief.

“Despite myself, I findthat I do miss your contributions.”

Grantaire takes a drink, hopeshis surprise isn’t as evident on his face as he feels. He means to backtrack,knows that at any other time, he would say something that made Enjolras shakehis head, make him back away from the possibility of anything resemblingintimacy between them.

Intimacy, he knows, requiresa degree of sincerity that he tries his best to stay clear of. On Enjolras, itis beautiful, alight with all his passion, all the depth of his love. But onGrantaire, sincerity is ugly and raw, a bit too much like despair for him to domuch of anything but drown it in the bottom of a bottle, which is why hisresponse catches even himself off-guard.  

“This time of year alwaysworries me. It feels wrong.” Grantaire laughs, struck by a bitterness that hasnothing to do with the wine. “I don’t know how you stand me, Enjolras. Thechanging of seasons is nothing compared to the changing of my moods.” He looksaway. “I suppose the answer is that you don’t stand me at all. Not that I blameyou.”

And Enjolras hasn’t, itseems, until now.

He feels Enjolras’s eyeson him, burning with a quiet intensity that he knows well enough to imagine inalmost perfect detail.

“There is nothing wrongwith you.” Enjolras says finally, unexpectedly. Grantaire looks back at him insurprise. “To be weary of change, of seasons, it’s natural I think. They play abigger role than any of us can know. The faster time passes, the less of it wehave.” Enjolras’s hand lands lightly on his shoulder, perhaps in an attempt toput him at ease, but if anything, it makes his heart race even faster. He says,almost matter-of-factly, as if it explains away any further uncertainty on thesubject: “It’s almost summer.”

“I’ve never known you towax poetical about the philosophies of time.” Grantaire says, coking his headsideways in confusion, or whatever the name is for the vague but insistentfeeling of desperateness that comes over him whenever Enjolras is close, thetightening in his chest at the mention of summer.

Enjolras blushes, light colorsoftening the sharp lines of his cheekbones. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

He’s never seen Enjolrasblush before, doesn’t think he’s ever been comfortable enough around him to lethis guard down like this, and he bites back a smile when he sees it.

“I wouldn’t be too sureof that,” his tone light and teasing in a way he hopes Enjolras won’t misconstrueor take offense with, “Spend enough time around me and I’ll make a philosopherout of you yet. After all, even Diogenes had an Plato to balance out hiswoes.”

Enjolras rolls his eyes, “Youthink too little of yourself,” he says. “You may not believe in the plights ofmen, but at least you can distinguish them from birds.”

Grantaire laughs then, genuineand amused. Enjolras laughs too, quietly, as if it is an amusement meant for justthe two of them. His hand has left its place on Grantaire’s shoulder,and for a moment, it comes back to rest lightly against his wrist, a thumbbrushing over Grantaire’s heavy pulse.

And Grantaire thinks thatthe warmth spreading in his chest has nothing to do with the spring day or thefuzziness of wine beginning to steep into his brain. Enjolras is still talkingto him, his attention fixed on Grantaire, one hand gesturing into the air inthe approximation of some grand indefinable ideal.

As the last light of theafternoon fades, someone comes by and lights a candle at their table and the flickeringlight turns Enjolras’s hair a shade closer to gold, a flame in the darknessthat, despite all his fears, has yet to be extinguished.

Grantaire thinks that perhaps, spring is not so bad after all.

#enjoltaire #enjolras #grantaire #les mis #lesamis #thank you so much for sending a prompt i hope it's ok! #i attempted to punch writers block in the face to write this with questionable success LOL #also hope yall enjoy my victor hugo levels of subtle foreshadowing #the reader will by now have realised that it was ALMOST JUNE

[mysunfreckle]

as is likely not a surprise from my previous comment: #9

Angst to Fluff prompts: Person A got cursed and only person B, whohates their guts, can break it for Enjoltaire.

But of course!

1.7k, content warning: alcohol mention

It’s thebanging on the door that wakes him. Grantaire raises his head, grogginessclouding his mind. He feels heavy, like the blood in his veins has thickened tolead.

The knockingdoesn’t stop and Grantaire forces himself to his feet. Maybe it’s Joly, orBossuet, he could use them right now. He shakes his head in an effort to clearhis mind, but it doesn’t help. As he walks to answer the door he feels so unsteadyhe’d almost suspect himself of being drunk, but he hasn’t touched a drop, he’ssure of that.

Whoever isat the door stops assaulting it when he approaches and Grantaire smiles inanticipation of who he expects to see. If not Joly or Bossuet, then perhapsJehan, in any case it will make him feel— Grantaire’s smile falters as the dooropens. It’s Enjolras. Of course it had to be Enjolras.

Enjolraswho he can’t stand the sight of. Enjolras who he does not want to be near.

“What doyou want?” he asks gruffly, turning away from the door immediately. It hurts tolook at Enjolras, with his beautiful face and his gold-spun hair.

“I—”Enjolras begins behind him. “R? Won’t you look at me?”

“Don’t callme that,” Grantaire bites, turning around with his face twisted into a frown. “Myfriends call me that.” Enjolras has never been his friend, never will be hisfriend. Grantaire knows all too well that Enjolras has never cared about him.

“I’m sorry,”Enjolras says hesitantly, taking a single step over the threshold. “I didn’t meanto.”

“Didn’tmean to what.” Grantaire draws back again. It hurts just to listen to him.Enjolras with his brilliant words. Why has he come all the way over here justto force him to listen. He has no right. Oh Grantaire could hate him for this.He does hate him for this.

“Didn’tmean to upset you,” Enjolras continues, still with that voice full of painfulsincerity.

“Then leaveme alone,” he says. “I don’t want you here.”

Enjolraslooks sad. So sad. And Grantaire wisheshe wouldn’t. He wishes he’d have the fucking decency to listen to a simplerequest. He has never wanted to be around Grantaire so why is he here now.

“I— I’llgo,” Enjolras says, nearly taking a step back. “But…only if you’ll let me giveyou a proper goodbye.”

Grantairestares at him. “What?”

Enjolras isstill standing there, all golden hair and blue eyes and unwanted attention. “Willyou allow me to kiss you goodbye?”

Somethingwith claws curls in Grantaire’s chest. “Is this a joke to you?” he spits. Ohwhy won’t he just fucking go, and leave him alone like he always has before.

But Enjolras’face is pale as he shakes his head. “No joke,” he say, quietly. “Let me kissyou goodbye and I’ll…I’ll go and you never have to see me again if that’s whatyou want.”

Just the thoughtof it makes Grantaire’s head grow lighter and with an impatient movement,jerking angrily with his shoulders, he offers Enjolras his cheek.

“No,R-Grantaire—” Enjolras face is far too close and far too earnest, Grantaire canfeel the sincerity of it mock his entire being. “I need your permission. I’llgo, I’ll leave, I promise, but only if you’ll permit me t—”

“Fuck, whatdo you want from me, Enjolras!”Grantaire snaps, his patience tearing at the seams. It feels like something issqueezing the blood from his heart. “Fine,okay?” he says bitterly. “I permit it.Anything to get you to leave me the fuck al—”

Grantaireblinks, his thoughts stuttering to a halt. The lead drains from his mind andlimbs and his heart gives a familiar tell-tale jolt, when his eyes look into a fartoo familiar face.

“Enjolras?”he says uncertainly.

“Oh thankgod,” Enjolras breathes, his face flooding with relief and before Grantaire canask him what on earth is going on, his friend makes a frantic noise and pullshis sleeve away from his right wrist.

A gold bandtears itself into two halves before Grantaire’s bewildered eyes and the sharpsmell of vicious magic fills the air. The bracelet falls to the ground with adull metallic clang.

Enjolras clutcheshis arm, sucking air in through his teeth and swearing under his breath.

“What thehell,” Grantaire blurts and he reaches out for Enjolras’ hand without thinking.“Are you okay? Did it burn you?”

“No,”Enjolras says hastily. “I mean, yes I’m fine. R, can we—”

ButGrantaire isn’t quite listening. He’s staring at the torn gold strip lying onhis hallway floor. “Is that a curse?”he says in dismay. Black symbols line the inside of the broken bracelet, theedges of them still smouldering slightly as the power to them fades.

“…yes,”Enjolras mutters. “It is.”

Grantaire glancesup for a moment, halfway to leaning down to pick up the two halves for closer inspection.“Who the hell put a cursed band on you?”

“I put iton myself,” Enjolras says uncomfortably. “It was a present.” His voice takes ona bitter note. “A farewell present,from Guillaume.”

Grantairewinces, getting back up with the curse-bearer in his hand. The metal is almostwarm. “Posh Guillaume who wants to marry you?”

“I don’t thinkshe wants that anymore,” Enjolras answers stiffly.

“Enj youdidn’t seriously put on a piece of jewellery that was given to you by a sorcerer as a farewell after you turned downhis marriage proposal.” Grantairegives him a bewildered look. “For one of the most revolutionary minds in modernmagic you can be really dense, andthat’s coming from me.”

“Yes,” Enjolrasgrimaces, shuffling his feet. “Well—”

“So whatthe hell did Guillame do?” Grantaire says, looking down at the inscription. “Didhe try…to…” The symbols are not in any language of magic Grantaire uses, but hecan still read it. May the person whosegood opinion it would most hurt you to loose have their feelings for youexactly reversed.

Grantairelooks up, into Enjolras’ nearly anxious face.

“You don’tremember, do you,” he mutters.

“I…”Grantaire frowns. “I remember feeling like shit and…” He remembers hating Enjolras.

Grantairedrops the bracelet.

“I’m sorry,”Enjolras blurts out. “For getting you cursed along with me. It’s over though,you broke it.”

“How?”Grantaire gapes, kicking the twisted metal across the floor and into a corner. Heremembers his mind dripping with lead and his heart squeezing itself empty. Andhating Enjolras.

Enjolras’mouth pulls into a thin line. “I suppose Guillame thought it would be fittingthat I should beg someone for a kiss.”

Grantaire’sheart does something treacherous and his face grows hot for a second. It’sthrough a haze of sickening feelings, but he remembers that too now, Enjolrasbegging permission to kiss him. “Wait…” He looks straight into Enjolras’ eyes. “I’m the person whose good opinion you’dbe most hurt to lose?”

Enjolras’cheeks go pink, but he doesn’t look away. “I spent too long trying to find outwhy you of all people would want to believe in me,” he mutters. “The thoughtthat you wouldn’t anymore… I can’t—” There’s a fearful glitter to the blue ofhis eyes for a second. “I don’t want that.”

The mix ofastonishment and happiness that pours into Grantaire’s mind is enough to silencehim for a moment, but then a worried thought occurs to him. “How long did itlast?” he asks. “The curse.”

“Eight hoursand forty minutes, give or take,” Enjolras answers immediately.

Once again,Grantaire gapes. “Eight— you mean you got that bracelet this morning? How did you even know it hadworked? How did you even know it was me?”

“You weren’tat the meeting!” Enjolras says defensively.

Grantairegroans, running a hand through his hair. “I miss a single opportunity to hearyou speak and you immediately suspect foul play.”

“Well I hadliterally been cursed earlier that day,” Enjolras reminds him.

“Oh I wasn’timplying your conclusion was unreasonable,” Grantaire grimaces. “Would havebeen plausible even without the curse.”

When hestops pulling his own head back Enjolras is looking at him, with a soft kind ofexpression that Grantaire doesn’t think he has ever seen before. “I knew itwould be you,” he says. “I was sure. As soon as Ferre deciphered the curse I knew.I…I didn’t need this to happen to know that you’re— I didn’t say somethingbefore, because I didn’t know how, yet.”

Grantaireleans back against the wall, vaguely considering how ridiculous it is that they’restill in the hallway, and that the door is still open. He’s trying very hardnot to think about what Enjorlas didn’t know how to say. Because right now he’slooking at him like…like… “It didn’t even work,” he says softly. “Not really.”

“What doyou mean?” Enjolras asks, drawing just a little closer.

“It didn’treverse my feelings,” he says. He had still thought Enjolras was beautiful.Still known he was brilliant. “It just…turned them against me.”

Enjolraslooks at him very intently for what seems like half an eternity.

Grantaireswallows. “So I guess you can tell Guillame his curses are shit.”

A flickerof amusement dances in the blue. “If he still has ears left to speak to. Jehan foundout first, about what happened.”

“Ouch,”Grantaire says, but his expression is not very compassionate.

Once againthere’s a short silence between them, but then Enjolras says: “Do you stillwant me to leave?”

Grantaireturns his eyes towards the ceiling for a moment. “Seeing as I’m no longer underthe influence of literal mind-altering magic, no I don’t.” He never wants Enjolrasto leave.

When he looksback down Enjolras is closer than he was before.

“…do youstill want the kiss?”

Grantaire’sheart does that same treacherous thing again. “I thought it was a goodbye kiss,”he says, steadying his voice.

Enjolras isclose enough now that Grantaire has to look up to meet his eyes. They look ateach other long enough for their expressions to go nearly serious, but thenEnjolras speaks again:

“If youwant, it could be a would you go out with me kiss instead.”

Grantaire has no control whatsoever over the smile that spreads across hisface at those words. But this time, it is an infinitely sweeter sensation than being under any kind of spell.

#enjoltaire #exr #magic au #fantasy au #this needs a proofread #and I'm not even sure if it works this way #but it's very late #and I should practice being less perfectionistic #sunfreckle's stories #angst to fluff prompts

[branwen-ferch-llyr]

Oh, ambrosia boy - Enjoltaire

Sometimes Enjolras seems so impossibly soft, all heart full of heather and eyes full of tears. Grantaire has seen him weep before, seen the tragedy of him pour itself onto the newspaper headlines, marble turned human for one brief sunset. There’s never anything bleak about it, though - there’s always that drive which firms his blood, the determination which is much a part of Enjolras as his hope, his love, his fury.

Fury, yes: there are days when he walks into the Musain with nothing but steel inside of him, cold rage chained to the sparks inside his bones. A calculating man, a roman general, one who has spent his life plotting the chart of his own existence because no-one else would ever do it for him, who knows the degrees of broken arms and broken systems and would splinter them on his own teeth had he the chance.

But there’s no sadness to him now, no fury. Tonight he is tender, and sleepy, and Grantaire knows no better charm than this dream-intoxication.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras calls, and there’s the lull of his mother tongue in his voice that always comes with drowsiness. “I want to talk to you.”

They’re in Grantaire’s apartment - small and hunched-up space that it is, but there’s a pot of dandelions on the window and the light is tulip orange and he is utterly lost in this. Enjolras had come over for the sake of some philosophy work, until Grantaire had stopped to teach him dominos. He almost wants to point out that they’ve been talking all night, but the haziness about Enjolras’ eyes is too gentle for that.

“Yes, Enjolras?” he jitters, sauntering around to lean against the back of the sofa facing Enjolras, curled up on the windowsill, feet dangling above the floor. “You know I always enjoy talking to you.”

He frowns, and pushes at his drifting bleached-blond hair before speaking. “Don’t tease, R.”

Grantaire laughs, and warmth presses at his cheeks. “I’m serious! You make for pleasant conversation, however exasperated you may be with me.”

Enjolras’ face shifts, and Grantaire has the image of a prophet at a scrying mirror, cheeks flushed, brow twisted and eyes vague. Mystery clings to Enjolras with the same feather-touch as the steady darkness, a bright silence too brilliant for the mortal soul to comprehend. What a hagiography Grantaire may make of this man - how much he would bleed to see him smiling aflame with faith.

He does not smile now, soured by Grantaire’s words. “Exasperated - not exactly?” A wince, tugged at the corner of his lips. “Perhaps a little. But still, that’s to do with what I wanted to talk to you about.”

Grantaire dares not speak, ribbons twisting round his insides in anticipation, bright lights chiming behind his eyes.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras is softer than ever before and close, terribly close, so much that Grantaire can feel the honey of his breath, see every multitude of soul inside his eyes. Enjolras looks up at him, studies him sharply and softly all at once.

“Grantaire?” His voice is ragged but purposeful. There’s a revolution in his gaze.

“Yes?”

“Grantaire, I love you.”

Gods. He feels himself crumbling, feels the bitter decay of monuments inside his chest, imagines Hyacinthus weeping as he dies, imagines blood melted onto his cheeks, his hands, imagines the blood of the flower that was a man, imagines the blood of the man that was him.

“Grantaire?” Voice trembling with oceans, far away. “I’m sorry, I may have seemed unkind in the past, but I’ve tried to show you - you knew I cared for you, surely? - Grantaire?”

The dandelions blush gold and bright at Enjolras’ side, and he can feel the air pulse with it.

“Grantaire, you never have nothing to say - if I’m to be rejected, spare me and do it properly, at least?”

“Rejected?” The word falls sloppily from his lips, and suddenly he’s blooming with understanding, with happiness, with love. “No. Enjolras, I’m in love with you. Did you mean it, like that?”

Aching sweetness - gods, his lips - and Enjolras smiles. “In love. Yes, those are the right words.” Oh, this ambrosia boy. Oh, the golden light. “Can I kiss you?” he asks, sitting forwards until the redness of his lips almost burns the space in front of Grantaire’s own.

“Yes, Enjolras. Please.”

And then he does, pressing that light into Grantaire’s mouth until everything is splintered with it, until the darkness becomes nothing but him, until the two men are nothing but alive with each other. Fingers laced together, the red smoulder of a kiss on the neck and Grantaire gasps, heady with it.

“Enjolras,” he whispers, pulse knitting them together, watching the red threads glitter around their joined hands. “You marvel, you glorious man.”

He doesn’t have to reply in words, but smudges love all over both of them with smiling, lets night-time become a tenderness too bold for words, lets alive mean in love, mean there’s nothing sweeter than this dream of you, this honeyed reality, mean I cherish every multitude of you.

#writing orpheus #aaaaaaa #i'm sorry I have not written these two before #les miserables #fanfic #enjolras #grantaire #enjoltaire #exr #I'm going to apologise again i'm sorry #what is this? who knows #honestly I just wanted softness I don't know plot #they're both trans by the way #that's important i just didn't write it #at least not this time #aaaaaaaaaaaaa #one day i'll be better at this #i promise

[damnfinecupocoffee]

The Sun Will Not Rise

(So, I wrote a thing. It’s been too long since I did and I hope I did this some kind of justice, it being my first ever Les Mis thing. 1,675 words of ExR canon era angst, grantaire POV, canon death, no happy ending because We Suffer Like Men here. Read it below the cut or on AO3, tags below.) 

Enjolras.

The heavy footsteps of a dozen men moving around the Musain rattle the walls, the floors, dragging him from his slumbering stupor. Distant screams pierce through the air and all Grantaire can smell is blood and death. He has never been upon a battlefield but he knows now how it feels.

Enjolras.

He knows where he wants to be - longs to be - even as the cold colours of familiar walls around him blur together in his tired haze, all his senses overwhelmed with it, the tang of alcohol soured on his tongue, muted gunfire and death rallies echoing around him. His fingers brush against the worn surface of the billiard table as he stumbles to his feet, the absent and pointless thought crossing his mind as to how old the thing is, wondering whether it had ever seen gunfire before.

Enjolras.

He’s there, right there across the room, like a beacon in his red and gold waistcoat, blonde curls loose about his face and eyes wild; a cornered animal not willing to lay down and die without a fight. His predators surround him and yet his teeth are bared and his expression curbed in such a way that if he feels a single drop of fear, it doesn’t show. Except he’s not fighting, he’s not fighting, and that look upon his face speaks volumes greater than any Grantaire has ever read. It sees the bloodshed and the terror and the war outside in the streets and calls them victory. It sees the death and calls it history. He’s lost - Grantaire knows now that they have lost - but Enjolras knows too that they have won, because his death will mean something. He always knew it was coming, and that it would.

Grantaire’s heart stops in his chest with the revelation. He swears it never beats again.

Absently he wonders if any of their friends have escaped the gunman. They are his only sunlight, his happiness dependent on their presence, their warmth and their laughter. He has known so much despair and yet so little of it in their company, and the thought of them departing permanently from his life brings him an exquisite pain. He has lived years in their orbit now; Combeferre, surely the smartest man he’s ever know. Surely more patience for him than anyone has held in the span of his entire twenty-nine years. Courfeyrac, with all his wit and exuberance and passion. Prouvaire, whose pure and passionate existence alone he knows is enough to keep each of them fighting their battles, and even Pontmercy, with whom he’d shared the pains and promises of the rapture of love. Feuilly, Bahorel, Joly, Bousset… no, if Enjolras is here, he knows it to be over. Their fearless leader is surely the final stand.

But he is still standing.

“Take aim!”

Grantaire can’t tell which of the guards speaks, which is the sergeant, but a dozen rifles raise in unison, their butts held firm against uniformed shoulders.

They haven’t seen him. They’re fixed on Enjolras now; a promise of death. And Enjolras is fixed upon them too. The staircase is mere metres to his left and Grantaire could easily pass behind the billiard table and escape down them, slip away unnoticed.

“Vive la Republique!” The words have left his mouth in a powerful cry before he knows it. “Count me in.”

There are eyes on him now, but he notices only the fierce gaze of Enjolras as he strides forwards towards the firing squad, away from the staircase. In a million lifetimes, he would not take it down. His eyes stay fixed on his Orestes as he passes through the enemies lines. More words exit his lips with equal ferocity, but Grantaire himself does not hear them as he falls in line beside Enjolras in front of the muskets.

You’ll see, say the echoes of his memory.

“Will you permit it?” He asks instead. He’s asking with every unspoken feeling he has ever spared for the man beside him, with a swollen heart. The pain of the loss of their friends is harrowing, even excruciating, but a life without the sunlight would be the death of its worshipper. He had been a blind man for so long, but it was fully realised in that moment: he needed Enjolras as violently as his lungs needed air. He loved him. He would rather die here.

Their eyes remain locked, turned away from the guards. Enjolras reaches blindly for his hand and grasps it in his own, something new in his expression as their fingers entwine, a smile upon his lips both resolute in its anticipation of what followed and fulfilled all at once. Grantaire thought himself stood across from a saint in that moment, or perhaps a god, a heavenly glow expressed from behind his Apollo’s golden curls.

If this was to be it, then so it would be. This was all he needed.

He hears the gunshots fire and feels Enjolras’ fingers tighten even further around his own. The pain is searing like fire within his very soul, his knees giving out beneath him, his head finding the floor of the Musain in moments, and then its over.

Until it isn’t.

Grantaire can’t say how much time has passed when he comes too, only that his once barraged senses are shaken instantaneously by the silence.

No footsteps. No screams.

No gunfire.

His arm aches where it hangs limply above his frame, supported by something he’s gripping so tightly like it's the only thing keeping him hanging on to life.

There’s no way he should be.

Enjolras.

Feebly he squeezes the hand clasped so tightly in his own, acutely aware of its limpness in response. Grantaire gasps like he’s taking his first breath as he shifts from the floor onto his elbows. His body is trembling and the pain in his chest is no less severe than it had been the moment the bullets tore through him. The dust has settled around him, coated him, and his gasping turns to choking as he reaches his knees. Blood has soaked his shirt, right through his waistcoat; three puckered holes in the fabric mock every breath he takes. He must be dead, he thinks, because there is nothing logical that explains otherwise.

But if death is feeling the pain of dying forever more, he wishes he had known. He would have tried harder to live.

He keeps his hand in Enjolras’ as he stands up, rasps his name. Squeezes again, once more to no response. In the back of his mind he already knows what this means, but it doesn’t bare thinking about.

The tears streak his dirty face as their fingers finally part, only for his to find Enjolras’ shoulders, trying to gently wake him from his slumber. He’s stood almost perfectly where he had been, a marble statue but for his head tilted down. His chest is littered with holes that match Grantaire's own.

He does not move.

Knowing he would find it makes it no less painful to bear. Grantaire grits his teeth against a desperate scream of pain and devastation. He takes Enjolras’ face in both palms, trembling as his fingers brush away those heavenly curls in a way he’d never have been permitted, and raises it to meet his eyes once more.

They are open still, but the light has gone out. The sun has gone out, Grantaire realises all at once.

The silent tears on his face turn into a sob that racks through his whole body. The motion shakes him like an earthquake, swaying Enjolras from his crucifixion against the wall and his limp body falls forwards into Grantaire’s arms. He sinks to his knees, sinks both of them down until he’s cradling Enjolras in his arms and staving off the panic rising in his chest by clutching his hands so tightly into Enjolras’ clothes that all the men in the world would not be able to rip him from him.

No logic can make sense of why and how he’s still alive, but he wishes it weren’t so, wishes their roles could be reversed so that the sun could shine on in endless day and he would sweep away the darkness as his own memory sunk into obscurity.

Even now, he knows in his heart Enjolras would never let that happen. Even for him. No death in the face of adversity deserved to go unrecognised and no lost life should go uncelebrated. Every person alive or dead was owed more than that - Grantaire feels the tethers of his earthly doubts start to loosen as he clutches that cold body to his own, as if his own warmth could revive it. He stays there for as long as there is silence in the Musain, cursing existence, cursing love, and cursing that in death, Enjolras had made Grantaire see at last. Made him believe.

Only when he finally hears movement in the streets does he move again. He makes to stand, but can’t bear to part from the body in his arms, not yet.

Sitting Enjolras back against the wall where he had been pinned, right beside the window, Grantaire holds his face one more time. Brushes perfect curls back from his delicate features, mapping small details to memory that he’d never been able to perfect in all his paintings over the years. It feels treacherous to complete the task now, but someone has to turn Enjolras into history. He cannot die merely a man.

He closes his eyes, once he’s sure he can bear too. It’s easier to look at him with them closed, if he avoids looking at his blood soaked chest; it’s almost as if he’s sleeping peacefully.

Finally, Grantaire leans forward. He’s on his knees on the floor beside him, face still held delicately and helplessly in his hands, and he closes the space between them to press one chaste, anguished kiss to Enjolras’ lips.

After a moment’s deliberation, he carefully removes Enjolras’ waistcoat and takes it with him.

#exr #enjolras #grantaire #les mis #les amis #les mis fanfic #angst #no happy ending #cw for canon deaths I guess? #mine

[pontificalandwarlike]

|| yOU KNOW WHAT I’M NOT DONE TALKING ABOUT THIS and this time i’m making a proper post. cleaned up & extended version of my tags on this gifset below, and yes i’m putting this in my meta tag you can’t stop me i do what i want. read with gifset for maximum effect

i’m still goddamn emotional about this and i’m not even going to pretend to be otherwise. there’s so much going on here and every single bit of it makes me emotional.

Listen okay let’s start with that first gif. I’ve watched it like fifty time on repeat and I just. The way that guardsman? soldier? spits out shoot him where he stands, so full of disdain and even hatred –– I know that’s a brick line but I don’t believe I ever really understood the full impact of it until now. He doesn’t have to say that ; both the soldiers and enjolras already understand that this interaction will only end one way, and it’s with enjolras dead against the wall. But he does anyway, and the wording of it –– right here, right now, where he stands –– combined with the way he obviously spits his words ( see the way his lip curls and his nose wrinkles as he says stands, visible even as gif, even without hearing the way he says it )... there’s a certain cruelty to it, a degree of emotional violence that doesn’t have to be there. This small interaction is a microcosm, a symbolic representation of the might of the regime trampling the revolution –– the soldiers, armed to the teeth and vastly greater in number, spitting disdain against enjolras, just one man, one very young man, beaten down and dirtied and cornered and empty-handed with no weapons. And enjolras’s face, god, his face. I take back every bad thing I said about joseph quinn as enjolras, this one look is everything. He’s defiant and he’s angry and rpoud, as he should be ! but he’s also physically beaten down and tired –– panting, leaned against the wall with his hands braced against his knees ; not to mention the emotional weariness as well, the toll of seeing more blood and death in the last twenty-four hours than anyone ever should have to, the toll of watching all of his friends die in front of him, of shoring himself up on so much hope and certainty only to watch the very country he loves and tried so hard to elevate betray him and leave him to die. and yes he’s ready to die, of course he’s ready to die, he’s stared death in the face and refused to blink since that first moment he decided to ally himself to this cause –– but there’s a sort of relief too, a different sort of readiness to die, to leave this world where his revolution failed and all his friends are already gone. and he’s scared too, of course he’s scared, for all that he looks marble and pretends to be marble and tries so hard to make himself marble, he’s only human and twenty-six at the end of the day, of course he’s scared.

OOF okay that’s long enough, let’s move on to gif 2. here he is, grantaire himself, the unlikely saviour. not literally, of course not, he’s not here to miraculously valjean enjolras to safety –– but he is here to save enjolras from something else : from having to face this alone. There’s a profound loneliness to dying alone, to being the last survivor and knowing that everyone else is dead and you’ll be dead soon, too. Facing down death with pride –– summoning up the audacity of a fine death –– is hard enough, but goddammit it’s even harder to do it alone, with no one at your side and no one to catch you when you inevitably fall. but here’s grantaire, perhaps the last person enjolras would have expected, stumbling into a death that does not have to be his just so he can stand by enjolras’s side. Just !!! think about this for a moment. Grantaire has woken up, but no one else has noticed him yet. It’s not inconceivable that he could hide or run, and never be caught, and spare himself the terror and the pain of dying in service of a cause he never quite believed in, a cause he now knows for certain is doomed and may well be forgotten tomorrow morning. But then he looks up and his friends are in danger, and enjolras is about to die, and so he walks in with clear eyes and clear head and says me too. God! Can you imagine? Shoot him where he stands. Me too. And I love the way the camera focuses on enjolras here, not the guards –– because enjolras is what matters, not the soldiers, not the guns, not the inevitable and rapidly impending death.

and in the third gif, the grantaire looks like he’s about to cry, but he’s here, goddammit, he’s standing by enjolras’s side and saying to hell with you all to everything and everyone else. long live the republic, he says, but we all know he’s not doing this for the republic and it couldn’t be any clearer than the way he looks at enjolras and only enjolras, walks right up to his side and doesn’t even spare a glance at all the guns pointed at them and very much ready to kill them in a few moments. long live the republic, he says, but what he really means is long live enjolras, long live their friends, long live all the crazy idealistic men like them, long live their faith and their hope and even the idealism he spent all the rest of the novel/series cynically denying. and most of all, long live friendship, long live the only thing that has ever mattered to him, the only thing that can save enjolras right now, the only thing that can save grantaire right now. and in face of that faith, that declaration of love –– and yes, it is love ( even if you don’t have your shipper glasses on ), deeply profound and revering love, fraternity between brothers in arms at the darkest of hours –– enjolras stands up straighter. enjolras, too, doesn’t look anywhere but at grantaire. enjolras, too, doesn’t have any attention to spare for the guns and the soldiers. and it’s remarkable, really, how long this scene goes without ever panning back to the soldiers. they’re about to die, they know that, we know that, but somehow it’s not the most important thing right now.

And the fourth gif –– we finally get a clear look at enjolras’s expression, and it wounds me deeply. that glance, the way his eyes move just a little, that disbelief and surprise and underneath it all, a touch of hope and joy that he doesn’t have to face this alone. and yes, his beloved revolution just gained a supporter, but more importantly enjolras just gained a friend –– and not just any friend, but a friend of the most devoted sort, the kind of friend who will see him through the end (literally). and he can’t quite believe it, can’t quite believe that there’s someone else here by his side, can’t quite believe that it’s grantaire by his side. it’s grantaire that looks towards the soldiers first, not enjolras. grantaire looks up, looks straight at their violent deaths ready to strike, and he’s scared, god, you can see in his face just how terrified he is, but he doesn’t even flinch away. he straightens. he squares his shoulders. he plants his feet next to enjolras anyway. and enjolras spends another moment staring at grantaire, thinking is this real, thinking are you sure about this, thinking i was wrong and thank you.

I don’t have much to say about gif five except to say that i really love quinnjolras’s profile, here. and the way his nose twitches just a little, that touch of disdain for their offer of a blindfold –– fantastic. but gif six, oh lordy, gif six. I piss on your blindfold, grantaire says, and this might just be my favourite line of dialogue in this entire series. it’s so in character for grantaire, that irreverence right until the end, and i think the refusal of the blindfold is even more powerful coming from grantaire instead of enjolras. we know enjolras will refuse the blindfold –– that’s never in question. of course he will, he’s enjolras. but coming from grantaire, it’s all the more proof of that transformation in his final moments, the impossible infinite courage that comes from his profound devotion to enjolras, to friendship.

and in gif seven, we get to see enjolras smile for a moment, his lips twitching like he can’t quite help himself from laughing at grantaire’s words. it’s the marble broken down to be human, even including laughing at loud irreverence. and again, grantaire’s scared, of course he is, he has every reason and every right to be, but he’s still here and that’s what matters. and we finally pan back to the soldiers, to the guns being lowered and aimed.

and then in gif eight –– the (in)famous hand hold, yes, at last, and in a way that feels organic and real. it’s as romantic as you want or don’t want it to be ; it’s friendship, it’s brotherhood, it’s love however you want to define it, it’s love beyond definition, it’s that impossible insurmountable bond of two people facing down death side-by-side. it’s not one person reaching for the other’s hand, it’s mutual, it’s spontaneous, and it’s a physical connection to mirror the emotional connection they share in this moment. and then the way grantaire starts laughing, and enjolras does too a heartbeat later. that’s not a happy sort of laughter, and we all know it. it’s a sort of gallows humor in the face of death, first and foremost, that hysterical sort of laughter where you can’t help but laugh because you can’t quite believe this is actually real and there’s no other way for that emotion to be expressed. but there’s also an element of giddiness and profound exhilaration, a sort of yes we’re really doing this !!!! fuck history, fuck fate, fuck the guard, fuck death and blood and dying and pain –– they’re doing this and they’re doing this together. it’s the same kind of laughter you might have when trying to pull off some impossible project or improbable hijinks with a friend, that disbelieving sort of laughter with a partner-in-crime, that are we really doing this oh my god yes we’re really doing this feeling of terror and exhilaration and profound irreversible connection with each other. except the isn’t a prank or a joke, this is revolution and this is death.

and so –– gif nine –– the shots go off at last. i think it’s really interesting that we zoom out at this point, that we don’t get to see enjolras and grantaire die in close up, that all we get is the soldiers in silhouette and the two of them in the backdrop against the wall. first of all, it highlights just how much of a firing squad they’re facing, just how much of an execution it is. so what if they’re not blindfolded and tied to posts –– they’re cornered, they’re up against a wall, and there’s a literal line of soldiers ( faceless, in shadow and in silhouette ) ready to shoot them down. and there’s really something to be said for the way the take aim and the fire bookends their laughter. they start to laugh but they never get to finish ; this smile was not ended when the report resounded. that contrast between sudden overwhelming violence and giddy youthful laughter of companionship. it highlights the tragedy of their deaths, i think –– the tragedy of all their deaths, all of les amis, everyone on this barricade, and by extension every young and hopeful soul on every barricade throughout history. they are full of hope ; they are full of laughter ; they are full of companionship and fraternity for each other ; they live with joy, and they fight with hope, and they face down death with pride –– and they die. just like that ; right there ; right then ; they die. midway through a laugh cut short like their lives themselves were –– they die. there’s something profoundly beautiful and profoundly tragic about that laughter in the midst of violence and threat and inevitable death, of that laughter that never gets to conclude.

and so, at last, in the final gif –– we never get to see their faces again. i really thought, for a moment, that we might get an enjolras upright, but i suppose that’s too mucho hope for. we still get grantaire struck at his feet, and enjolras falling onto him. i doubt it was deliberate but i’m still emotional over the fact that even in death, grantaire is still supporting and elevating enjolras, that this dynamic –– the afterthought, the and, the pylades that only ever follows orestes –– continues even to the very end.

god. i’m emotional. damn you andrew davies for making me emotional about this and write two thousand goddamn words about it. hey @wiseinlove clio i did it it only took like two hours

#⚔ penned by jenn –––– ( ooc. ) #⚔ a hand wrote on it in pencil –––– ( meta. ) #⚔ the priest –––– ( enjolras. ) #⚔ the obverse –––– ( grantaire. ) #⚔ the other side of an existence –––– ( relationship : enjolras. grantaire. ) #⚔ the audacity of a fine death –––– ( death. )