GOOD/INNOCENT.

"Between the logic of the Revolution and its philosophy there exists this difference— that its logic may end in war, whereas its philosophy can end only in peace." Independent, semi-selective Combeferre RP. Please see the 'about' page for information.

[lephilosoferre]

thinking about sneaking back to les mis rp... 

[coldasiceboldasfire]

Combeferre understood. It was his friends' lives for either his or the leader's. And modest though he was, Enjolras knew they would be nothing without a leader. Still, there had to be a way to get out of this... He looked up with wide eyes, and took a couple rather daring steps forward, bracing his hand soothingly on Enjolras' shoulder. He grasped the barrel of the gun, gently moving it away from himself. "I see. At least pause for a moment. I must be sure there's no better way before I die."

Enjolras let his eyes shut tightly, and though he flinched slightly when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he allowed the gun to be turned away and forced himself to relax. Combeferre’s calm words, however—I must be sure there is no better way before I die—made him shudder violently, and left the leader trembling weakly. Before I die. Combeferre had already accepted his death in Enjolras’ place, without question and without hesitation. A part of Enjolras screamed against this, against letting his brother die for his sake—he was their leader, and it was his responsibility to protect them, not kill them. 

A shaking hand rose to clutch tightly at Combeferre’s arm. Enjolras had to swallow several times, forcing down the lump in his throat, before he spoke. “Mon ami…. if there is another way, then please, tell me. Guide me out of this as you’ve always guided me. Please, mon ami—mon frere—I cannot bear to see you die.” 

[coldasiceboldasfire]

Combeferre swallowed nervously. Enjolras had faltered, but exactly as he'd expected, was unmoved from his decision. And Combeferre could understand. He knew Enjolras was important, more important perhaps than him, and so he should be the one of them to live. He couldn't believe that this was the way it /had/ to be. "Enjolras... tell me why, at least." He wanted to try to come up with a better solution, as he usually did when faced with unpleasant issues. Problem-solving was his strong suit.

Enjolras worried his bottom lip for a moment, debating whether or not he should tell Combeferre. On the one hand, it would undoubtedly distress Combeferre, and he hated to do so, especially when such a painful decision was still to be made. On the other hand, it would make his own burden somewhat easier to bear, and there was a chance, if extremely slim, that Combeferre would find a solution he had not foreseen—the guide had a way of thinking his way out of seemingly impossible problems. Finally, Enjorlas sighed, running his free hand through his hair and tugging roughly.

“You know well, mon ami, that we are the only barricade left, that we have no chance if we continue fighting. The National Guard presented me with an offer. They will withdraw and allow our men to go free—in exchange for one of our lives. I believe they want us alive, whichever we chose to give up—but if they get their hands on us alive…” Enjolras shuddered, unable to finish his sentence—he hardly needed to, for he saw the horrible comprehension dawn on Combeferre’s face. If we are captured alive, we will be tortured until we give information. They were both loyal, courageous, committed men—but very few, if any, were capable of holding their own against the relentless torture they would inevitably be subjected to. “I cannot allow that to happen, especially since they will only kill us in the end. Non, I will not allow it. It is better… it is better that we end it here.” 

[coldasiceboldasfire]

Combeferre could heart his heart pounding in his ears. "Enjolras... Enjolras, come now, be reasonable. Put the gun down... Enjolras, whatever is happening, surely there's a better way to work through it. No one has to die... Aurélien, hey listen to me," he begged, his voice edging on desperate. Combeferre had no idea what was happening, but he was terrified. He had no doubt in his mind that, if Enjolras was sure that someone had to die, he would pull the trigger. "Please put the gun down."

Enjolras stared at Combeferre, his eyes wide with something almost like fear—it looked strange, so strange in the normally stoic leader’s blue eyes. The guide’s pleading and desperate tone tore at his heart, making his fingers shake on the pistol, but he shook his head slowly. “No… no, mon ami, there is no other way.” He swallowed tightly, trying to force down the lump that had formed at the bottom of his throat. “There’s… only one of us can live,” he whispered, pulling the gun up to their eye level. He was torn, so terribly torn. He could not possibly kill Combeferre; beyond the simple fact that he doubted he could kill an innocent man in cold blood, Combeferre was his guide and his closest friend, his confidant and his advisor. Enjolras would be lost without this man. His hand twitched, half-turning the barrel of the pistol towards his own chest.

On the other hand… There was a decision that had to be made, and despite how painful and difficult it was, it had to be made in a calm, logical manner. There were two lives on the line here, and only one could be saved. His own pain, his own selfish desires, faded into the background. It was Patria that mattered now; he had to consider what she needed of him, rather than brooding on what he wanted. Who did the Revolution need more, its leader or its guide? The terrible answer rose to his mind, merciless in its clarity: the leader. His breaths sped up to painful degrees, his fingers shaking uncontrollably now, as Enjolras’ tormented eyes met Combeferre’s.

[hamstr]

Fraternité Chapter 7: Combeferre

[drunkcynicr]

[ Combeferre returns the kiss almost reverently, wishing to convey what he's thinking without the words. Grantaire's words are a comfort, at least. They're on the same page there. ] Non, cher, I think I have an idea. [ He gives his answer gently, as always, with a small smile and a look of compassion. In Grantaire's presence, he feels loved. He just wishes he could make Grantaire feel the same way. ]

[The cynic can feel electricity running down his body, an emotion he cannot describe filling the hole in his heart with tender kisses he isn’t familiar with. He steps back on the floor, finishing the contact between their lips, yet his hands slide down to his neck as his thumbs brush over his jawline. Six words… Six words are everything it takes to make him sigh and nod in understanding.] I’m sorry if I hurt you, it’s never my intention… But it’s the first time something —like this happens to me. [The drunkard feels ashamed, and he wishes he could give Combeferre much more than what he is. It’s a very petty thing to give; his entirety… Who would want it?]

[drunkcynicr]

[ It's not agreement, no. He hasn't convinced him... yet. There is time, as far as he's concerned; he has all the time in the world to make Grantaire see, and the idea is somewhat comforting to the painful knot in his heart. One day, he'll prove himself. Combeferre gives a small smile, clinging to this more hopeful thought, and leans down to press his lips to R's forehead gently. His voice comes out a soft whisper. ] I know.

[He can’t lie to him, there is something so pure and clear and beautiful about Combeferre that stop any kind of lie or black thought to cross his mind. Grantaire can’t make false promises to him, because that would hurt both of them, but what he says should be taken as true. Combeferre knows, and somehow it cracks the wall that protects his heart, because there is still that part of him that longs to believe in everything the guide says, to believe that there is someone actually capable of caring about his damaged and broken self. Staring into his eyes, Grantaire has to stand on his tiptoes, lightly, to cup his cheeks and kiss him with the hope of something that could be.] I don’t believe you do… I don’t think you understand how bad I care. [Oh, and he hopes he could say something more, to take the next step and say something more meaningful.]

[drunkcynicr]

[ He blushes without being able to help it. Combeferre had expected one answer, not four. He is unused to compliments as it is; to hear what Grantaire was saying now is nearly unbelievable. He smiles widely, eyes drifting to the ground before peeking back up at R. ] You're too good to me, cher.

….—And I like when you blush. [he whispers now, the smile on Combeferre’s lips contagious like no other, so he smiles back at him, taking his hand and pulling it gently to his lips to leave a kiss on his palm.] I am no good. Soon, soon enough you will see that I’m nothing like it. I don’t deserve your smiles.

[drunkcynicr]

[ Combeferre smiled, biting his lip to try to stifle it. Did he mean all of that? ] ...You think so?

[Grantaire nods, taking a deep breath before speaking again.] And it might sound ridiculous, but I also like how tall you are, how you have to lean in a bit to —to kiss me. —Ah, and how expressive your eyes are, so overwhelmingly beautiful.

[drunkcynicr]

*casually throws in a diamond thing* (mobile forgive me)

“You —humm—oddly enough, your —kindness is very, very attractive. Oh, and when you smile, I—oui, I mean, your smile is very endearing. And your lips… they intrigue me.”

[drunkcynicr]

Grantaire. [ Combeferre sits by the hospital bed for hours every day, and finds he has nothing to say. Usually, all he manages is his lover's name, which comes out more a breath than a real word. Careful of tubes, wires, and medical tape, he reaches up, brushing dark curls out of the man's eyes. ] Grantaire... I don't know what you've done this time, but... [ He swallows the lump in his throat. He's never been good with words. ] ...You must come back to me, cher. Please. I... Please.

You visit me while I’m in a coma. What do you say?

He can’t move, he can’t speak, it feels as if he can’t breathe. But he thinks and he hears and… He feels. Everytime Combeferre says his name he doesn’t feel lonely in the darkness that surrounds him. He doesn’t mind about it, since he is very used to it, but the loneliness is driving him mad. So when the guide comes, he feels at peace. Grantaire wants to come back, he really wants and he tries. The artist hears him and wants to come back to Combeferre and tell him that he’s sorry and that he won’t go anywhere. But he can’t. Trying and trying has no use. He’s never felt more helpless.

[coldasiceboldasfire]

I tried so hard. (Was I supposed to center this around my muse? bc thats how it ended up.)

You cannot move. You cannot speak. Perhaps you are immobilized, or perhaps you are not there at all. Either way, all you can do is watch. Watch as your friends, your brothers, your guide and centre, the poet and drunk and hypochondriac, the unfortunate Lesgle and the insubordinate Bahorel, even the gamin are all enslaved. 

The barricades have fallen. You know without having to hear it. They’ve fallen, failed, as a dark corner of your enlightened mind always knew it could. You’ve shoved that thought away for so long. C'est impossible, you always say, although you know it is not. You reason that the people will rise to the call, stand up for themselves. They should, shouldn’t they? How can they expect to be free, if they don’t stand up themselves? The people are like one sound mind, and when the time comes, they should do what is right… but, it seems now they have not. And as the people have chained themselves to the monarchy, anyone else is persecuted. 

The prison surrounding you is horrific, to say the least. It looks more like a dungeon from an old story, unkept, dark, and dank. The air is thick, and smells of rust and blood. You inhale it, taste it, but you cannot protest it. Between heavy stone walls are four cells, where your men are kept in pairs. They’re all beat up, bruised and chained, their shirts bloodied and torn (it doesn’t occur to you that they wouldn’t be wearing civilian clothes in prison, as details hardly matter in dreams). Courfeyrac sits in one with his head in his hands. In another, Joly paces sharply. Gavroche has found himself a corner, and to your horror, he is quivering, small whimpers escaping his throat. 

A dull shouting is coming from behind you. It seems to have been going on forever, but you don’t fully comprehend it until now. Someone’s being hurt. It must be one of yours, you’re sure of it… Quickly, you look among the four cells, counting. Who’s missing? 

As the screams die down, you realize. And your heart sinks. 

The clink of chains becomes audible from just around the corner. At this, the silence breaks to low murmurs, and the prisoners hover near the front of their cells. There is a shuffling noise coming near you, but like the men restricted by chains and iron bars, it seems there is nothing you can do. With bated breath, your heart pounding heavily and your stomach twisting into terrible knots, you wait for the figures behind you to emerge from the shadows. 

There are three of them. Two are guards, decorated officers, who even in this deplorable place seem unfazed. The third is limp, being dragged by the first two. His cries have ceased, and now he is silent. Dead? No. His chest rises and falls shallowly, and his his weakened, bloody hands tremble. Your eyes quickly scan over the wounds, horror and some other emotion— anger, perhaps? —sharpening your senses. You become acutely aware of every bruise on the pale skin, of the red welts on his arms and back, the gashes on his torso, and the blood from his broken nose and the crack in his skull, by the hairline… There are small shards of glass embedded in his face, from what? His glasses? You realize they're gone; either they’ve been taken from him, or smashed and rendered useless. 

Combeferre’s nearly dead, and you’re not sure whether you’re more enraged or terrified. 

You expect them to throw him back into his cell after this beating, but they did not. Instead, they toss him unceremoniously on the dirt ground. Combeferre drops to his hands and knees with a small groan of pain, head hanging. His limbs are shaking, and it looks to you like he’s a minute or so from collapsing. Bahorel begins to say something, probably a livid remark that will get him in even more trouble; he’s cut off by the sight of a gun pointed at the guide’s neck. 

One of the guards is aiming at Combeferre, eyes steady, finger set on the trigger. He must know, but the guide doesn’t try to run. Silence, even more fearful than before, takes over again, save for your heartbeat, much too fast in your ear. Your first instinct is to move, to put yourself between the musket and your friend, but you can’t. You can’t move, you can’t scream. You can’t stop what’s going to happen. You’re useless.

And since the barricade fell, isn’t this your fault?

The other one, the officer not about to kill your brother, looks about the four cells with disdain. “I am going to ask each of you one final time.” His voice is dark even, full of a hatred that is, to you, entirely unjustified. What have these men done, but try to give the people their freedom? Is that really so loathsome? “And until I get an answer, you will all die, one by one. Starting with you.” He kicks Combeferre, who groans again, nearly losing his balance. 

“Now, I implore you. Where is your leader?" 

[coldasiceboldasfire]

((Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck do not cry Jenn do not cry do not cry… *sob*))

The tension in the silence is palpable. Wide, horrified, terrified eyes flit around the darkness, seeking comfort in someone else’s eyes–comfort that is not there.

How long has it been since they got here? Does it matter? It’s been more than long enough, judging by the extent of bruising, of cuts and scars and welts that cover each body, by the gauntness of each achingly familiar face, by the horror and fear and exhaustion that lines each expression. However long that was, they’ve lasted–and despite the tortures they have faced, despite the cruelty and pain and abuse, nobody has betrayed him yet. There is a moment when his heart swells in pride–but it crashes down almost immediately. If they haven’t given him up yet… then they will not do it now. Combeferre will die. Courfeyrac will die. Little Gavroche will die. They will all die, protecting him. 

The gun cocks. The finger on the trigger twitches. Combeferre lets out a shallow, pained breath. No. No. No no no no no no no no no. "Wait! No, stop! Take me, kill me, do what you will–I am the one you want. I am the leader. Only.. only let him go. Let him live.” But there is no sound that leaves his lips. His voice his gone, he cannot make a sound. The guard looks around once, sighs in something that seems grossly akin to annoyance, then presses his finger into the trigger. The world becomes a mass of red sparks. 

Enjolras wakes with a scream in his throat. The sound is grating, even on his own ears, but he cannot stop for long moments. Only when his breath runs out does the sound finally die out. He takes in a gasping breath that doesn’t reach anywhere near his lungs. His heart struggles wildly in his chest, as if to break free of his body. There are tear tracks on his cheeks–even now, fresh tears are spilling over wide blue eyes. There is a constant, soundless whisper of “I’m sorry” falling from his lips. 

It takes at least an hour for him to return to any semblance of the marble he usually is. And if he is more affectionate, more physical than usual–perhaps he needs the reminder that his friends are here, alive and healthy and well, by his side. It isn’t like anyone is complaining about the rare product that is Enjolras affectionate.

[drunkcynicr]

((I stared blankly at your askbox for too long. Have some rambling.)): The fact of the matter is that Combeferre doesn't see any certain way to always calm Grantaire down. It depends. Sometimes, he can just listen to the cynic rant, and hope that helps. Other times, he eases his fury with gentle touches and soft kisses to soothe him. Combeferre can spend hours brushing his fingers through R's hair and pressing small kisses to his jaw. Then, the anger is sometimes forgotten.

It works. It always works. Combeferre doesn’t exactly know it, but when he brushes lithe fingers through his hair, he calms down. And that’s when Grantaire is very angry. Honestly, the simple presence of Combeferre has a relaxing effect on the libertine. 

[coldasiceboldasfire]

flaws: Combeferre would also like to add that Enjolras doesn't get enough sleep, and to please remember to eat today.

I’ve yet to collapse of exhaustion, oui? [ Lies. He’s passed out at his desk more often than he can count. ] Therefore I am getting all the sleep I need. As for food–again, I do believe I eat enough to prevent malnutrition, and that is all I require. I appreciate the concern, mon ami, but I assure you it is unnecessary. [ Stupid stubborn idiot. ]

[cosette-l-alouette-oldblog]

I want the k ((Is it too late or))

18: Underwater Kiss

((NEVER TOO LATE FOR KISSES also I tried to make it make sense bear my sappiness maybe I ship it I don’t know))

She thinks she might like him.

There’s something about him - about his quiet presence, his calm strenght - it makes her sigh and daydream, and she’s not the type to fight this sort of thing. 

There’s some party Courf dragged them to - everyone rolled their eyes but went anyway. After all, it’s got a pool, and Cosette never says no to swimming. 

It’s getting late - she’s not sure how Combeferre finds himself in the pool by the light of the evening. Probably lost a bet to Courfeyrac - she’s sure he would rather be curled up somewhere, talking quietly by the fire. She smiles at the idea.

He is quite adorable.

She splashes him, and he rolls his eyes gently at her. To avoid her, he ducks underneath the surface, and Cosette takes the opportunity. She’s never been shy or easily scared.

You never know if you never try.

She disappears beneath the water - she opens her eyes and tugs on his arms. He turns to look at her - there’s a questioning look in his eyes as she moves closer to him. Bringing a hand to the side of his face, she presses a kiss to his lips - she pulls back quickly to stare into his stunned eyes. 

And then, she smiles - and swims away, reappearing at the surface, running a hand through her hair - the kiss can stay hidden under the water, if he wants it to. 

She stronly hopes he doesn’t. 

[coldasiceboldasfire]

fighting against the ropes and chains that won't give. In his heart, he has a feeling that Enjolras won't want him to do this, but he doesn't care. Between his respect and his life... if Enjolras thinks him weak after this, he won't mind. At least he'd be around do to so. "Stop. I'll talk. I'll tell you anything you want to know, I... just let him go, for the love of God. Please." (3/3)

Pain.

That’s all he knows now.

There is a brief break in the merciless barrage of torment, enough for Enjolras to regain his bearings. Enough for him to remember the initial, brutal attack near his flat, and then waking up restrained tightly, unable to struggle. Enough for him to meet Combeferre’s eyes, to see the tears there, to know he is struggling even when it is futile.

He doesn’t get a chance to remember of notice any more before agony wipes out all thought from his mind. He thinks he screams. He’s lost track of all the ways he’s been tortured now; countless beatings from hard leather boots and belts and hands and feet, cuts and stab wounds from several knives, throbbing burns from a red-hot poker. He does not even recall what the assailant wants from them anymore.

All he knows is the pain.

But this time, when it ends, Combeferre is begging. Enjolras wants to argue, wants to tell him that he can take this, wants to tell him not to do anything rash for his sake; but his throat is raw from screaming, his body aches and throbs, his brain is paralyzed by a mixture of pain and fear, and he cannot form words. He can only look at his dearest friend with pleading eyes.

[drunkcynicr]

"Sixteen? You moved here young..." He didn't know very much about Grantaire's childhood, only that he and his father weren't on good terms. He always assumed he wouldn't want to talk about it... but he was curious. Combeferre was interested in anything involving his lover. "I don't think I'll be trying boxing anytime soon, myself. And I don't hate it." The guide's smile broadened, and is cheeks flushed red. He glowed. "But I think... I think you might be right about the last bit."

“Not quite… I think, uh, I think it was the right moment to do so,” Grantaire nodded softly, a shadow of the thoughts that passed his mind, memories of the reasons that pushed him to escape present there, in that moment. He shrugged and smiled lightly at his lover. “Oh, you do. You don’t have to deny it. I don’t see you doing it anyway…" Combeferre was the pacific kind, it was more likely to see him reading than boxing. Reaching to touch his cheek, Grantaire smiled warmly at the guide, fingers brushing against his skin. “I want to be right about it. I feel like I’m right, something that doesn’t happen very often.“