No matter how hard Thexan tried to dodge the rumour mill on campus, he still heard more than he wanted (mostly courtesy of Arcann, who seemed to have an ear to the ground at all times. The struggles of having a twin in the arts programs.). Still, some of it was interesting to listen to and quietly judge.
And some of it, he had a front row seat to – especially where his and Arcann's neighbours were concerned. Theron and Jonas seemed to have known each other since high school, and somehow hadn't killed each other yet. Although with how many girls Jonas kept bringing back to their room, kicking Theron out in the process, Thexan suspected there was going to be a murder before the Christmas break.
"No way," Arcann refuted Thexan's theory with a little smirk. "It gives Theron an excuse to go hang out in Xaja's room."
And that was the other bit of drama that Thexan could watch every day. How could Xaja not realize that Theron, obvious idiot that he was, had eyes for the petite redhead from the sociology program?
"For that matter," Thexan pointed out as he looked up from his textbook on Middle Eastern diplomacy, "how does that nerd not realize Xaja's got a crush on him? It's so obvious!"
"You are in no place to call anyone a nerd, Mister Political Science Major," Arcann retorted, not looking up from his own book on Michaelangelo. "But I agree. They're idiots."
"They're good for each other," Thexan said, after flipping his brother off. "And I think they know it. Subconsciously, anyway."
Arcann glanced up. "What, are you double-majoring in psychology now?"
Thexan rolled his eyes, then looked up with a little frown at a muffled, frustrated-sounding exclamation from the dormitory hallway. "Ahh, sounds like Theron's getting kicked out again."
"Really?" Arcann set his book down, then got up and moved over to the door.
"Arcann! You're not twelve, dammit!" Thexan hissed as his twin started to crack the door open.
"Shh!" Arcann hissed, peeking out of the door. "Yep, that's Theron," he whispered back to Thexan. "And… yep, there he goes, knocking on Xaja's door."
"Is this part of Jonas' evil plan to wingman for Theron?" Thexan asked, curious despite himself. "Make him spend time with a pretty girl he caught feelings for?"
Arcann snorted. "Okay, door's opening – and yep, Xaja's home. And… there we go, they're talking, Xaja's laughing, and–" He suddenly jerked back, eyes wide. "... Oops."
"Did they catch you?" Thexan asked with a grin.
".... Maybe."
A muffled "Fuck you too, Arcann!" came through the door, in Theron's definitely-annoyed voice.
Arcann poked his head back out the door. "Buy me a drink first!" he called back. Through the wall, Thexan swore he heard a muffled laugh from Torian in the next room over.
Theron muttered something unintelligible, but probably rude, at Arcann, then there was the sound of a door clicking. Arcann stepped back into his own room, grinning. "Well, they're still together, and I'm pretty sure Kira is off at the gym, so…"
"You'd make a terrible spy," Thexan pointed out. "And you do make an awful wingman. 'Buy me a drink first'?"
Arcann paused. "... I probably should have said something about how Xaja probably would have objected," he slowly said. "... But then she probably would have murdered me, while blushing like an emergency light. The short ones like her are always the scary ones."
"Chicken," Thexan said with a grin.
"Asshole," Arcann muttered. "Maybe this'll be the day Theron finally asks her out?"
Thexan snorted. "And maybe Jonas will decide to become a monk. Maybe you should switch to journalism and put all your theories in the school paper."
"Nah, Lana's already doing that." Arcann grinned and sat back down, pulling his textbook into his lap again. "Your politics classes not giving you any ideas for how to wingman two idiots?"
"If they did, I would have used them already." Thexan tilted his head in thought. "But maybe I'll read ahead in the syllabus and see if anything can be applied to this…"
"Yeah, you're a bigger nerd than the computer geek we're trying to set up."
Augustine checked himself over in the mirror for the upteenth time. He somehow found more wrinkles to smooth out on his button-down. His theatrics brought a smile to Max’s lips as she watched him from the arm chair.
“Going on a date?” she drawled, sinking further into the overstuffed recliner.
A chuff passed from her brother’s lips as he tossed her an incredulous side-glance. “No,” he replied, teasing his unruly curls into submission, “I'm not.”
Max perked a skeptical brow. She found that hard to believe, especially after the display the courier made when presenting Auggie his ‘missive’. The man came up with a jingle and everything. Her brother’s face was beet red when he closed the door, a sealed envelop clutched to his chest. Suspicious to say the least. Moreover was how aloof he was being about it all. All of Max’s inquiries were blown off or straight up ignored. She figured the boy needed some space, but seeing him dress in something other than a sweater sparked her curiosity.
The beginnings of a sly remark started on her lips when she caught whiff of amber musk and orange blossoms. Her brows dropped in a deep furrow.
“Are you using my scented oil?”
Augustine bristled and flashed Max an apologetic grin. “Maybe...”
Max bolted upright. “You little shit! What’ve I told you about digging through my stuff with-”
“I need it!” he interjected with a helpless shrug.
“So.. It is a date?”
Augustine threw up his hands with a frustrated squeal. “No! It’s not a date!” He steepled his fingers to his lips and took a stilling breath. “If you must know,” he said, “It’s a business meeting.”
All of Max’s anger vanished in that instant. She tried to suppress the wave of laughter bubbling in her chest by covering her growing smile behind her hand. A snort escaped.
So @dooblebugs really inspired this fic with their amazing HC about Brokey hating Hollow and the idea spiraled into a fan fic. I'm always so nervous to post the stuff I write but enjoy!
Broken bonds
Ghost stumbled down to the ancient basin a delicate flower in hand as they carefully descended through the decaying lands. The small vessel walked through the darkened hallways until the silent song of void whispers hit their ears. They move to a room filled with spikes and a bench. The young vessel sighs and sits down to softly stroke the fragile pale petals on the flower as their empty eyes drifted across the spiked filled cavern. Standing up and locking their position until powerful glowing crystals pulse around their feet. With a sudden blast Ghost flies forward as the Crystal's behind them shatter like weak glass. They blast across the spikey sea holding the flower close to their chest. The moment the sight of the opposing spike wall ready to ruin their joyride they pull to a stop. Their feet skid across the shadowy stone stopping right before the spiked wall claimed them and their precious flower. Ghost takes a few shakey steps back before jumping over the wall and going down the long hallway. Their pace slows as they enter a lighter room with a fallen sibling's corpse lay. They bow softly before placing the flower by their head. They reach into their cloak and pull out Joni's Blessing softly placing it on the collar of their cloak. Ghost sits down and reaches to hold their broken siblings hand.They had the small idea to try and bring the charm to their sibling after Lemm deciphered a wonder's journal talking about the uses of lifeblood. They sit there in silence praying the charm would work. Slowly the Broken vessel's hand softly closes around Ghosts. Sharp, bright, blue, eye lights weakly flash in Brokey's eyes as the world forms around them. They slowly look up to see the little vessel that freed them from the infection. Broken tries to get up only to fall onto of Ghost making the younger sibling rush to hold them up. "Sibling awake? Charm work! Charm work!" The younger says happily in their shared birth language. Whispers as quiet as the shadows themself those only born or trained to hear. Broken shakes their head softly and close their eyes. Lifeblood starting to pool into the crack from the powerful charm. Ghost lightly taps Brokey's shoulder and points to leave the room. "Sibling leave. Go home to Dirtmouth. Happy. Free." The younger says tugging at their arm. Brokey looks around the room nodding, picking up the flower and following the little vessel repeating one word. "Free."
The two traveled up out of the ancient basin ghost helping boost the taller up the ledges so they could climb out. Until they could get to the city and take the large elevator to Dirtmouth. Brokey looked around softly still holding Ghost's hand. Ghost lead them up the dusty crossroads until the crisp evening air flowing through the well brushed against their faces. Ghost pointed to the chain letting Brokey climb first before ascending right behind them. The two vessels pop their heads out of the well and climb up. Ghost jumps out and holds their hand for broken to take. Brokey softly takes it with Ghost practically dragging them towards a large house. Brokey looks up at the house with a supprised look. Their tiny sibling lives here? This place is huge and lime nothing Brokey had ever seen in their life. Ghost lets go of their hand to open the door and go in. Brokey slowly follows behind slowly looking all around taking in the beauty of the building. Ghost runs over to Brokey tapping their arm and pointing to the head poking around the corner. The broken sibling freezes as anger pools into their shell. It was them. Their fathers 'chosen one'. They give a loud agressive void screech before jumping at Hollow. The elder sibling stumbles back to avoid the swipe of sharp claws aimed for their cracked mask. Ghost tugs on Brokey's cloak trying to get them to stop. "You!" Brokey growls in their void tongue. They should've been loved by their father! They should have been looked upon with pride! They should've been the one to feel a fatherly pat on the head. A hug and comforting voice telling them how important they are! Why did hollow get it all!? They shove Ghost off making the small vessel slam into a wall painfully. Hollow steps forward glaring at the teen for hurting the youngest. Brokey lunges at hollow again scratching their face before Hollow's large claws slammed into their side flinging them across the room. The lare bubble of lifeblood shrinking slightly as they were hit. Brokey hisses again and Hollow Gives a screech akin to a distorted version of the Radiance's screech. Brokey stumbles back holding their head before Hollow huffed and went over to the younger crying vessel. Brokey glares before the sight of Ghost's void teared filled face made their aggression die trying to get closer before a low warning growl from Hollow made them freeze. They look down at the lifeblood and petals from the delicate flower Ghost gave them. The 'Pure' one took something form them again. They turn and hiss back taking another step closer. "You. Hurt sibling. Attack me no reason. You hurt youngest." The large vessel hisses to the teen making Brokey shake their head splashing life blood off the bubble. "You're fault! You love! me abandoned! Never deserved fathers love! Should've been me!" Brokey screams as black and blue mixed tears come to their eyes. "Sibling I-" "You not my sibling thief!" Brokey Growls before running out of the house Ghost jumping up to follow. Hollow holds them back with Ghost's reassurance that they will be ok. Hollow nodded and sulked to the living room couch. How many other siblings hated and thought they were a thief of their fathers love?
Ghost ran out of the house following the drops of lifeblood and void falling from their sibling. They follow the trail to the city where they find broken breathing heavily and leaning no the bench in the stag station. The bubble barely below the crack in their mask and more still dripping out. Ghost walks forward only for Brokey to shake their head more life blood sloshing out. "Sibling leave. Hurt you. You cry." Brokey says looking down. "Brokey didn't mean to hurt Ghost. Ghost scared when attack Hollow. Why?" The youngest asks softly tilting their head. "They got loved. You, me, others not." They say sadly. They clench their fists and shake their head again making more lifeblood fall out. Ghost runs up and hugs them making broken freeze. They slowly hug Ghost back before falling onto their knees. The puddle of lifeblood in their head slipping dangerously low. Ghost shakes their hand and runs to the lower station throwing out their map to look at something. Brokey's head spins as their body stars to go numb. The world starts to fuzz and fade as the last drops of lifeblood fade from their mask. Brokey crashes down with an empty mask and the world fades to black as Ghost panics.
The world comes into view fuzzy and cold. Their head hurts and their body aches. Ghost is shaking their chest and shoulder above the vessel a broken cocoon lays with bright blue butterflies. Ghost explains how the charm they had didn't work and so they had to stay by the cacoon that naturally produces lifeblood. Brokey lays there for a while before hugging Ghost close and the younger returning the hug. "Sorry. I hurt Ghost." Brokey mumbles looking at the smaller. "Ghost forgive you." The two siblings stayed there until Ghost had to go home. But not before leading their sibling to Bardoon so both their siblings and the caterpillar weren't alone. Brokey sighed as they curled up under the lifeblood vines falling into a soft sleep waiting for Ghost to return.
In only seven days (or the life and times of a sullen convenience store employee) - part 2
Fandom : les Misérables
Modern AU, mainly Montparnasse x Jehan Prouvaire, 7453 words
Poor Montparnasse is still stuck at his job at the convenience store, and people are still coming in, weirder and weirder. But not everyone is out to upset him, and he may even get some customers he might enjoy.
Dedicated to @kujaku-myoo, @jesvisfarovche and @aux-barricades
Part 1 here.
Also on AO3 !
-
On Thursday, Montparnasse is surprised to wake up minutes before his alarm. He grabs the mirror always faithfully put on the box that serves as his night-stand, checks his face under every angle. Not a blemish, not a hint of a red mark. His skin is tight and as fair as ever, his eyes perfect, without the slightest red marring the white. He was expecting a bad night, what with that strange fever yesterday, and to wake up tired, disoriented, or worse, with a sore. Which would have make him call in sick, and then trouble would have been knocking at his door. Or Javert. Same thing.
This time, he takes all the time he needs to go through his beauty regimen, first for his skin, then for his hair, styling it properly. He ponders on the use of a little make-up, but that shop is not worth him putting his best. Mussed-up hair will do. A trip in the kitchen brings him only a slightly hit apple. Not very good. He takes it anyway. He'll have to grab some snack from the shop later. The owner will berate him for that, but he'll just have to bat his eyelashes at him to get him off his back. Montparnasse shrugs his jacket on, ignoring the shivers running up his back at this thought, and out the door he goes.
He walks through the streets leading to the shop, his shoulder hunched up a little to block the wind sweeping through the streets even as the sun is still shining on him. It's cold, fall is not that far away. He'll need a new coat sooner or later, something warm and solid that will last him a year or two. He glances at the students around him, eyeing their clothes up and down, but none of their pricey coats catches his eye. Some of them may feel warm, but they are horrible, badly cut, in horrid colours. Overpriced hipster rags.
Thinking of crappy rags brings the image of the person from yesterday to his mind, and he almost stops. Why is he now thinking about that hippie reject ? Probably that style. Those shirts were so awful they probably burnt his retinae, and he'll see them everywhere he goes, an awful plaid pattern overlapping everything he sees. He shudders. What a cruel twist of fate that would be. To only be able to see everything in plaid. Tartan. Tartan everywhere. He'd rather be strangled to death with a scarf made of synthetic yarn rather than live in a world of gaudy stripes. Well he'll just have to close his eyes next time Flowerchild comes in the shop, and he'll be find. If they do. Which they will probably. Not that it is of any interest for him, of course.
The daytime clerk looks at him funnily when he comes in, but he doesn't spare her a glance, just goes to take his place behind the counter. He ponders for a moment if it's worth ruining his hair with his cap. But he needs to be on his best behaviour, and it means wearing that horrid thing. He puts it as slowly as possible, trying to keep his hair in place. He'll need to check in a cooler door later if it's not too mussed, but he's sure it's still better than those last days. Anything would. So he puts on his most polite - well, his less aggressive - attitude, and waits.
And waits. And waits more. But the doorbell rests silent, as does the rest of the shop. It's... eerie. The neon lights flicker to life, instantly banishing every shadow, bathing everything in a crude, blueish light. Perfect, now I'm a horror movie, Montparnasse snickers. Still better than a teen flick. He wants to look as unimpressed as he can, but the stillness everywhere around him is starting to run on his nerves. It weights on him, and he suddenly feels very lonely and not that strong. The reds of a nearby pyramid of cans is assaulting his eyes, way too bright and cheerful. Almost looking like.... Don’t think like that. Nope. It's not blood, it's a fucking ton of coke, and you're not in a horror movie. Now stop being an idiot.
The scolding doesn't do much for his mood, but fortunately, the doorbell breaks the quiet around him, chiming happily when the door opens, letting a bit of the outside buzz, reminding him that he's not alone in the world. A whirlwind of colours crosses the door, and Montparnasse's heart gives a small tug. He ignores it ; there's no reason to be affected by the person (boy ? man ?) who just came in. Nothing interesting to see in a bundle of energy zooming between the shelves. Montparnasse walks back to the counter, as leisurly as possible.
The other is back two minutes later, with an armful of sugary snacks he dumps on the counter. If he was the least worried for him, Montparnasse would advice to cut on the sugar, maybe it would help with the bouncing ; even as he's just standing in front of him, the man - because despite the small stature and wild curls, it's a man, around his age - is almost jumping up and down. He's babbling, too, Montparnasse doesn't know if he's talking to him or just vocalizing his thoughts, but he doesn't care beside a very dire need for him to shut up. Why would he care about the person he's buying a snack for and who, if Montparnasse is following, is too precious a person to let them wait and can't eat some lower-quality chips, and certainly not those soggy peanut-flavoured thingies and blah blah blah. He needs to tune him out, or he'll probably strangle him with his bowtie. Yes, because he's wearing a bowtie. Montparnasse has to applaude his courage, because he didn't think people between five and seventy-five years old still wore bowties outside of the circus. He should introduce him to the other dude with his sweater vest, they'd look amazing together... except that not, they'd look awful. Awful-er. Not that Montparnasse cares, of course, he just wants that nuisance in a pink polo shirt out of his shop.
Finally, finally, the pink babbling nuisance is gone with his sugary poison, and Montparnasse can go back to his... well, nothing, since he needs to wait for the next customer, and he really, really doesn't want to go musing in the aisles about how everything looks awful under those lights and a setting for a horror movie and... No. Better go back to fix his hair or try to commit suicide with a Mars bar wrapper. Anything to help doing his time faster.
He's munching on his second chocolate bar of the evening, trying not to think too much about the telltale effect of chocolate on one's skin, when the door opens again, causing another little hitch of his breath. Because he's surprised by the violence it opens with, hitting the stand behind it, and the small tornado that dashes inside and out of his sight in an instant. Great, another weirdo. He really missed them. That one sounds familiar, though. And he thinks "sounds" because, like the one before him, he's babbling. This, and a glimpse on the anti-theft mirror above the shelf shows him a very, very colourful scarf. Very long. Cool. So Bandage Guy is back with a vengeance.
And with the whole stock of rubbing alcohol, more bandages, an elastic one for sprained ankles, and at least a dozen bottles of sanitizer. Montparnasse must make a very surprised -or stupid - face, because the guy stops his muttering to give him what could be an endearing smile if Montparnasse did have an iota of interest in anyone here.
- My friends tend to get hurt easily, he explains.
What do you have to answer to that kind of things ? Montparnasse just shrugs, and hopes the guy is not launching in a tirade. He doesn't, just piles his stuff in the messenger bag that seems bottomless. He smiles again, waves goodbye and leaves in a whirlwind of multicolour yarn. Montparnasse just stares after him. What was that ? Why is that guy so cheerful and nice ? He almost sounds like he likes Montparnasse. Weirdo. But not really in a bad way. Not that much.
People come and go, after that, and Montparnasse is kept busy enough that he doesn't have too much time to reflect on his looks, the atmosphere of the shop, or people's clothes. Who is he trying to kid, he always has time to judge people's clothes. It doesn't ask for much concentration, and it's always really fun to do. Especially since the shop is located in what could be the most hipstery place in town, with all those students around, and the bars and shops and everything else that forms their natural habitat. Perfect breeding ground for hipsters. And thus, for some really awful outfits. But none to the level of combining several plaid patterns. Not to mention the denim overalls, the army boots, and the... whole of them. Luckily, none of his patrons offends him with their clothes as Flowerchild did with that outfit. Thank God for small miracles. But each time the doorbell chimes, his heart gives a little off-rhythm beat, and his annoyance level shots up. When will he be in peace ? Probably never.
It's a little past eleven, and the shop is a little less populated now. Montparnasse enjoys a bit of rest on his cellphone, when a flash of orange catch the corner of his eye. Immediately, he gets up and turns around. But his
(hopes drop)
mood changes slightly when he notices that the hair is short, in curls, and very orange instead of coppery, and if the person is wearing plaid, at least it's only one. Okay, it's purple, and clashing a lot with the hair. But far from the train-wreck that was Flowerchild. He's smaller, too, but he's always been smaller, for as long as Montparnasse has known him.
He doesn't move from his spot against the wall of cigarettes, but he gives him his trademark lazy grin, the first genuine smile he's given all week.
- Hello, Alexandre.
- Do not call me Alexandre, Feuilly answers automatically, but there's a hint of a smile lost in all those freckles.
- So, what does bring my baby brother in this den of... whatever ?
- Do I have to remind you again that I'm older than you ?
- Whatever. You'll still be my baby brother.
Feuilly rolls his eyes, but Montparnasse wants to think there's a fondness here. Well hidden, of course.
- So ? he asks. What can I serve my baby brother ?
- Gimme a pack of smokes and cut the "baby brother" crap.
Montparnasse turns to grab a pack. He's kinda amazed to remember which ones Feuilly prefers, it's been a while since they've spent time together.
- Here, he says, putting them in front of him.
Feuilly grabs them with the hast of the thirsty man suddenly being offered a glass of water. He rips the cellophane away, then seems to remember that he's still in a shop and can't just light inside. Sighing, he puts the packs in his shirt pocket. Montparnasse watches him, amused.
- These things can stunt your growth, you know ?
- Fuck you, comes the automatic answer, assorted with a raised middle finger.
- And, Montparnasse asks as he cashes the cigarettes in, how is life treating you ?
Because fuck it, Feuilly might be the only person outside of Patron-Minette he feels like making small talk with.
- As usual. Lots of work, homework, lessons, you know the drill.
He shrugs, as if Montparnasse can't see the rings under his eyes. Feuilly has always been very ambitious, driven by his will to get better, to make himself a better place, by his work and efforts, while Montparnasse has always cruised by and opted for a life of leisure. He's tempted to diss Feuilly's efforts, tell him that he's killing himself and shouldn't work so hard when you can earn a living by just a flick of a knife. But he doesn't, because he does respect Feuilly, if not his choices, and he doesn't want to hurt his feelings. Also, Feuilly probably knows that he's working too hard and is exhausted, better than Montparnasse. So he just nods.
- Working where ?
- Library, mostly. The coffee shop beside the library, too. And a few shifts here and there.
- Got any free time, with all that ?
- I make do.
- How is the art going ?
Feuilly looks pleased that he did remember, a bit puzzled too. Montparnasse pointedly looks at the ink-stained fingers. They chat about art for a few minutes, and Feuilly even gives him his Instagram to see what he makes, before the need of nicotine becomes too strong to resist. As he's turning to leave, Montparnasse notices the bright red pin on his bag. In white is written "les Amis de l'ABC". It rings a bell somewhere in Montparnasse's mind. Maybe he's heard the name somewhere, or seen it, or...
It finally hits him : it's that stupid little clique of students that likes to cause mayhem in the town center, block everything with their protests and wave those stupid signs. He's seen them around once or twice, a bunch of students with way too much time in their hands, protesting this or that. They are led by a not-bad-looking blond who's always furious at the world. Montparnasse's opinion is that they just like to make life difficult for anyone and get arrested. He couldn't give two shits about them, but maybe.... He can try.
- Say, he starts in the most offhand tone he can find, still hanging around those students ?
Feuilly looks at him like he's searching on his face the reason of this question.
- Yeah, he finally answers.
Montparnasse starts arranging the sweets beside the register, in the most casual way.
- Saw one of your friends, earlier that week.
- You're gonna need to be more precise.
Feuilly's tone is suspicious, now.
- Let's see. Tall, ginger, braid, dressed in the dark...
- Gingerbread, uh ?
He's smiling when Montparnasse glares at him.
- I know him, yes.
And he doesn't have anything. Fuck, he's going to play hard to get. Well, to talk. And Montparnasse doesn't know how to get the information out of him. He already got that the person in the gaudy shirts is a man, but he can get more.
- Kind of a hippie, really. Who still wears overalls ?
Feuilly just looks at him, and Montparnasse has the uncomfortable impression that he's reading through him like one of his favourite books.
- How about you cut the crap and tell me what you really want ?
Montpanrasse abandons his sweets to face him.
- You know what I want.
- Maybe I just want you to tell me.
- And maybe I don't want to tell.
- Then maybe I don't want to disclose personal informations about my friend.
They glare at each other for a few moments. Montparnasse doesn't even know what to say. They dress funnily ? I want to know where the last shop aimed at clowns is in this town ? I need to know their name to curse them with better fashion sense ? Not that it's a curse, but for them it'll probably be. No, that doesn't make any sense. He doesn't really know why he wants to learn the name of Flowerchild. But there's something in him that jumped at the occasion and asked, before he could acknowledge it and bury it in the depths of his mind. And now Feuilly is thinking things he's not supposed to think, he's having ideas about him, and Montparnasse doesn't like it. Feuilly is going to think he cares, he has an interest in someone, and he really doesn't. Not at all.
He's ready to jump on Feuilly to poke him in the ribs or some equally cruel punishment, when the door opens again. He doesn't look right away, because he doesn't want to give Feuilly the satisfaction of averting his eyes. But there's a new flash of orange, or rather, copper. Copper hair in long curls. Copper hair he's thought about a lot. Today, it's gathered in a bun, held in place with some kind of very fine net, the small flowers caught under the silvery strings. It's a relief not to see the dreadful assemblage of plaid, but they replaced it with a heavy cardigan in a very bright peach colour. Judging by how long the sleeves are, and how lopsided some parts are, they probably knitted it themselves. There's still some denim, in the form of cut-off barely reaching their thighs, leaving way to expanses of liberty pattern. Lots and lots of liberty patterns, spreading above on a shirt two sizes too large for them, and below on long, leggings-encased legs diving right into those army boots. They walk to the counter, politely greets Montparnasse, then start chatting with Feuilly, leaving him all the time in the world to look at them and wonder why his heart rate is suddenly twice what it was before.
From up close and when he's not busy counting money and keeping control of his hair, his face and his speech, they look even more like some kind of badly-dressed fairy. The curls hanging around their face turn the ugly light into strands of gold. The freckles climb on their high cheekbones, gather on their forehead, and stumble down their upturned nose, because of course they do have an upturned nose. A touch of purple eyeshadow brings out their eyes in a way that's totally not interesting at all. With their shiny hair strewn with silver, and their long fingers waving around as they talk, they look like a fairy who'd lost their way and found shelter here, between the colorful candies and the drain cleaner.
Finally, after ten minutes of a chat that Montparnasse didn't hear, they hug Feuilly goodbye, wave at Montparnasse, and away they go. Montparnasse almost expects to see them float above the floor, but no, they walk in that fairy bouncing pace of them. He knows he must be gaping, and Feuilly is looking at him again, and he must look like some kind of very stupid goldfish, but he just can't find the will to pick his jaw up and get his countenance back. In a few seconds, certainly.
Feuilly's voice finally cuts him out of his reverie.
- He really has an effect on you.
Montparnasse wants to retort something smart, but he's still under the spell, and all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled noise. Feuilly studies him for a bit longer ; just as Montparnasse comes back to his senses, he gathers his stuff, flings his bag on his shoulder.
- Don't worry, he says with a grin that's not entirely sarcastic, Prouvaire has this effect on everyone.
And with that and a salute, he's gone, leaving behind a smell of paint and cigarette, and a confused Montparnasse. Prouvaire. So the fairy is named Prouvaire. Probably a family name, since Feuilly always uses them and even insists that Montparnasse does the same. Then again, hippie child could have hippie parents, who would totally be able to call their baby "Prouvaire" or some other weird flowery name. Not that he knows of any flower named Prouvaire. Except one whispers a snide voice that sounds a little bit like Eponine, but he does a very good job of squashing it.
The rest of the night is a daze. People come and go, things move, Montparnasse presses buttons and sorts coins, but he couldn't for the life of him recount anything. He must have done things right, because no one is yelling at him, or running after him when he leaves. He has better things to think about anyway. So the fairy is apparently a fairy boy, his name is Prouvaire, and he has a very cute smile and a very horrid fashion sense. Montparnasse still tries to think he doesn't care, but he can't even convince himself. Fairy Boy has him under his spell, and he can't believe it. He has a crush. He. has. a crush. on some kind of fairy boy. who can't even dress himself. He doesn't want to admit it, he can't admit it. It's not possible. How can he ? They didn't even exchange more than two sentences ! And he doesn't believe in that "love at first sight" bullshit, because the world doesn't work like that. Maybe for other people, it does, especially when faced with someone as beautiful as Montparnasse, of course. But that's because he's dashing. But that Prouvaire... Well he's cute, there's no need to deny it. And he looks quite nice, friendly, even. And the eyes.... Okay, he does have a crush.
And he's totally lost. What's one supposed to do with a crush ? He's always been the one people crush on, the one seducing everyone. Never has he been the one with feelings. He's supposed to act on it, that he knows. But he'd be damn if he knows how. The only solution would be to ask someone, but who ? It's not as if he's surrounded by excellent references. Eponine is forever pining after her Pontmercy (or after Cosette, he's not too sure sometimes), and it's not as if the rest of Patron-Minette knows anything about love. Or feelings. Or fairies. No, this is something he's going to have to deal with on his own. Fucking fantastic.
~*~
On Friday, Montparnasse is awaken, not by the sweet, shrill sound of his alarm, but by the unmistakable sound of someone rummaging around in the next room. Seeing as the soundproofing in their flat was probably made with butter or something, it kind of sounds like someone is digging a tunnel just under his head. He glances at his phone, groans. He should have been able to sleep half an hour more. Well, what an amazing start of the day.
He crawls out of bed, his eyes still full of sleep. The last images of the dreams still dance in his mind, blurry visions that doesn't want to leave him, despite the loud voice he can now hear through the door and wall. He makes his way down the cramped hallway, and barges in the living room. Babet doesn't even look up, sprawled as he is on the sagging, lumpy couch.
- Why don't you just shut up and work, kid ?
Claquesous, lying on the ground in front of their old battered wardrobe, sends a nod to Montparnasse, and gets back to dig in.
- Can you tell me what's the ruckus and why you think it's a good idea to ruin my beauty sleep by yelling so early ?
- It's 7 PM, Babet answers. As for your beauty sleep...
Montparnasse sends him a glare scary enough to send lessen men running and crying to their mothers, but Babet is used to it and just turns his attention to Claquesous, who's trying to pull something out of the lower door. Seeing as he's not going to get an answer, Montparnasse makes his way to the kitchen. Of course, there's no coffee left, and he has to make some more. Scoundrels, all of them. You can't even count on your partners in crime to leave you some coffee. Talk about a tight knit group.
He's walking back to the living-room when something white runs through his legs, almost knocking him down. He hardly prevents his cup from tipping over, then the thing has already disappeared. Immediately after, Claquesous rams into him, sending his coffee on his shirt. This time, he drops the cup, trying to get the cloth off before it burns him. Claquesous doesn't wait for him to exact revenge, and runs after the intruder.
After a long string of curses, and once he's not in danger of being badly burnt anymore, Montparnasse turns to Babet, who hasn't moved an inch.
- What the fuck ? he asks eloquently.
- Do not fucking swear.
- What the fucking fuck is that fucking thing, and what does it do here, and what is that fucking mess ?
- Remind me to wash your mouth with soap, kid.
Montparnasse kicks him when he walks by him, and goes to rummage through a pile of clothes and other things in the corner of the room, trying to find something correct to wear. Throwing Gueulemer's gigantic shirts and Babet's hideous purple tees aside, he asks again :
- So ? What was that ?
- Something went awry.
- No shit. I could have guessed that myself.
Montparnasse waits, but nothing more comes. Usual with Babet. He probably messed up and doesn't want to acknowledge it. He won't say anything, not even under threat of torture.
Claquesous walks in five minutes later, out of breath and empty handed. Montparnasse looks at him and raises a quizzical eyebrow. Instead of answering, Claquesous turns to Babet.
- It escaped.
- Told you.
- Yes, well, maybe it wouldn't have if you had done anything else than sitting there.
- I brought it here. The rest was up to you.
- Excuse me, Montparnasse cuts them, but could someone tell me what happened before I start kicking your ass ?
- You're welcome to try, kid.
- It happened, Claquesous explains, that Babet here decided that stealing expensive things would be a good way to earn a bit of money. Trafficking goods is always a sure value. Sadly, he decided that the most expensive thing he could be his hands on was a goose.
There's a very long, very heavy silence.
- A what ? Montparnasse finally asks.
- A goose.
He turns towards Babet.
- You stole a goose.
- Yes, kid. I stole a goose.
- What in heaven's sake went through that brain of yours to steal a goose ?
- It was a very prized goose. Important bird.
- So you decided to steal it.
- Do you know what "prized" and "expensive" mean, kid ?
Montparnasse is ready to bite, but Claquesous doesn't let him.
- The thing that he didn't take in consideration is that this bird is a real nuisance. As soon as it was here, it started pushing things off the table and pulling every cable it could put its beak on. Then it hid in the cupboard and... well, you know the end.
- And now ? Babet asks. Where is that fucking thing ?
- Away. It jumps through the window, and went down the emergency ladder with its little flappers. And if you want to run after it, please, be my guest. But I'm not going near that thing again. Ever. It bites.
- Scared of the little bird, maybe ?
Claquesous answers by a very rude and very creative gesture. Babet shrugs and lays down on the couch again, muttering about kids and missed opportunities. Montparnasse finally unearths a shirt out of the laundry pile, and puts it on. It's a bit rumpled, and it's not that young, but it'll do. The ruffles around the neck are a nice touch. Not that he needs to wear his Sunday best to go to work, but the Devil and seduction have this in common that they are in the details. And Montparnasse is always ready to seduce. He throws his jacket on and leaves, abandonning Claquesous, Babet and Gueulemer to their goose problems.
The other clerk looks at him funnily when he strolls in, but he doesn't pay her any attention. Can't he look good ? One can manage a register and not look like a bum. Sadly, he remembers too late that all those goose shenanigans early in the evening didn't gave him the opportunity to get properly ready. A glance in the nearest reflection surface tells him that his skin hasn't been properly moisturised, and his hair is sticking in every direction, to the point that he looks like someone has glued a hedgehog to his head. To think that he's crossed town like this !! Any lesser man than him would probably hide in the back to try and fix that disaster with fingers and water. Not Montparnasse. He pulls the emergency set he always has on his bag, and sets to work. He'll never congratulate himself enough for thinking of keeping some gel, a comb and a bottle of moisturiser on him after last time's disaster. He's still lacking his hair products and favourite cream, but he can't really afford to buy a second jar just to keep in his bag. The basics will have to do. Finally, he's back to his beautiful self, and he can go back to lean on the counter and wait, knowing that he looks his best.
It's around nine o'clock when the door opens, and who comes in, but none other than the man that Eponine is pining after, Marius "Dork in love" Pontmercy. Montparnasse doesn't sneer at him, but he thinks about it very hard. The boy is cute, in a way. A face that can be looked at, clear eyes, healthy hair that deserves a cut. If only he didn't dress like a dork. Old sweaters are only endearing to one's grandmother, and his shoes are worn. There's also the small problem of his expression ; he always looks like he just fell from a cloud or just came out after being locked in a cave for twenty years. All in all, Eponine could do worse. She could do better, of course, but he's not going to tell her that.
He's not on his own, there's a girl with him, and Montparnasse is ready to hate them just because of the way Pontmercy looks at her. Also, she's pretty. Long, brown hair, very shiny, gathered in a bun, a skin to die for, eyes blue as the sky. Her outfit is not something out of the extraordinary, just a blue sundress and a leather jacket, with a pair of boots. But she has customized it well, and there's something in the way she walks... Montparnasse understands a little better now. Not that he wants to be even a second in Pontmercy's mind, but... that girl has something. She's special. And Pontmercy probably things the same, because he's giving her the most disgusting puppy eyes as she goes through the shelves. He's almost drooling at the sight. That dude's self-respect is probably nil. It's almost embarrassing. Montparnasse can only congratulate himself that's he's not as pathetic. He'd rather wear an ugly Christmas sweater, complete with fake antlers, and let people take pics than act like him.
Up close, it's even more obvious. That the girl is charming, first. Her make-up is a work of art, Montparnasse, as an aesthete, can see it. He's never seen sharper eyeliner, except maybe in his mirror, and that's not even sure. She's all smiles while she pays, but he doesn't let it fool him. Should he disrespect her, he'd get his ass kicked in no time. It's also obvious that Pontmercy is head over heels for her. He's still looking at her and only her, and almost trips on his own feet to carry her purchase. Disgusting, but he can't blame him as much as he would like to. Of course, he's an idiot, and he can't see that his best friend has a crush on him, but the girl is worth it. Which makes things so much more complicated. He probably won't tell Eponine that he saw them, he doesn't want to hurt her feelings. Or think about that idiot in love again. Surely that was the worst of the evening.
He's wrong, of course.
He's known Grantaire for a while now, meeting him here and there. They tend to frequent the same places where one can find cheap alcohol, cheaper entertainment and wallets without surveillance. They are what one could consider good acquaintances. Not friends, of course, Montparnasse doesn't do friends. But he's part of the very exclusive group of people that Montparnasse doesn't mind spending some time with, even if it's just to pass the time. And Grantaire is not that bad of a company. He has a tendency to ramble for hours on end if one lets him, about everything and anything that crosses his mind, ranting about things and waxing poetry at the same time. He can be annoying sometimes when his ravings lead him in the direction of some blond guy that leaves in his general area and he becomes downright lyrical, but Montparnasse has learnt to tune him out quite effectively. It's still not worse than Babet.
It's no wonder that Grantaire pushes the door of the shop a little after eleven. It's probably the only one where one can find alcohol at this hour without paying the extremely steep prices in bars around. Grantaire probably needs his daily dose of poison, and discovered too late that his bottles are empty. It's just surprising that he didn't see him earlier. Or more often. But when Grantaire emerges, his arms are full of bottles of lemonade and white-chocolate-coated biscuits. He smiles at Montparnasse, his usual lazy smile, but there's something else in it.
- See that ? he remarks. I'm straightening my act. Soon I'll even be respectable.
- You, respectable ? Does this mean I finally became the Queen of the Underworld ?
- What you do during your free time doesn't concern me. But yeah, I'm cleaning up. Lemonade from now on.
- You became allergic to alcohol or something ?
Grantaire throws his head back and laugh. Montparnasse is a bit afraid that he's going to launch in a tirade about his blonde and how he doesn't like to see him drinking or whatever. But he has to ask something so it's not awkward. That's what not-friends-but-quite-acquainted do.
- Ah no, Grantaire answers. That would be the bane of my existence. No, I've taken up drawing again, and I can't do both. It messes with my hand.
Montparnasse diligently looks at the hand he's shown. There are some drops of paint here and there, but remarkably steady. He must look a bit confused, because Grantaire explains :
- For drawing.
Ah yes. Montparnasse remembers his tendency to draw on everything he can put his hands upon : tablecloths, napkins, receipts, people, .... Montparnasse once got a black rose on his arm, and he was almost sad to see it go. Grantaire sometimes talks about art school and how he spent his time sleeping and stealing the models ("food models" he always specifies with a wink), but it's been a while since he last mentioned it. He must have started again. Then again, either this, or he loves rolling around in paint in his free time. His hoodie was probably green at some point, but it's so stained in paint of all colours that it looks like a unicorn vomited on him. Even his jeans are multicoloured. Montparnasse doesn't want to know how he does it, but it's impressive. In a way.
- So what are you doing ?
The door opens again as Montparnasse listens to Grantaire talk about the painting he started, while ringing the biscuits. He doesn't pay him attention, but Grantaire does, because his speech abruptly ends in a weird, strangled sound. Ah. So this is the man he can't shut up about, except of course when said man is around, the leader of the revolution or whatever. Montparnasse has heard so much about him, he's kind of imagined some sort of god carved out of stone, ready to step down from his pedestal, lightning bold in one hand and sword in the other to smithe down his enemies. To see the man in flesh is.... underwhelming. First, he's... tiny. Like, 50 pounds soaking wet. He doesn't look a day older than seventeen, except that Grantaire wouldn't be head over heels for someone so young, and he may have mentioned one day that they were around the same age. He's cute, Montparnasse hates to concede that, with round cheeks, a small mouth with plump lips, large blue eyes lined with long lashes, and long, blond hair barely held in a ponytail. A pretty face, but nothing to write home about.
Montparnasse steals a glance while the blond goes through the aisles, trying not to be noticed. Then again, compared to Grantaire who seems transfigured by the apparition, anything would be discreet. The guy is more a pretty doll than a vengeful god, but he could be so much better if he wasn't scowling at labels as if they personally offended him, or if there weren't purple shadows under his eyes. Boy probably thinks so much about justice and things that he only sleeps three hours per night. So much for his beauty sleep. And from here, his hair looks... frizzy. Did no one talk to him about conditioner ? It's a shame, really, a waste of pretty blond hair.
When he finally comes to the register, Montparnasse can attest how tiny he really is. Grantaire could lean his chin on the top of his head. Judging by the way he gazes at him, he probably dreams of doing it. Blond Guy doesn't even pay Montparnasse any attention, the nerve, and starts chit-chatting with Grantaire, who looks like Christmas came early. Montparnasse starts ringing the purchases, and takes advantage of the distraction to better observe him. He may not look the part of the Sun deity, but... there's something, now that he's talking, that draws the eye to him. Some kind of... magnetism, even as he talks about nonsense, meetings, weather and the like. Something that pushes people to listen to him. Montparnasse understands a little better what Grantaire can see in him now. His words are convincing, full of fire, and Montparnasse almost wants to join his little clique of students. Almost, of course. Not that he cares. But Blond Guy is convincing.
Finally, as Montparnasse is sure he can't take any more blinding idealism, Blondie gathers his stuff, nods goodbye and leaves. Grantaire and Montparnasse both watch him go, Grantaire with starry eyes, Montparnasse with surprise. The blond hair might look frizzy and in need of a good mask, but it falls down to the small of his back in heavy curls, like a golden cascade. Montparnasse is proud of his hair, how soft he is, and he can't help but feel a little jealous. He turns to Grantaire, who hasn't lost the smitten expression, and remarks :
- I can see why you like to see him.
- If you fancy him, we may have to duel at dawn, you now.
- As if, Montparnasse scoffs. I just said I see why you like to see him. Or rather, see him go. Does he need assistance to take those jeans off ?
Grantaire scowls, but there's a smile tugging at his lips.
- I have to concede, those jeans fit him perfectly.
- Does he really wear some ? They look... painted on.
- That, my good man, is a secret only he knows. Well, I'd like to talk about Enjolras' pants all night, and everything that's insde them, but I'm afraid that won't do any good to my work. So see you at the next biscuit shortage.
He takes his snacks and leaves, in a pace slightly faster than usual. Probably to catch up with Blondie and try to seduce him with white chocolate or talk of paintings. Montparnasse doesn't think it'll work, not with what he's seen of Blondie. But Grantaire's awful pining none of his business, after all.
Hours pass, slowly as ever. Montparnasse has taken residence in the newspaper section, reading each and every fashion magazine he can put his hands upon. With a bunch of chocolate bars and a cup of coffee from the machine in the back, it's almost comfortable. He only moves from his spot when the door opens again. And Prouvaire comes in. This time, they're dressed almost like a normal person, with cargo pants and a denim shirt open on a black t-shirt. Of course, the pockets on the pants have apparently been collected on several pants, shirts, and jackets, and sewn here and there, and no one is the same colour as the others. The denim has been embroidered with multicolour lines forming delicate arabesques on the collar and the sleeves. It's almost underwhelming that his black shirt is only wearing a Ghostbusters logo, and nothing weirder. Furthermore, their hair has been gathered in a hasty ponytail, far from the elaborate hairdos they sported the two first times. They look like they had to run to the store and just threw on whatever was at hand.
They are back at the counter barely two minutes after coming in. With three large bags of coarse salt. Montparnasse wonders what their cooking must taste like, but he doesn't say anything. Not when Prouvaire looks so rushed, and almost... out of breath ? It can't be from running through the aisles, they must have been speeding to come here too. But what could deserve so much salt ? Are they so bitter about something ? Do they need to fight a sudden ice age in their fridge ?
They're looking at him. Oh no, they are looking at him, with those pretty eyes of them. Like they can read through his mind and know that he's wondering about them. Quick. Say something. Say something cool.
- French fry emergency, maybe ?
Oh great. Bravo, Montparnasse. This is smooth. But Prouvaire smiles at this, and it's beautiful even if it's tired.
- I'm not part of the French Salt Connection, if you're wondering.
- French fries are belgian.
Even better. Just shut up before say anything more stupid. If you can. He tries not to facepalm too hard. But Prouvaire just keeps smiling.
- I know, they say softly.
Montparnasse knows he should shut up, but he just can't help himself.
- So ? An emergency exorcism, maybe ?
He laughs, to show that he's not serious. But Prouvaire's face stays serious. They gather their salt packets, give Montparnasse a new, soft smile.
- Good night, Montparnasse.
They have a second of hesitation, then they hand him one of the packets.
- Here. It doesn't hurt to have something to protect yourself with.
And with this, they are gone, their long hair flowing behind them. Leaving behind a very bewildered Montparnasse and a packet full of coarse salt. Montparnasse looks at the packet, but it's, of course, a packet, made of cardboard and full of salt and nothing else. It doesn't even have googly eyes stuck on it to make it look like something else that this : a packet of salt. How it can protect him, he can't say. Or what he's supposed to do. What he knows is that the person who's been haunting his daydreams for several days now just gave him a present, and, according to what they said, they might be partially or totally fae. Which means that, if he accepts their present, he's doomed to... something, he's not really sure. He needs to brush up on his fae knowledge. Then again, it's a packet of salt, nothing more. Then again, it's a present.
When he goes home that morning, the salt is stuffed at the bottom of his bag. He tiptoes through the flat as to not warn the others of his presence. It's useless because they are snoring so loudly he could tap-dance through the hallway while singing the entirety of The Phantom of the Opera, and they wouldn't notice a thing. He makes his way to his room, manages to go through his whole beauty regime without being disturbed. With great delight, he slides under the covers. Just before turning off the light, he grabs the cardboard box still in his bag, and puts it on the night-stand. Then he turns on his other side and tries to forget that he did in the fog of sleep.
Part 2 and the aftermath of Jacob tearing down someone’s poor barn. He got out of that in better shape than any of the little Lilliputians would, but he still got a few burns here and there. Lucky he has some little helpers.
Part 1
Masterpost Link
Chase in Lilliput Tag for Desktop
~~~
“I can’t believe you ripped down the Millers’ barn!” Chase couldn’t even pretend to scold Jacob in the midst of checking over his giant hands for burns. The giant was seated in the patch of land Chase had offered him, both hands held out for Chase and Minnie to see. “Just walked right up to it and…” Chase mimicked ripping the wall of the barn away, exaggerating every movement.
The small scene of destruction was the talk of the town. Chase would have liked to hear more of the gossip, but there were more important things to take care of.
Jacob sighed overhead, ever patient. “Well, I didn’t exactly have time to just reach in the doors and grab everything out one by one,” he pointed out. “I had to.”
“Oh, no, I’m not saying that,” Chase said, while beckoning his sister over. She brought the bucket of ice water and a rag to clean out the dirt and soot before they could give Jacob any burn ointment.
“Just that, you know. You got to use your powers for good and it was awesome. That’s all.” Chase grinned up at the unconvinced giant and was pleased to earn an eyeroll in return.
Minnie scoffed in lieu of Jacob doing so. “Jacob doesn’t have superpowers, Chase. He’s just giant.”
“Hey, he’s strong enough to toss you into the bay from here!” Chase protested.
“Hey, now,” Jacob chimed in. He rolled his shoulders, but tried not to move his hands too much. He was a big guy; leaning over like he was had to put a crick in his back. “That’s not the kind of image I want. I’m just the friendly neighborhood firefighter.”
“Don’t worry, no one’s actually saying anything like that,” Minnie said dismissively, cutting off Chase’s own reassurance. “Chase is just being a horrible brother by being mean to his baby sister.”
Chase put his hand over his heart. “I would never actually advocate anyone throwing my sister into the bay,” he protested. He hopped gracelessly up onto Jacob’s palm so he could slap some ointment over a huge burn and continued, “I was just saying being a giant kind of is a superpower.”
Jacob curled one fingertip up so he could nudge at Chase’s side. “Not always a useful one, though,” he mused. “What I really need is your ability to talk myself out of anything. Mr. Miller might never let me in his fields again after that.”
Chase flailed an arm as he tried and failed not to fall over on Jacob’s hand. Then, he scrambled back to the ground before he could tumble even more. “Nah,” he waved off the concern. “Once he’s over the shock, he’ll see you really were trying to help.”
“You even saved a bunch of his stuff,” Minnie chimed in, moving on to the next burn. To Jacob, the injuries were tiny, but to both of them they were huge. They were going to fix up what they could. “That counts for something.”
Chase grinned and found another spot to add more burn cream. “Your public image is gonna be great, I promise. I know how to spin this one, and soon everyone will want to have a guardian giant wandering their fields.”
Jacob groaned, to Chase’s smug satisfaction couldn’t come up with a counterargument.
