(my take on the discussion Kaityn and Lindsay and I had over twitter about Cecil headcanons, and a companionish piece to Kait’s fic)
Cecil’s not big on labels. Or, they are, except when they aren’t. Labels don’t work for a lot of things, and when you make your career in radio and you rely on words to convey your meaning, it’s important that the words are right. That the labels fit. You have to say exactly what you mean, and mean exactly what you say, or things get tangled.
Some things have to be put into words though, so one does one’s best.
How it feels to take a fall
exR oneshot
Warnings for alcohol abuse and addiction
Grantaire had promised to stop drinking.
Enjolras had not believed him, and had told him so, though he had not meant to be so brusque. He should have said something more tactful. He should have been supportive, even in doubt. Grantaire deserved that.
“Alright.” Grantaire had laughed, but not with his real laugh. It had been his defensive laugh, his rough, barking, hollow crack of a laugh. Before they’d started dating, Enjolras had thought that was the only laugh Grantaire had. Now that he knew differently, now that he knew the sound of those chimes…
This was a painful sound.
“Alright, not stop, maybe. I’ll cut back. I’ll try. I don’t…I don’t have to have it. So much. I’ll try. For you.”
Enjolras had not been trying to coerce anything from the man. The pedestal Grantaire had put him upon was not stable, and he had done his best to kick it from beneath himself. If Grantaire wanted to stop drinking, then Enjolras would support him, of course he would, but Enjolras was not a savior. Not like that. Grantaire would have to make those choices for himself. Enjolras had asked for nothing. Not yet.
Grantaire had been pressed into Enjolras’ side, his nose buried in the deep curve of a shadowed collarbone, fingers tracing the seam of Enjolras’ binder in lazy little trails. His eyelashes had fluttered thrills against Enjolras’ skin, and he had made promises he couldn’t keep.
Enjolras had known.
For a time, at least, Grantaire had made an effort. The empty bottles that littered the apartment, the piles of unwashed laundry, and the scattered skeletons of crumpled paper cups had all disappeared.
Enjolras didn’t know what set things wrong. Was it too much? Too little? Had he been too distant? Too close? What had he said? What had he neglected to say?
It had been months since he’d seen Grantaire so intoxicated. Had he been drinking all day? How early had this begun? How long had he been hiding it? The empty bottles had reappeared seemingly overnight, propped in haphazard and irreverent shrines beside the toaster, the microwave, the couch.
Grantaire didn’t give Enjolras a chance to speak, pushing past to leave the other spinning in his wake, dizzy with the smell of whiskey that wafted in his shadow. The whole building shuddered with the resentment that slammed the door, and the aftershock of Grantaire falling against it was nearly as powerful. Enjolras could just imagine him, slouched on the front step and cradling that awful red cup, only surrendering it long enough to light himself a smoke, hands folded protectively over the fragile flame of his lighter as his shoulders bowed beneath an impossible weight.
He’s going to kill himself if this keeps up.
Nothing had changed. Enjolras had not expected it to, and yet he ached with disappointment and worry.
Why is he doing this to himself?
Enjolras had never known. He’d never asked. It had always been this forbidden thing, this secret hurt that Grantaire held more precious than the man who adored him, who now stood helpless on the wrong side of that impossible door.
He’s too young for this. He’s too good. There’s so much more to him than this.
Enjolras could see it.
Everyone could see it.
Everyone but Grantaire, and Grantaire was the only one who mattered.
Grantaire was not one to think of far-reaching consequences when he got into a brawl, but if he had been…well this certainly wouldn’t have been included on the list. His imagination was pretty extensive, but his boyfriend (that word alone was still somewhat of a shock, after all these months) always seemed to exceed the confines of reasonable projection, and the way Enjolras was seated on his bathroom counter, clad in nothing but his binder and a pair of Grantaire’s Deadpool boxers, dreadlocks loose around his thin shoulders, was certainly not anything Grantaire had ever been bold enough to imagine. Somehow domestic fantasies had always been the most taboo, and he couldn’t quite tame the flutter in his chest as he met Enjolras’ eyes. There was a determined expression on his boyfriend’s face.
“You need to shave.”
Grantaire held up his cast and shrugged. “No can do.”
“You look like a nerf herder.”
He couldn’t help himself; he snorted loudly and leaned over the sink beside Enjolras, shoulders shaking as he tried to contain his laughter, his damp curls sticking to his face and neck.
“Was that a Star Wars reference?”
“I do live with Combeferre. Come on now, you let me wash your hair.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Do you even—” He swallowed that sentence as quickly as he could, but Enjolras had no difficulty puzzling out the rest of it. A delicate hand reached to a dark, unshaven cheek, smooth as the day Enjolras had been born, and Grantaire felt like the scum of the earth.
“I used to shave my legs.” Enjolras said easily. “It’s the same principle. Against the grain—” his fingers left his own cheek in favor of Grantaire’s, and ran rough against the stubble there. “—careful around the curves—” he cupped Grantaire’s jaw and pulled his face closer. “—and take your time.” He leaned and stretched so that he could kiss the tip of Grantaire’s nose, smiling with impossible serenity.
“I could just stay scruffy.” Graintaire wasn’t sure how he managed to talk when his lungs were so empty. “I’ve always thought nerf-herders were kind of handsome.”
“You do realize this is just an excuse to get close to you.” Enjolras said as he reached to retrieve Grantaire’s shaving kit, in that matter-of-fact tone that drove Grantaire wild. He reached with one leg to hitch Grantaire’s waist and pull him away from the sink and within reach of the razor, and Grantaire moved willingly.
“Law school, huh?”
“Absolutely!”
“Like your father, then?
“Hardly.”
“But he’s the best District Attorney in the country!”
“And I intend to be the finest Civil Rights lawyer in the country.”
Courfeyrac had intended to travel abroad to study. Not that he doesn’t love Paris, but he’s lived here all his life. There’s so much more to see, to explore! Besides, his father’s shadow doesn’t cover the whole of the world, and he would have liked to have escaped it, even if only for a while. He always would have returned to Paris, but he could have gone to England, or to Canada, or South America. Anywhere, really. M. de Courfeyrac is on the board at the university, however, and among other things that means that his son’s enrollment was guaranteed—no, expected. Courfeyrac doesn’t like to talk about his family’s influence or their opulence, but it’s a difficult thing to hide when there’s a whole street of buildings that are printed with their family name over the door.
He’d rather hoped to get away from that. He’s more than capable of standing on his own.
Never let it be said that he hasn’t made the most of his time at the university, though. He’s a leader in his father’s old fraternity, he’s captain of his intramural football team, and his grades are the highest in his year. For some reason people are always surprised to hear that last one, which Courfeyrac thinks is absurd; as though the measure of his mind could be taken from a cursory glance at his extracurriculars! Even then, it seems that people disregard his political activism, though it’s hard to mistake the way he barges into Combeferre’s lectures to deliver some dispatch that simply couldn’t wait until the top of the hour when the T.A.’s cell phone would be turned back on, or the enthusiastic way he’s been known to dive into discourses without invitation. Everyone in his building and in each of his courses has been asked on at least one occasion where their alignment leans, and he’s introduced more than one friend to Enjolras and their cause.
Though he shares his closest friends’ empathy and passion, Courfeyrac’s personal brand of clever charm stands all on its own. While Combeferre guides and Enjolras inspires, Courfeyrac at their side attends to the life of their cause, balancing his friends as a sort of pivot. Courfeyrac’s the one who sets up their meetings and rendezvous. It’s Courfeyrac who makes certain phone calls are made to keep the others updated and he’s the one who delivers coffee on nights when they all stay up working on projects that simply cannot wait until the daylight hours to begin.
This works well; Courfeyrac prefers to fill his hours with doing. Give him a task, or else he will assign himself one, because when his hands fall idle, he begins to think. As intelligent as he is, sometimes he fears he thinks too much. He does not possess the calm acceptance of Combeferre or the cool analytical mind of Enjolras. With Courfeyrac’s thoughts come hot and cold emotions. He’ll raise his head, his voice, even his fist if he must, when he gets to thinking. He does not like to consider himself prone to fear, but occasionally he is afraid. He believes in their cause with all his heart, or he would not devote himself to it, but…well, if he fills his days and nights with doing, then he has no time for fear.
Prompt: A Problem You Can’t Hit
Pairing: Jehan/Bahorel
Verse: TAUT
WC: 1390
Summary: Bahorel and Jehan are fighting over permanence, posessive pronouns, and cigarettes.
They were fighting again.
And not the kind of fighting Bahorel was good at, with his fists and his shoulders and the swing of his foot, but the kind where his hands had to stay still or else cross over his chest and his words flew out of his mouth with more force than they should. He was too aggressive for verbal fights, and his words formed into bricks that crashed straight into people and left fractures and bruises. He might as well have been using his fists. He’d never been as good with words as Jehan. He didn’t take the same care when he put them together, said them sooner than he thought them. Jehan, though, took her time to respond. Sometimes she took days.
It’d been days. She’d been gone for days, and she hadn’t so much as sent him a text to tell him that she was still okay.
They were fighting again and it wasn’t the kind of fighting Bahorel liked. And damn, he liked to fight.
Jehan was his favorite…well, she was his favorite lots of things, wasn’t she? His favorite sparring partner. His favorite dancing partner. His favorite mess. His favorite fuck. His favorite laugh. His favorite smile. His favorite frown.
Frowns.
Her dimples were deeper when she frowned. She despaired about them, and called them wrinkles, and she stood in front of the mirror in the mornings and fretted over them, but the way her cheeks pinched and the way her brow creased and the way her nose scrunched was as endearing and sincere as the bright bark of her laughter.
He was thinking about her frowns as he pulled another cigarette from the pack, lighting it with the dying glow of the one just plucked from his lips. He leaned over a little, half hanging off the couch to smother the finished butt in the ceramic-mixing-bowl-turned-ashtray he had propped within reach. He didn’t spare a look at the growing pile there; he already knew he was a notorious chain smoker. Instead, he closed his eyes, wondering how the hell he had let her get under his skin this way.
“You’re smoking in here?” He hadn’t heard the door, which was unusual. The hinges had been creaking for months, and neither of them had cared enough to grease them. Bahorel looked up to see Jehan leaning in the door to their kitchen, staring at him where he was reclined half naked on the couch. Her hair was all mussed, as though she hadn’t brushed it since she’d left. Actually, he thought, she probably hadn’t. She was wearing the same outfit, too. She would have had to; she’d left all her things here. The pleated dress looked slept in, though the bags under her eyes suggested it hadn’t been especially restful sleep. Chapeau was tucked under her arm and the giant furball had curled into to the curve of her hip, his tail wrapped around her waist. Bahorel could hear the creature purring from across the room.
“Your cat was sleeping in the pantry again.” She informed him, as though he had asked. Her tone was light and conversational. Maybe she didn’t want to fight anymore, but the words she had chosen were the ones they were fighting over. Chapeau was not his cat, and besides that, Chapeau was always sleeping somewhere. He liked the pantry, he liked the sinks. Once he’d gotten stuck in the hamper. Once they’d found him on the ceiling fan, and nobody had figured out how he’d managed to get up there, or, more confusing yet, how the fan had borne his weight. But the case remained that when Chapeau disappeared, Bahorel didn’t worry too much about it. Not the way he worried when Jehan disappeared.
“Yeah I’m smokin’ in here.” He grunted, inhaling deeply and immediately blowing the hot smoke back through his nose, ignoring the burn of it. It was worth a little sting to see her eyebrows furrow and her lips purse a bit before she leaned forward to set the cat back on the floor, her hair falling to hide her face as she said—very carefully, always carefully—
“I thought you had agreed to do it outside.”
They were fighting again. He could tell it was a fight, because her words made him set his jaw, stubbornness building before she’d even really accused him of anything.
“It’s my apartment, isn’t it? I can do what I want.”
Jehan’s body got tense all over, he could see it from where he was lounging. Her shoulders tightened and her neck went stiff. There was a wildness to her, a feral quality that she herself didn’t recognize. Jehan was fond of saying how Bahorel’s the fierce one, but when she straightened then her whole body was made of fire. He could feel the heat of it in concentrated in her gaze. Trying to look relaxed, Bahorel took another pull from his cigarette.
“If I’m going to live here, you’re going to have to do that outside.”
“Are you?” More bricks. Bahorel bit at his words, leaving the sentence only half said.
“Am I what?” She knew what he was asking, he was certain of it, but he answered her anyway, finishing his thought as harshly as it had begun.
“Even still living here?”
“Bahorel—”
“I mean it. Do you even still want to live here? Because I’m not gonna make you stay.”
“Bahorel—”
“I’m not looking for a roommate, Jehan. Fuck, even though a roommate would call this place theirs if someone asked. I’ve got a girlfriend, and we share an apartment, or we don’t.”
Jehan stared at him for a long time. Too long. It wasn’t comfortable, when she watched a person that way. The heaviness in her gaze created the impression that she was looking at all the things you hadn’t meant to share. Bahorel looked away, grimacing and kicking his feet down so that there was room on the couch. He ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the longest bit at the base of his neck in his unease. Jehan approached and sat at the far end, leaving a wall of air between them as she tucked her knees under her chin and dug her bare toes into the gap between the cushions, eyes still watching him intently. The fire she emanated was much softer now, more warmth than fury, but it was still unsettling.
“Why is this so important to you?” She asked, and her voice was at its softest. There was curiosity there, and concern, and danger.
“It’s not.” He immediately responded, then shook his head and brought the cigarette back to his lips. “I’m…Look, I like what we have.” Like was a weak word, it was an easy word, and he felt a little cowardly using it. “I love what we have.” I love you. Bahorel wouldn’t endure being called a coward, even by himself. “But I don’t have a roommate. I have a girlfriend.”
“Is it not the same thing?”
Bahorel let his breath out without drawing in the smoke, and the air between them clouded. “Like red and burgundy.” He grunted.
It was a relief to hear her laugh, even if the sound was brief. Going days without that laugh was like going days without water.
“So not even close.”
“Not remotely.”
“What if it doesn’t last?”
And wasn’t that just like her? Always looking toward the end and forgetting what was happening now?
“What if it doesn’t? If things change then they change. But this right now? This is good. So why not call it what it is?”
Jehan did not answer right away.
Really, she didn’t answer him at all, just scooted to his end of the couch and tucked herself under his arm before snatching his cigarette.
“Hey!” He tried to save it, but she held it at the fullest extent of her long arms. “I’ll move the party outside, if it bothers you that much.”
“Mm. Tomorrow.” She said, and put the cigarette to her own lips.
“You sure about that?” He asked, watching her. The way she inhaled, you could tell she was used to smoking something else. She never gave it time to cool and pulled it right into her lungs. “That makes tomorrow day one, again.”
“Tomorrow is always day one."
And wasn’t that just like her?
“Job’s done?”
“Yep.”
“You gonna take those shoes off, then?”
“Are you kidding? Have you see my legs in these? My ass?”
“After all this time, I should not be surprised by your vanity.”
“You should also not be surprised that I didn’t wear these specifically for the job.”
Never accept a drink from him. It’s unwise to eat in his presence. It’s unwise to eat after he’s visited, too, even if you’ve been watching his hands.
He was fifteen the first time it happened, the first time he killed a man. It wasn’t an accident and it wasn’t a mistake; he meant to do it and he’s never once wished he’d done otherwise. The man had something he wanted, and Montparnasse had warned him. Give it to me. I want it. Give it to me or I swear will pull this trigger. Ironic that his first murder was also one of the last times he told the truth. Ten years later, and his talent for lying is second only to his talent for killing.
Montparnasse doesn’t like using guns, though it’s not the violence that bothers him. Guns are loud and messy and easy to trace. There’s no cleverness to them, no finesse. He’s better than that. He’s got more class. Knives are a little better. The noise is not so troublesome, but the mess. He has to burn his clothes after, and that’s a waste beyond endurance. Poison is really his favorite way to go about it. All the mess is someone else’s problem; he’s already in the wind.
Killing isn’t all he does, of course, though it may be his most frequently employed service. Montparnasse is a man without scruples. He can find anyone you’re searching for. He’s a talent at acquiring goods that cannot be found by those less willing to venture into the sepulcher. He prefers cards, but he’ll hustle pool if he has to, and playing any game against him means incurring heavy debts. Montparnasse is the meanest card shark in Paris, though he has the sweetest smile. Grantaire’s been known to capture that on camera, now and again. Lucky for him, it keeps Montparnasse placated enough to forgive some of that money he owes.
He could get an honest job. There’s few in Paris with his eye for color when it comes to ensembles, and nobody can apply makeup the way he does, on his own face or someone else’s. He’d be in high demand as a designer or a cosmetologist. Hell, he’d even looked into modeling once upon a time. Why shouldn’t he wear makeup, or high heels, or summer dresses if he gets the urge? He’s more than pretty enough, and he deserves the attention. But honest jobs mean work, and honest jobs mean taxes. Honest jobs mean answering to someone, belonging to someone. Montparnasse is many things, but above all he’s a free man and he intends to stay that way.
Verse: After the Storm (Post Apocalyptic Les Mis AU)
Characters: Grantaire and Enjolras
WC: 1400
Summary: Enjolras and Grantaire are trapped beneath a collapsed building, and Enjolras is severely injured. Grantaire has to keep Enjolras awake while formulating an escape plan.
“It could be worse.” It was difficult to sound hopeful, with his leg pinned so crookedly beneath his weight, but the statement still rang true.
“Oh my god.” Grantaire stopped trying to shift the debris that blocked the exit, his shoulder braced against an impossible wrought iron beam, staring at Enjolras in what could only be described as horror.
“Nng!” Enjolras could not help the start, and he groaned at the shock it sent past his twisted knee. “What?”
“You’re one of those.” Grantaire grimaced, and it was an ugly expression, pulling awkwardly at the tight, discolored skin that ran over his left cheek and the bridge of his nose. Enjolras thought it looked rather like an acid burn, but he wasn’t about to ask. Ten minutes prior was the first time he’d even seen it; Grantaire generally kept a red handkerchief bound across his face, covering his mouth and nostrils. Enjolras had assumed it was supposed to function as a makeshift breather, but after the building fell Grantaire had tugged the cloth down to bind a cut on his bicep, baring his features. Seeing that burn, Enjolras suspected the handkerchief had more to do with vanity than with fear of inhaled toxins, as though the hell they lived in was any place for vanity.
“Those what?” He asked, trying to keep his voice level. The pain in his leg was astonishing, more than he’d ever experienced. He wanted to move it and never touch it again, all at once. It couldn’t stay pinned the way it was, and yet even the thought of shifting his weight caused sweat to bead on his forehead.
Grantaire turned back to the beam, probably trying to hide his disgust. It leaked into his voice. “Believers.”
“Ah.” What else was there to say to that, after all?
“You probably think the world can be rebuilt, don’t you? That the Storm didn’t break it all to hell. Oh god, you’re a fucking Builder.” From where Enjolras was resting, head craned and sitting propped up upon his elbows, he could see Grantaire’s hands clench and unclench. Grantaire leaned against the beam that blocked their escape, and he crossed his arms over his chest, shifting the utility belt that lay across his shoulders.
“You—” Enjolras laid down again, swallowing dryly in an effort to keep his voice from cracking as he leaned his head back. The concrete was cold, and there was a moment of fleeting ridiculousness where he missed his dreadlocks. It would have been so much more comfortable to lay back on a mass of hair than his bruised scalp. He closed his eyes. “You don’t believe that?”
“I don’t believe in anything.” Grantaire said harshly. “Open your eyes. No sleeping.”
“I’m not sleeping.” Enjolras promised. “I was just thinking that things could be much worse.”
“That’s such bullshit. Open your fucking eyes.”
It took some effort, but Enjolras obeyed. He was startled to see Grantaire leaning over him. He hadn’t heard any movement. The way Grantaire was crouched, the only light in their tiny prison was blocked by the bulk of his shoulders. Enjolras squinted to try and distinguish his features. He looked grim.
“Better.” Grantaire said. His voice was as smooth as his demeanor, which was to say that it was craggy and full of bitter edges. “You can’t sleep. Your head is bleeding.”
Enjolras frowned. Grantaire was obviously mad. Enjolras’ head throbbed a bit, but the only real pain he felt was in his leg. He had barely cracked his head when he’d fallen. He’d had worse bumps getting out of Bahorel’s cramped jeep. “My head is fine. My leg—”
“Broken leg is nothing. I mean, it needs to be set and such, but you’re not gonna die from it. Probably. This cracked egg, though…” Grantaire reached forward, and as Enjolras set his jaw. He did not expect the crude vagabond to be gentle. There were thick callouses on Grantaire’s fingertips, and the nails were cracked and neglected, but when his fingers brushed Enjolras’ temple, his touch was astonishingly soft. Enjolras watched as Grantaire withdrew his fingers and held them in the light for them both to see. There was a shine to them. “No sleeping.” He said, again. Enjolras swallowed. There was a tight lump in his throat that would not sink.
Grantaire stood, bracing his hands on his hips as he looked about, presumably trying to take stock of their situation. His back was to Enjolras, and the thick musculature of his shoulders was apparent even through the leather of his jacket. Enjolras looked away, eyes trailing up to the hap-hazardly suspended rubble above his head. He felt suddenly very heavy and hot all over, and his head—so painfree before Grantaire had touched it—now ached and burned with an incessant cruelty.
“I’ve seen you around before, you know. Lurking at the back. Helping yourself to our supplies. You shout quite a lot for someone who doesn’t know what we’re doing.” Enjolras said. That’s how he knew Grantaire’s name. He’d sent Feuilly to find out. The supplies were for people who needed them, but this one raggedy vagabond, half-hidden behind that scarlet bandana, kept helping himself without even bothering to offer to contribute? Enjolras had wanted to know. He’d planned to have words with Grantaire the next time he’d come sulking about. Now, though Enjolras just needed to keep talking. Grantaire was right about the dangers of falling asleep, but his companion seemed too preoccupied to find conversation without prodding.
“No shit.” Grantaire grunted, leaning over to pick some hunk of metal or another off the concrete. “I thought—” He swung the metal at the wrought iron beam, and the resounding sound destroyed Enjolras’ calm. He shouted, and that only made the pain worse. “Sorry.” Grantaire dropped his makeshift bat with a clatter, kicking it aside. “If I’d known you were Builders I never would have come around.”
He didn’t say it, but Enjolras could hear the accusation. If Grantaire had avoided them, he wouldn’t be trapped under this mass of tangled metal and crumbling concrete.
“What the hell are you doing over there, anyway?”
“Your friends are still out there, right? They knew you were going to be here, today? Knocking my building down?”
“Your building?”
“Not anymore.” Grantaire paused. He looked thoughtful for a moment, then came to kneel by Enjolras again. A canteen was fished from his hip, and he took a deep pull before wiping his mouth on his sleeve and pressing the canteen to Enjolras’ lips, helping brace Enjolras’ head while he drank. “Don’t get too worked up. I’m not gonna ask you to replace it or anything.” Enjolras coughed nastily, and groaned as the force of his hacking split at his skull.
“Wh-what is that?”
“Moonshine.”
Enjolras closed his eyes, biting back a swear. He wanted water, not home-grown-hooch.
“No sleeping.” Grantaire said again. He settled near Enjolras, crossing his legs and hunching over to prop his elbows upon the patched knees of his trousers. Seemingly as an afterthought, he added, “Your boyfriend is gonna kill me. You’re a mess.”
That got Enjolras’ attention, and his eyes snapped back open. He looked at Grantaire without turning his head. “What boyfriend?”
“Shit, is your head that bad? The big one. With the glasses. Asian?”
“Combeferre?” Enjolras would have laughed if the pain of his coughing hadn’t been so fresh. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
Grantaire made an indecipherable noise at the back of his throat. “Ah. Well then. He’ll kill me anyways, I reckon.”
“He won’t. He’s a doctor. Hippocratic oath.”
“The Hippocratic oath means piss this side of the Storm.”
“Combeferre would be the first to tell you that it means more now than it did before. It’s very important to him.”
“Open your eyes.”
Enjolras was not aware that he had closed them again.
“Listen, I’m gonna keep bangin’ on that beam. Sorry about your head, but there’s better ways to die than trapped in a hole. If your friends really are Builders, they’ll be out looking for you. I can’t dig us out, but maybe they can.” He stared down at Enjolras for a full minute before he moved, however.
Upon shifting, he shucked the leather coat, rolling it and leaning to tuck it beneath Enjolras’ neck. “Don’t fall asleep.” He instructed again, “And don’t fucking bleed on that, it’s the only coat I have.”
“Where did that even come from?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“You know exactly what I mean—I thought you were this timid little thing!”
“Oh please. Someone has to have warned you about watching the quiet ones. Pass me an ice pack.”
Everything is mixed up. Peacemakers have to take self-defense classes and the rebels read poems. Honest people have the most to fear, gentle folk wage war and the old heroes have all sat back to watch the world alight. Governments mute the people instead of upholding them. That strikes Jehan as typical, though she knows others find it strange. It’s the same pattern history has always followed, though, in and out of flux as regimes change faces but not policies. Those patterns are why she studies history, and she’d be happy to tell you about the ins and outs of social justice and the steps forward and backward that humanity has taken as its leaders rise and fall. It’s only fair to know, however, that once you get her started you may never be able to silence her. Topics so dear to her heart cannot be hemmed, and they bubble and burst as her enthusiasm builds.
Jehan was three when someone first tried to explain the difference between girls and boys to her. She was six when she tried to soften the sound of her name by including an “h” in the midst of it. She was seven when she definitively knew that she was not a boy and tried to explain this to her parents. She was eight when her father went to prison.
Her mother moved them to Paris the year her father left, hoping to allow them the chance to start over. Jehan thinks about her father often. He has tried to reconnect with her on more than one occasion, looking for his long lost son. That’s how she got into the habit of moving; after her father’s release, she’d never had a permanent address for more than a year before she began living with Bahorel (and if asked she would still say that it’s his apartment, not hers, not theirs).
Maybe the transience of her childhood is the source of Jehan’s fascination with beginnings that follow endings. Grantaire gets caught up in the idea that nothing good can possibly last, and Jehan wholeheartedly agrees with him. Unlike her dearest friend, however, Jehan revels in that knowledge. Things are sweeter when they’re finite. Joys are brighter when they’re mortal. Nothing lasts, neither happiness nor sorrow, and that truth is where beauty lies. Jehan can’t get that idea out of her mind. The impermanence of life strikes her as unavoidable, but she does not believe that impermanence is a sign of futility.
Life is worth living. It’s worth trying. Mistakes are worth making. History is worth learning, even if-especially if-it’s doomed to be repeated.
“Your lips taste like lies today.”
“I never lie.”
“Never?”
“Well, only to the school. And to my parents. And to survive. Never to you.”
Sugar and spice and everything nice.That’s how Eponine knows ze’s not always a girl. More often than not, ze’s snakes and snails and puppy dog tails. Sometimes ze’s neither. Sometimes ze’s both, because who says you can’t be spice and snails all at once? There’s not much sweetness left in Eponine, but ze doesn’t really miss it. Cosette is sweet enough for both of them, anyway.
For the most part Eponine lets people assume whatever they want; it works to hir advantage more often than not. Half the time they’re right and the other half ze just doesn’t care. And ze considers hirself a sister, not a brother, because Gavroche deserves a sister to at least try to care for him, since he hardly has a mother. That woman made it known early she had no patience for sons, and she had spent her affections for her daughters before they’d even hit puberty.
At seventeen, Eponine is really too young to be trying to look after anyone, but hir parents can’t be bothered to remember (or care) what day their rent is due, or when the car needs to be inspected, or that Gavroche has walked the soles out of his shoes, or to realize that Azelma’s hand-me-downs won’t fit him much longer. Azelma helps where she can, but thirteen is not much better than twelve. So Eponine waits tables and sweeps floors and stocks shelves and picks pockets. Ze kisses people ze doesn’t like because ze knows ze can’t afford their bad side. Ze trusts no one. Ze does hir homework on the bus before class and sleeps hir way through lectures and sasses the headmaster when he criticizes hir performance in school. Ze has more important things to worry about than test scores.
Ze talks about leaving sometimes, and it’s never clear if ze’s dreaming or joking. It hardly seems to matter, because hir parents break their probation and disappear. The state wants to take Gavroche and Azelma away, like it took their little brothers away, unless Eponine can prove that ze can provide for them. The idea is laughable; it’s never been anyone but Eponine, since the day Gavroche was born. It makes no difference where their parents are.
Eponine considers. Ze could let them go. Ze could toss hir hands in the air, spin around and disappear just like their parents. Gavroche and Azelma are so used to being left, they couldn’t possibly blame hir. Besides, it’s not as if they wouldn’t be cared for. The state would snap up hir siblings and feed them into the system. Who’s to say that’s better or worse what ze can do by them?
Prompt: Zip Me
Character: Marius/Courfeyrac
Verse: Taut
WC: 831
Summary: Marius’ grandfather is getting married. Marius has got a bad case of the nerves, and Courfeyrac tries to help steady him. Follow up to this prompt.
How was Courfeyrac so composed? Marius had been listening to his heart echo in his ears for the past three hours. He loved his grandfather dearly, despite their differences, and he was terrified of saying or doing something that might embarrass M. Gillenormand on today of all days. He certainly had been accused of it before. Unable to contain his fidgeting, Marius had taken to pacing back and forth, only half-dressed and verging on a panic.
“He’s eighty. He has no business getting married.”
“He’s eighty; he deserves every happiness he can find.”
Marius pulled a face. “He’s not the marrying type. What if this ends badly?”
“She seems more than capable of holding her own.”
“My aunt is displeased.”
“Your aunt is always displeased.” Courfeyrac’s tone was easy, without accusation. “Come on, isn’t it nice to have her displeased with someone other than yourself, for a change?” He smiled without effort as he studied his reflection. Formal wear suited him. There was so little that didn’t.
“I’m sure she’ll be back to it, soon enough. You look—” Marius trailed off, unable to conjure an acceptable adjective.
“Thank you.” Courfeyrac abandoned the mirror and pushed Marius in front of it, catching his arm as his paces brought him within reach. Marius stumbled a bit, frowning at his reflection. His suit was not as fine as Courfeyrac’s; it was rented and though it fit acceptably well, he thought it looked a bit frayed and faded. To his eye, it hung as though it were a borrowed suit, where Courfeyrac’s seemed to have been stitched for him alone. “Your tie is crooked.”
“Ack!” Marius reached to adjust it, but Courfeyrac batted his fingers away, adjusting the silver fabric with quick, practiced motions. When he had finished, he swung Marius’ coat over the ensemble and began to fasten the buttons, batting at Marius again when he tried to help.
“You’ll muss it.” He scolded, smoothing the tie down Marius’ chest and tweaking the collar of the suit until he was satisfied with how it lay. “You’re fretting again.”
Marius whimpered a little. “I’m going to trip. I’m going to trip over my own stupid feet.”
“Nonsense. I protest the assault upon the character of your feet; they’re extraordinarily clever, though you might consider wearing shoes to this affair. Where’d you set them? Have you got your speech?”
“Right here.” Marius patted his breast pocket with trembling fingers, mouth going dry at the prospect of the toast he would have to give.
Courfeyrac grinned. “Excellent. Shoes?”
Marius gestured, and Courfeyrac crossed the room to fetch them. “Sit down.” He ordered, and Marius obeyed, falling backwards into one of the luxurious winged chairs of his grandfather’s estate. Courfeyrac knelt and slid the shoes onto Marius’ feet one at a time, tugging the laces to be certain they would not come undone during the ceremony.
“There, you’re all set.” Courfeyrac stood and pulled Marius up with him, squeezing his hands as he tugged them back to the mirror, loopining his arms around Marius’ waist and resting his chin on Marius’ shoulder as they studied their reflection. “Look at that; what a handsome couple we make! We’ll be the envy of the whole room, excepting, of course, the lucky lovebirds of the day.”
Marius felt his face flush. “I’ll be envied, at least. They’ll pity you, for being on my arm.”
“You’re ridiculous. Are you still so worried? Your dancing is much improved and you give wonderful speeches once you get them started. We both know you can do this, Marius.”
“I’m just nervous.”
“Here, then.” Courfeyrac stepped in front of Marius, pressing his back to Marius’ front. Marius let his boyfriend catch his hands, tugging Marius’ arms about himself. “How about an incentive?”
“I’m a little afraid to ask.”
“You shouldn’t be.” Courfeyrac was still holding Marius’ fingers. Moving suddenly, he thrust Marius’ hand into his trousers, tugging up the tuck of his shirt to press Marius’ fingers to his hipbone. Marius flushed, suddenly hot all over. His reflection was mortified, bright red with his astonishment. Courfeyrac looked pleased.
“Wh-what are you--?” The fabric against Marius’ touch felt like—
“Silk. Care to guess the color?”
“I-”
“Well, if you survive this wedding, you can find out first hand. How’s that?”
“I-I’m suddenly much more concerned with surviving until the wedding. I think I’ve forgotten how to breathe.” How was he supposed to remember how to conduct himself if Courfeyrac kept this up? Breathing was important. He wouldn’t be able to dance without breathing, and he certainly wouldn’t be able to give a speech without air.
Courfeyrac’s grin widened, and he turned to press their lips together. Marius’s hands shifted, sliding up Courfeyrac’s sides to rest there, though he’d completely undone Courfeyrac’s outfit. The shirt would have to be retucked and the jacket adjusted. Courfeyrac didn’t seem to care, refusing to move his lips from Marius’ as he said, “I have every faith in you, love.”
Prompt: X Me: Dancing at a wedding
Character: Les Amis (Sans Feuilly and Musichetta)
Verse: Taut
WC: 1,135
Summary: M.Gillenormand is getting married and Marius has to learn to dance.
“He’s going to expect me to dance.” Marius despaired, leaning his nose into Courfeyrac’s shoulder and moaning into his boyfriend’s collar.
“Of course he is. Dancing is what you do at weddings.”Courfeyrac reached to pat Marius’ dark curls consolingly.
“I thought you weren’t speaking to your grandfather?” Bossuet inquired loudly from where he was helping Joly to ascend the stairs at the back of the room.
“He’s after me to move home again, after the wedding.” Marius sighed. “He thinks I’ll be less—what did he say?”
“Impressionable. He thinks I’m imprinting you with my wicked wiles and my talk of civil liberties and the natural rights of man.”
“Aren’t you?” Grantaire cackled. He’d arrived at the café before any of them to take his usual seat in the most remote corner of the room, feet propped irreverently upon the table beside a tall thermos.
“I’m certainly trying.”Courfeyrac tilted his chin to kiss Marius’ nose with mischievous affection. Marius’ cheeks flushed and he scowled.
“What’s wrong with a little dancing?” Joly asked, taking the seat beside Marius and hanging his cane over the back of it. “Bossuet and I go dancing all the time.” Bossuet grinned broadly and squeezed Joly’s hand as he passed. It was an old joy of theirs, recently revived as Joly grew more comfortable with his prosthetic.
“It’s fine for other people, I just—”
“Never learned?” Combeferre supplied. He had followed Bossuet and Joly into the upper room of the Musain, arms laden with papers for grading. Enjolras was close behind him, similarly burdened. There was no formal meeting today—Feuilly had picked up a shift at a bar where he sometimes worked, and Musichetta’s job had been juggling her schedule about for weeks—but everyone had fallen into the habit of spending their free evenings at the café. The students, especially, found it vastly preferable to the busy bustling of the campus library.
“Never needed to.” Marius grumbled, crossing his arms somewhat defensively and sitting back.
“We’ll have to teach you then.” Grantaire kicked his legs down and lurched to his feet, offering a hand to Marius that Courfeyrac playfully knocked away.
“If anyone is going to teach my boyfriend how to step, it’s going to be me.”
Grantaire lifted his hands in surrender, laughing agreeably.
“I’ll dance with you, R.” Joly offered, allowing Grantaire to lift him from his chair. Grantaire braced the shorter man against his hip and immediately spun and dipped him with a practiced flair. Joly laughed and Bossuet clapped in delight. Marius looked alarmed.
“Do I have—”
“No,” Courfeyrac assured him, rising to his feet and pulling the reluctant Marius along with him. “We can start small.”
“If you’re going to dance, there must be music.” Combeferre said, setting his papers in a neat stack and standing on his toes to reach the dusty radio propped upon one of the tall mantles that lined the upper room. The old device was rarely employed, but a quick huff of air from Combeferre revealed a functional power switch, and after spending a few long moments fiddling with the dial, he’d settled on a station whose music he deemed acceptable.
Courfeyrac had set Marius’ hands where they belonged, and was beginning to explain the measure of steps. “Sets of four. Waltz in three-and.”
“I’m not coordinated enough for this.”
“Yes you are.”
“Marius, if I can do it—” Bossuet began.
“And do it well!” Joly interjected, somewhat breathlessly. Grantaire was leading him on at a merry pace.
“—then I have full confidence in you.”
A commotion in the stairwell announced the arrival of Jehan and Bahorel:
“It’s the same thing!”
“Like red and burgundy are the same thing.”
“Exactly.”
“Ah! You’re impos—hush, I hear music!”
Jehan was the first into the room, and her face lit as she took in the scene. Joly and Grantaire spinning around the long room, Marius stumbling a bit as Courfeyrac directed his steps with gentle patience, Bossuet leaning back at the table, watching the goings-on with great amusement, Combeferre reclining with a notebook in his lap, smiling around the pen in his teeth...even Enjolras, though he was devoting most of his attention to the notes he had brought along, glanced up with an occasional smile. Jehan spun about on the heels of her bare feet, her skirt whirling dramatically as she reached to grab at Bahorel and pull him into the room with her, obviously intending to join in the fun. “Dancing! I love dancing. What’s the occasion?”
“Marius’ grandfather is getting married, and Marius doesn’t know how to dance.” Bossuet supplied.
“Monsieur Gillenormand, really? How exciting! I didn’t think he was the marrying type.”
“He’s really not. Sorry!” Marius had stepped on Courfeyrac’s foot, but Courfeyrac only shrugged.
“You’re doing fine.”
“I don’t know what this woman’s done to talk him into it. Normally he gets bored with them so quickly…”
“I’d like to meet her, I think. She must be very interesting.”
“As though you need lessons in being interesting.” Bahorel teased, tossing Jehan’s shoes at her. She’d walked out of them several blocks back, and probably not even noticed. Jehan caught them and arranged them beneath the chair where she had deposited her handbag.
“There’s always more to learn.” Grantaire said laughingly, depositing Joly into the chair marked by his cane. Joly’s face was flushed, and though his breathing was a little heavy and he rubbed at the joint of his hip with distraction, he was still laughing. Grantaire reached for his thermos, taking a deep pull before he motioned for Bossuet to join him. “Come on, you don’t think I’d forget you?”
“You are going to dance with me, aren’t you?” Jehan’s tone threatened a pout. Bahorel grinned and poked at her protruding lip before sliding his hand to her waist, pulling her away from the table so that they had more room.
“ ‘course I am.”
Even barefoot, Jehan was several inches taller than him. It didn’t matter; their bodies folded together like puzzle pieces and they moved around the Musain with comfortable fluidity, alternating lead with every other song.
“How do you all make this look so easy?” Marius asked, somewhat frustrated, dropping his hand from Courfeyrac’s and frowning deeply.
“It’s not so complicated as you are making it.” Courfeyrac said gently. “You’re thinking too much.”
“Marius is always thinking too much.” Grantaire supplied, spinning Bossuet with much more flourish than was strictly necessary. Marius stuck out his tongue.
“Come here, don’t give up.” Courfeyrac caught his hand and pulled them back together. “It just takes practice, Marius. You’re doing very well.”
Marius leaned his head into Courfeyrac’s shoulder again, sighing dramatically.
“We’ve got a whole month until the wedding.” Courfeyrac noted, patting Marius’ hair again. “Plenty of time to practice.”
Prompt: Quiet Me
Pairing: Jehan/Bahorel
Verse: Taut
WC: 1369
Summary: Bahorel comes home from a long-running tattooing session and finds that Jehan has had a rough night.
Warnings: Self-harm, depression
One of the best things about co-owning a body art parlor with your best mate was having a say about your hours. There was none of that grindstone 8-5 business that Feuilly had to deal with. Neither Grantaire nor Bahorel were morning people, and they designed their business accordingly. From day one, they had operated on a four-day-a-week schedule, splitting shifts so that the place was open from one in the afternoon until two in the morning, extending and adjusting their hours as needed to accommodate their regulars. Occasionally they hit a windfall, and someone commissioned an intricate piece that covered their expenses sufficiently that they could shut the whole shop down for a week or more, until they found themselves having to pay rent again. Those pieces were worth Bahorel staying up all night for, though his hands cramped and his eyes were burning by the time he dragged himself back to the apartment.
Jehan didn’t usually wait up for him—she had enrolled in morning classes to free her afternoons for work—and when he recognized their lights from the street, Bahorel felt uneasiness stir in his gut. There was no mistaking their apartment; Jehan had bedecked their section of fire escape with potted plants and flowering ivies, so the glow that reached Bahorel was only what could flit through the densely packed leaves, leaving a distinctive pattern on the sidewalk below in the absence of functional street lamps. He increased his pace and took the stairs two at a time. The door was unlocked.
“Babe?” He called, kicking roughly out of his shoes, piling the tattered sneakers on the kitchen mat. “Babe, everything alright?”
There was no answer.
“Jehan!”
“In here.”
Bahorel didn’t hesitate before pushing open the bathroom door, smothering an exclamation at the sight that greeted him: his girlfriend seated on the side of the bathtub, leaned against the tile wall and folded into herself, cradling her raw arms over the pink puddles that had formed around the drain. She always looked so small when she was upset, her long arms and legs tucked tight against her torso as she rocked back and forth like a child. Bahorel bit his tongue. Loud was his default, but he’d known Jehan long enough to understand that his shouting was the last thing she needed right now.
He didn’t ask what had happened, only knocked down the lid to the toilet so he could sit near her, waiting for her permission before he moved any closer, his teeth digging into his cheek as he struggled to find words that he trusted enough to let past his lips, terrified of making things worse.
Bahorel was no good at this. He didn’t know how to fix things, how to provide comfort. Problems he couldn’t solve with his fist were problems best left to other people. Sarcasm and aggression carried him through most of his days, and he was proud of the way he could square his shoulders and set his feet. He’d never backed down from a fight, and he’d never hesitated to give or take a hit for his friends. Jehan was the healer. Bahorel was a force of destruction, a thing for others to point and aim and stand back as he was allowed to wreak havoc.
All the more frustrating then, that Jehan’s demons were not a thing he could fight.
Because he would.
He wanted to.
Desperately.
Sitting quietly was difficult, and his fists clenched and unclenched with the effort and frustration of waiting. After a long while, she looked up at him and her eyes were rimmed with red, eyelashes pressed together with tears. Bahorel’s gut convulsed, as guiltily as if he’d been the source of her sorrow. How long had she been crying?
“I’m sorry.” She murmured, scooting along the side of the tub to lay her head on his knees, her arms still cradled in her lap. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Bahorel shook his head, running his fingers through her hair, careful of the tangles there. “You don’t have to apologize to me, babe.”
“I’m a wreck.”
“Only a little one.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I know.”
“I got the first aid kit out.”
Bahorel turned his head, craning his neck to see where she had propped it beside the sink. Their kit got too much mileage by far, but because it was almost always in use it was also always being restocked. Bahorel kept one hand in her hair and reached the other to pull the kit towards him, popping it open on the counter and tugging free the zip lock of cotton squares.
“Can I?” He asked gently.
Jehan offered up one wrist. The smooth, even cuts had already dried, and he gently swabbed at the crusted blood until her arm was clean again before laying fresh squares over them and binding the wounds with athletic tape. Though the alcohol swabs snagged and pulled at the tears in her skin, Jehan didn’t lift her head as she offered her other arm and he repeated the process.
“Come here.” Bahorel pulled her to him, sliding his arm beneath her knees and lifting her. She hardly weighed anything for as tall as she was, and he felt her curl into his neck, her nose pressed against his shoulder. Jehan’s breathing was ragged, and her whole body was trembling. She folded her arms close to her chest as he carried her back into their living room. Bahorel lifted her over the back of the couch and set her against the cushions. “I’m going to make some coffee, okay?” It sounded stupid, falling out of his mouth like that, but it was the first thing he could think to do. Jehan loved coffee.
“Okay.”
Thank god for the instant stuff. It wasn’t great coffee, but he didn’t want to spend the time to brew anything good. A minute waiting by the microwave was a minute longer than he wanted to be away, and he didn’t bother to make himself a mug before returning to the living room. Jehan was curled into a tiny ball, her knees pulled as close to herself as she could manage with Chapeau snuggled into the curve of her stomach. Her fingers were tangled in the cat’s thick hair, and Chapeau seemed content to let her have her way, his chin propped upon her hip as he watched for Bahorel’s return. Bahorel tugged at the cat’s ears as he set the coffee within Jehan’s reach, shifting his girlfriend by the shoulders and squeezing between her and the couch. He rested her head in his lap and began to run his hand down her arm from her shoulder to her elbow. He was so bad at this.
“Talk to me.” She asked, her voice barely audible.
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“Anything?” He said, a little helplessly. Anything was a broad topic.
“Anything.” She paused. “Your tattoo.”
“Which one?” There were a lot of them.
“The tiger.”
He shifted a little. People generally just assumed that a tough guy wanted a tough tattoo; rarely did anyone inquire further. He wasn’t used to explaining it.
“It’s a poem.” The dark silhouette on his chest, the roaring beast that crossed his pectorals…it was a work of art. He never would have trusted anyone but Grantaire to do such fine lines. The words of the poem were elegantly scripted and tightly pressed, tumbling over each other to form the tiger’s whiskered face and the first two stripes down the creature’s back until the tattoo ended at the tiger’s shoulders, pressed against the left side of Bahorel’s ribs. The font was miniscule, however, and nobody would have been able to read it without getting very, very close.
“Blake, right?” Jehan had been very, very close.
“Mmm.” He nodded. “It’s…a reminder that things can be beautiful and terrible all at once, and that gentleness comes from the same place as ferocity. And that nobody fucks with a tiger.”
“I do sometimes.” He looked down. Jehan’s eyes were closed, but there was the tiniest smile on her lips.
Relieved, Bahorel laughed a little and reached to smooth her hair out of her face. “Yeah.” He agreed. “Yeah, you do.”
Prompt: Break Me
Character: Combeferre
Verse: Taut
WC: 618
Summary: In which Jess takes liberty with prompts and we angst about Combeferre instead of with him. An event at the university turned unexpectedly violent.
Les Amis were alarmingly familiar with the waiting room outside the E.R., to the point where Musichetta had taken it upon herself to update the faded, dog-eared magazine collection so that Marius had something new to fidget with.
Joly and Bossuet sat closest to the door, normally easy faces lined and shadowed. Occasionally Joly would open his mouth as if to say something, and Bossuet would shake his head and squeeze Joly’s fingers so that the other fell silent instead.
Musichetta stood by the window and studied the parking lot, arms crossed over her chest, gripping her biceps with white knuckles. Jehan sat where she could best see the door, watching through the thin gap of glass that offered a teasing view of the hallways beyond, her long legs folded into the seat beneath her as she made herself as small as possible, shrunk into herself in her anxiety. Beside her, Bahorel sat sprawled, slumping in his chair with his legs kicked forward, taking up as much space as he could manage. A little apart from the others, Feuilly was gazing fixedly at the book balanced upon his knees. He had not turned a page in nearly twenty minutes.
Enjolras did not sit. He paced. Tight, agitated steps carried him across the room and back with briskness, his hands clasped tightly behind him. Three of their number were absent.
Bahorel pressed Jehan’s hand, and she looked at him. Her eyes were dangerously damp. “You don’t get this worried when it’s me we’re waiting on.” He teased, probably hoping to lighten her distress. His words were untrue; Jehan cried for him every time.
Now, however, she simply turned his hand over in hers and traced the rising bruises there, delicately avoiding the stitches that crossed his knuckles. “That’s because you’re a great big pile of bricks.” She murmured, blinking rapidly. “I’m never worried about you; I’m worried about whatever it is that you’ve hit. Combeferre, though—”
Combeferre was never the one they had to wait for. He was far too gentle, too diplomatic to end up on the receiving end of the violence they sometimes inspired.
“Here’s Courfeyrac!” Marius interrupted. Enjolras ceased his pacing, lifting his chin without unclasping his hands. Everyone turned to the door, watching as their friend pushed it open and propped it wide so that Grantaire could pass him, carefully cradling one of his cameras. There was a split in the lens, and the dark fluid that was splashed across it made Joly recoil in alarm as it came close to brushing his sleeve.
“They won’t be pressing charges.” Courfeyrac announced, grinning victoriously through the split in his lip, and most of the room breathed an audible sigh. Enjolras scowled.
“They were the aggressors.”
“And R got it all on film.”
“I think I did.” Grantaire hefted the camera sourly, sliding the strap over his mussed hair. “These aren’t meant to be used as clubs, you know. Combeferre owes me a new lens. How is he? Awake yet?”
“No word.” Marius supplied. Courfeyrac’s expression fell, and Grantaire dropped heavily into the vacant chair beside Bossuet, staring morosely at the ruined camera in his hands. Enjolras resumed his march, steps quicker than before. His dark eyes burned deep ruts in the floor. Courfeyrac stepped to intercept him, gripping Enjolras by the shoulders. No words passed between them, but Enjolras’ demeanor softened somewhat. He let his hands fall.
“It’s been six hours.” Joly noted, eyeing the clock with a pained expression.
Enjolras made an inexpressible noise deep in his throat, stepping around Courfeyrac to circle the room again. Nobody voiced the question that was on everyone’s mind. What if their friend didn’t wake up at all?
“I’m not a cat person, Gavroche.”
“Please? Just let him stay here! I can’t keep him at our place, my dad—”
“What am I going to do with a cat?”
“Put him on your head, like Courfeyrac! I’ve been calling him Chapeau, see?”
“Chapeau, huh? Hand him here. He’s as big as you are, kid.”
It’s not his cat. It’s not his cat and it’s not his kid and they’re not. his. problem. So why do people keep trusting him to deal with things?
Bahorel learned a long time ago that he wasn’t someone to be trusted with responsibility. He’s always been a wreck. He makes bad choices and he fucks things up. He breaks things. He hurts people. He can’t take care of his own business, so he’s got no place trying to look after anyone else’s.
It’s a shame too, because his parents were honest people. They worked. They worked and they worked and they worked. They worked until their fingers bled and their bones ached. They worked so many hours sometimes he forgot their faces. It didn’t matter. Winters were still cold and their coats were too thin. His family had food about as often as they didn’t, and Bahorel never understood what all that work was for, if they still went hungry and he shivered through the nights.
He was eight the first time he broke the law. He was thirteen when he got caught. Breaking into cars was reckless and stupid, but he’d been trying desperately to impress the older boys who ran his block. He had needed them to like him, to include him. At thirteen, Bahorel had been too young to put words to the idea, but he had understood that if you didn’t cast your lot with something larger than yourself, the world would sweep you away and leave nothing but an empty wake.
Bahorel learned to drift, finishing only so much school as was mandatory before he began to roam Paris. He realized that he could make marks all on his own, and if he stood big enough and screamed loudly enough, there wasn’t much in the world that would be able to smother his echo.
That’s really what matters to him. There’s nothing that frightens him more than the idea of fading out before he’s had time to burn his mark into the world. Because his mark will be a burn. It will be a scar. People like Bahorel don’t fix things. He’s destructive. He’s a force. He’s a weapon. He knows it; he’s built himself that way, stitching together the scraps of his life to construct an individual whose most notable characteristic is that he is as tame and predictable and gentle as fire itself. There’s nothing soft about him. He’s still a wreck. He still smashes windows and throws fists. Nothing’s changed.
Well, almost nothing. When he follows Enjolras to protests, when he defaces public property with vulgar red paint, when he shoulders up to police lines…he knows that he’s going to burn his mark, and it’s going to matter.
Jehan never dated straight guys. That had been her policy since she’d been in grade school, and it was her mother’s idea. It was a good one; when she limited herself to dating queer men, Jehan didn’t always have to stumble through explanations of anatomy and gender and was less likely to have to defend herself. Straight guys might not be safe. Straight guys might not understand. Straight guys made things complicated.
Besides, there were plenty of queer men around. Usually. Even if she didn’t want to date any of them. Grantaire was always on call if she needed anything, no strings attached. She didn’t have to risk herself by getting involved with straight guys.
So how had this happened? Bahorel was most definitely a straight man. She knew. She’d asked.
Letting herself get close to him had been a terrible idea, and she’d known it from the beginning. He was too unpredictable, too wild. She’d broken his arm and all he’d done was insist on a coffee date. Jehan had done everything she could to sabotage the situation, had tried to frighten him off by showing him the most raw and honest and ugly parts of herself that she could bear to expose. She told him she didn’t trust straight men because of her father. She’d mentioned her drug use and boldly exposed the scars on her wrists when she handed him his mug. He’d just run his thumb along them and said, “Demons, huh? I’ve got a few myself.” and pulled her to a table in the sun.
‘You fall in love too easy,’she despaired.
It was entirely true. There are so many types of love, and Jehan was helpless before all of them.
‘You’ve only got the one rule,’she berated herself.
Actually, she had several, and she never followed any of them.
‘You’re going to regret this,’she tried to warn herself.
It didn’t matter. She wanted him. He infuriated and amazed and fascinated her, and she found herself savoring the taste of insurrection that lay so heavy on his tongue.
She liked the taste of his skin, too. It was full of lingering warmth and red sun and even though there was snow piling in the windowsill, she swore Bahorel tasted like the beginning of autumn and the ending of summer as she traced her lips along his jaw. His throat vibrated beneath her teeth and she grinned against the dark ink there, pleased by the animalistic noises she could tease from him, even just by pinning him with her knees. She had to be careful of the space between their hips still. She didn’t trust her body enough to allow them to meet. The lace lining of her panties was already getting tight.
Piled on her couch like clumsy teenagers, the difference in their heights was much less meaningful, though his broad shoulders spanned more than the width of the cushions, and he reached to pull her down to him, the plaster of his cast snagging on the coarse wool of her sweater.
She stiffened momentarily before letting him close that distance, dropping her hips beneath the pressure of his palm. If he noticed her hesitation he gave no sign. His good hand worked up her shirt, tracing the line of her morning glories as if from memory, dancing from her hip to run along her ribcage, slipping to tease the clasp of her bra. They’d been here before, she was comfortable with it.
“You wanna move this party?”
She bit him, bruising his neck before she nodded her assent into his shoulder. He hooked his arms under her knees and pulled her up with him, having no trouble supporting her weight as he stood. She had to wrap her legs around his waist to keep her feet from dragging, further tightening the distance between them. She tried not to think about it, and busied herself with tangling the length of his undercut in her fingers and tasting the skin that lined his collarbone.
Jehan didn’t have a proper bedroom, because she’d never properly moved into her apartment. Permanence was an impossibility for mortal beings such as they, and roots were for flowers. Jehan liked knowing she could flit away on a breath, and so she owned very little in the way of furniture. Once she’d gotten the mattress in, she’d hadn’t bothered with sheets, only dumped a pile of quilts at the foot of the bed. There was only one pillow and no frame. She didn’t even have a dresser; all her clothes were stacked in little wicker baskets or hung in various places about her room. A tall mirror was leaned precariously against one wall, and Bahorel kicked aside a short pile of her textbooks as he made his way towards the mattress, stumbling as he knocked his toes into it. They pitched forward, landing in a heap of quilts and breathless laughter, Bahorel astride her and pinning her to the mattress with his weight centered at their hips.
His hands were still moving—he was amazingly deft, even with one wrist immobilized—and Jehan’s sweater flew across the room. She shuddered as he moved his mouth down her skin, leaving a trail of faint bruises intermingled in the vine of her tattoo. It was all she could do to keep from bucking her hips into his weight. She looped her fingers through the waist of his pants, thinking of how much she’d like to help him out of them.
Before she could, Bahorel dropped his hands, circling her wrists and pushing them away. “Hold on.” His voice was deeper than hers, textured with edges that he had never bothered to polish away, and he whistled through the gap in his front teeth. “I want to try something.”
Bahorel released her wrists and ran his hands along her legs, toying for a minute with the stockings bound up at her thighs before sliding up her skirt, his eyes locked onto hers. He was wearing that same feral, wicked expression that sat so naturally across his crooked lips. Whatever he was planning, he was already smug about it.
Jehan, for her part, was somewhat frozen. Panic seemed the natural reaction, as if she hadn’t already had this conversation with him, as if he might be surprised by what he found down there. The reason she didn’t date straight men. Her teeth dug into her lower lip, but she let him continue as he lifted the fabric of her skirt and lowered his face. She lost sight of him, and the sudden brush of his lips against the inside of her thigh made her gasp, releasing a breath she had not realized she was holding.
“These are nice,” he murmured, running a finger under the lace that crossed her hipbone, snapping it back down sharply. “But I’m not sure if you’re supposed to wear them or floss with them.”
“Why don’t you try?” Jehan couldn’t help the retort any more than she could help the sudden jerk of her hips as she felt his teeth brush against her, scraping down her leg as he moved her panties out of his way, sliding them down to her ankles and over her feet using nothing more than his mouth, his hands braced at her hips.
Jehan watched as he kissed his way back up her legs, stopping at her knees to lift his eyes again. He was still looking sly, but there was something else there too.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Amazing.” She answered, feeling her skin warm and closing her eyes as he lowered his lips again.
“Are you okay?”
“I…I don’t know. I’m only twenty-five.”
“Listen, I—”
“I mean…I’m going to be bald! With this egg-head!”
“We can get you wigs, I’m sure. And hats, and—”
“Are you kidding? You better just go buy R some sharpies.”
Everyone calls him Bossuet. He prefers it that way. He gets the name l’Aigle from his father, and though he doesn’t ever speak poorly of the man, there’s a comfort that comes with keeping distance between them. The only thing Bossuet inherited from his father was his perpetual bad luck…and a mean-tempered bird they laughingly call Lesgueules, who only sings for Joly and bites everyone but Musichetta.
When Bossuet was seven, he tripped over a black cat into a line of mirrors stacked beneath a ladder in an alley behind an antique shop. At least, that’s the event he likes to cite if anyone ever comments on his bad luck; nobody has ever been able to verify the truth behind his claims. For the most part, it’s accepted that it’s as good of an explanation as can be offered. He does seem to have a bit of an unlucky streak. Joly’s fond of tweaking his cheek and teasing that he’s the human incarnation of Murphey’s law, a comment that frequently has the pair of them in stitches.
Bossuet’s the type of person who could set fire to the kitchen while making PB&J, who ends up with two flat tires every time it rains, and who stubs his toe every morning when he crosses the room to turn off his alarm. Still, he’s always been cheery about his misfortunes. Having a father who gambled away their savings and left their family more or less destitute might upset others, but Bossuet only laughed. It was the sort of thing to expect from the senior l’Aigle, and Bossuet’d never had much of a taste for school anyway. Being without the money for tuition gave him the perfect excuse to drop out of his degree. Becoming homeless was a bit more concerning, or it would have been if Joly hadn’t just handed over his key. Joly was more or less permanently stuck at the hospital, and his apartment was paid for the next year. It was a simple thing and neither of them ever discussed Bossuet moving out once he’d established himself.
Bossuet and Joly have known each other since high school. They went to dances together, even after Bossuet moved off to school and had to drive back to take them. Since Joly was sixteen, they’ve rarely gone more than a day without communicating in some way, even if it was only texting between class. In all that time, Bossuet had never known Joly’s fatalistic frets to be accurate. He doesn’t mind the worry—he knows that Joly can’t help it, and that concern is how he cares—but it’s never been malaria and it’s never been salmonella and okay it was the flu once but mostly it’s just seasonal allergies.
It started with just feeling tired, but they’ve been so busy. And then there was a fever, but there was a bug going around the university (Joly had taken a week off, just to be safe). And then he started having trouble keeping his breath. Joly was certain it was pneumonia. It was the first time they’d ever really wished he had been right. Neither of them had been prepared for the diagnosis to be cancer.
It’s treatable, the doctor tells them. He’s probably going to be fine; it’s all very routine, but things aren’t going to be easy.
That makes Bossuet laugh, and even Joly manages to crack a smile. Musichetta squeezes both their hands. It’s never been easy, but it’s going to be okay.
“He’s right you know.”
“About what?”
“We can’t possibly say that we have succeeded at anything, until we have seriously looked at education reform.”
“I agree it is an issue—a serious issue—but the primary issue, the sole measurement of our success?”
“Changing the world has got to begin with shaping the minds of the next generation. The future lies entirely in the hands of the schoolmaster, love.”
Generally, the university’s policy is to limit each T.A. to one lab section apiece. Combeferre teaches three: two pre-med A&P sections and one invertebrate taxonomy lab. He had to do some rather passionate negotiating in order to allow this, but that was a simple matter for him. Nobody could ever say he doesn’t care about his students, and unlike many T.A.’s, Combeferre absolutely loves teaching. He can’t get enough of interacting with curious minds, and his A&P section is the most popular of all the pre-med classes; there’s intense competition between the undergraduate students, and in the six years he’s been teaching it, there’s never been an empty seat in either session. Unfortunately, this is his last semester as a T.A.; he’s graduating, first in his class, and his residency as a cardiologist will begin this summer.
After so long as both a student and a teacher, he’s a little uncertain how he feels about the transition, but he’s already made arrangements with the department to join the staff as a part-time tutor.
With finishing his degree, planning lessons and grading papers (not to mention supporting Enjolras’ many endeavors) it’s amazing that Combeferre ever has time to pursue hobbies. Despite his amazing amount of focus, his interests are not limited to the fields of medicine and biology. Since his freshman year, he’s held one of the leading roles in every production of the community theater. To be fair, the main reason he got that first role in Hamlet is because he was the only one who could get his hands on an actual human skull for the props department, but he gave an impressive performance and he’s only continued to improve, even branching into musical pieces. Often he recruits Jehan and Courfeyrac to help him run lines before an audition, and even Enjolras has been known to indulge him in delivering a deadpan recital of Christine Daae’s part. Combeferre was an impeccable Raoul, and he unapologetically has changed Enjolras’ ringtone to ‘All I Ask of You’.
Three walls of the bedroom operate as a functional library, complete with a filing system categorizing hits collection by topic, author, and level of approval through the peer review process. Feuilly helped with that, both with building the shelves and designing the organizational concept.
Feuilly helped him build the “bug-box” too, a wall-sized tribute to the impressive insect collection he’s accumulated in his eight years of teaching taxonomy. Poor Enjolras took forever to adjust to that, walking into their room to find a book and being confronted by the centerpiece of the collection, a giant pinned beetle, and he still gets a start whenever he opens their freezer to find a butterfly in a jar propped carefully up against their ice trays. The risks of falling in love with a scientist…Enjolras was warned. (He was also warned about holding events that conflict with new episodes of Doctor Who. Combeferre let him have that one free pass, but he will take matters into his own hands next time. See how much gets done when their meeting minutes are recorded in Circular Gallifreyan…)
