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Disclaimer: I do not own any part of Les Mis. And you can all thank God for that . . . (mwaha).
Let me establish this this is AUAs in, no spazzed out reviews with "OMG He'd NEVER EVER do that, you terrible, awful LOSER person" scrawled all about the page. I am AWARE that this is a crack fic. Ah, but do not have the wrong impression, for it makes sense, too. I mean, I don't just totally make things random. People have reasons here, even if they are a bit OOC. I make Cosette a bit more bitchy than she'd normally be, and Eponine and Marius are more like their characters in the musical (all innocent let's-dance-in-the-flowers types), but Enjolras is still manly and Grantaire is still drunk and the Amis are (hopefully) in character.
Ah, what the hell. Just read it.
It was midday. The sun had not yet begun to set, but was hovering nearer to the trees and sinking in the sky, warning Cosette of the night. Her heart beat faster in anticipation, her eyes fixed in devotion to the gates that would soon frame the face of her beloved. It would only be minutes now until she would see him again.
Opportunities such as this one were rare gifts. All too often she found herself without him; after all, he was a busy man, his soul already sold to the Revolution. She tried to ignore that side of him and remember that if it were his choice, she would always be his first priority—but alas, it was not meant to be. Hopefully when this whole barricade charade was over, she could be at peace.
Yes. It was the barricades that would stop this madness. For although her heart belonged to the man she now awaited, she was painfully aware of the dreamy, devoted boy who still accompanied her in the gardens every night. Her Marius. Oh!—the love that had beat through her heart and coursed into her veins when they had met that first happy night. She had hardly slept, she had loved him so much. But then that fateful day had arrived. Her beloved appeared at her door, trying to appeal to her father to join the Revolutionaries, his face set in a grim determination.
He looked at if the gods had chiseled his face. His jaw was strong and defiant, his eyes alight with passion. He was a man with a mission, a purpose, a cause. Clearly he held authority.
But more importantly, when he had first regarded Cosette, he’d looked right through her. It was simply infuriating. Cosette knew she was beautiful, and tried hard to be presentable, always curling her hair and choosing the most delicate, ladylike fabrics for her dresses. Men were supposed to see that. Wasn’t that what men were for? It had worked on young Marius in a heartbeat, but this man seemed completely unaffected by her charm. It left her baffled.
So, of course, she’d invited him in. While they’d waited for her father, she’d coyly directed the conversation, looking at him with her wide, innocent eyes. Again he seemed like stone. She was almost insulted—but that night, he appeared at her door again, requesting to speak with her.
Thank God that her father had not seen. Thank God that Marius had been late that day! Fate had truly been on their sides that day. Everything was perfect. Nobody could see them alone in the gardens, kissing each other tenderly as if tomorrow would never come.
Marius never kissed her, save for their first meeting. He had never held her so tightly that she thought, with a giddy feeling of joy, that he might crush her very heart. And Marius certainly never ran his arm up her sleeve, never made her tingle with uncertainty. There was no mystery to be had with him. His emotions were written on his face, and he was too much of a gentlemen to commit those bold acts that love compelled two people to share.
Cosette was certain she was an awful person for doing this to the poor boy. She knew how much he loved her . . . and true, she loved him too. But not as much as the man she pined for every evening during her father’s midday walks to the gardens. Sometimes he was there, sometimes he was not—oh, but what did it matter if she didn’t see him this week? It would never be enough, even if he came every night, even if she should own him and hear his breathing beside her at night.
Her thoughts of the barricade made her feel even more cruel. A part of her hoped that her problem would be solved by the fighting to be had. If her love died on the barricades, then she would have to marry Marius and she would never dream of what-might-have-been. It would never be happily ever after, but it would come close. She would be happy with Marius. She always was.
“Mademoiselle.”
The deep voice, had she heard it months before, would have terrified her. Now she lived for the sound of its protective rumble. She whirled on her heels, her smile as grand as the moon.
“Oh, Enjolras,” she breathed, finally at ease. “I’ve missed you so.”
It had only been yesterday since their last meeting, in reality, but Courfeyrac was never one for seriousness. Even with the Revolution days away, he was still in jovial spirits. Marius rolled his eyes. “And where, my friend, would I find that?” he asked, setting down the briefcase of translations he’d brought with him. It was late in the evening now, and the group of students at the cafe were waiting for Enjolras to arrive. To pass the time between, Marius decided to catch up on his work—however, his friends seemed to have other ideas.
“Better company?” Grantaire laughed, grinning drunkenly. He held up his glass, still half-full of absinthe. “Why, I’ve found it right here. Won’t you try a bit?”
As always, Marius shook his head, making sure that Grantaire was far enough away that his drink-happy hand would not spray any of the glass’ contents on his work. That was the last thing he needed right now, especially because translations were rare to find these days. True, he knew German and English now, and Paris certainly was large enough that there should be many translations to be had—but Marius could never seem to find them. And the ones he did obtain were all dirt-paying assignments that would barely last him two weeks.
Lately, though, he’d been worrying about it less and less. So he’d go hungry a few nights. All he needed was to know that Cosette was waiting for him every night on her bench in the gardens, her delicate hands folded in her lap, her eyes cast exquisitely towards the glow of the moon. It was enough to bring him through any hardship.
By day, he was distracted by the other students in preparations. The Revolution would come soon, the one they’d planned for ages. A certain feeling of dread and excitement was stifling the air of the tiny cafe. It was not often that a customer who was not a student or a revolutionary would ever come in to the establishment these days, seeing as the group of them had the place covered from every corner.
Speaking of corners, Marius decided to settle himself next to Prouvaire, who was at least quiet. The man raised an eyebrow up at him in consent before returning to his scribbling, muttering something under his breath. It was surely a masterpiece. Pity that it would probably never be read or known, especially after this mess they were all getting themselves into. For now, though, Prouvaire was settled peacefully, and Marius hoped that it would help fend off the other noisy students before Enjolras arrived.
But of course it did not work.
“Have you seen a five franc piece?” Bossuet asked Marius, looking at the floor around him. His brow was knotted in annoyance. “I only just had it in my hands; what rotten luck!”
Marius looked around, scanning the floor. “I’d ask Gavroche,” he said, collecting his translations together and setting them on the table beside Prouvaire. He pointed over to the little urchin. “He’s in here so often that I would be surprised if he should not have named the very walls.”
“Right, then.” Bossuet made his way over to the boy.
“You shouldn’t root about on the floors,” Joly warned the other man. “Heaven knows what kind of germs and bacteria there are! Why, you might catch what I have now, and believe me, it’s not worth that amount of money.”
“Oh, not this again,” Bahorel moaned.
By now Marius was ignoring them, deep in his translations. The conversations continued around him. Combeferre and Feuilly were deep in talk of the Revolution and the threat of the National Guard: how many they expected, how they planned to build the barricade so it would be strong enough to hold them, how many people of their own that the students would have in their ranks. Grantaire was drunk as ever. Bossuet continued to search in vain for the lost money. Joly was complaining to anyone who would hear, and Bahorel was continually mocking him and shouting nonsensical obscenities. Courfeyrac was watching the windows as if a pretty lady would pass by, catch his eye, and follow him home at any moment.
And so the hour proceeded. Marius resigned himself to his work, knowing that, even among his friends, there was truly no room for him here. The only person who really took time to talk to him was Enjolras, and that was only if he wasn’t busy. Courfeyrac was friendly enough, of course, and Grantaire never let Marius pass without an intoxicated phrase or two, but other than that there was not much conversation to be had. The youngest of the students (not counting Gavroche, of course), Marius had always felt somewhat out of place.
It didn’t bother him, of course. He just enjoyed the company. It was better than being holed up alone in his sad excuse for a shelter.
“Enjolras, it’s about time!” Courfeyrac said amiably, leaping off from his window perch to greet the other student. “We’ve all been waiting for hours to begin.”
“It’s hardly been hours,” Feuilly pointed out.
“Ah, no matter, we waited just the same,” said Courfeyrac, settling down at one of the tables.
Marius took this opportunity to put his books away and look up attentively. Prouvaire reluctantly set down his poetry, sucking in a breath of remorse at parting with his craft. The other men around them were assembling at tables, all at once becoming orderly after the ruckus they’d been causing before.
“What’s been keeping you?” Combeferre asked Enjolras, who thus far had not spoken a word.
Enjolras cleared his throat. Was it Marius’ imagination, or did the leader’s gaze trace Marius’ face for a moment? When Marius looked over again, Enjolras was facing Combeferre and addressing him. His mind must have been playing tricks on him.
“School matters,” Enjolras said vaguely, not apologizing for his lateness. It was not suitable for him to, anyway. No one was late unless they arrived after Enjolras. The man was the beginning itself.
No one questioned him. That was how it always would be.
And on that note, the meeting commenced.
Many more chapters to come. This one is shorter because it is the prologue, so I apologize for that. The others will be longer. Now I better study for the endless array of EXAMS I have (does anyone else wonder WHY teachers all seem to think that their specific class is THE MOST IMPORTANT one, so they must compete with each other to see who can assign more homework? I swear it's a conspiracy).
Right. Ahem. Till next time!