#bless valjean’s attitude in this scene/song #i really love the face he makes in the second gif #like “sacrifice my ass” #“you seriously think im gonna put up with your emotional bullshit????” #“after i literally saw cosette dragging a heavy ass bucket in the middle of the fucking night????” #“wearing rags?????” #“and don’t you dare i don’t know what you have been doing with my money and fantine’s money, you greedy shits” #but since he doesn’t like confrontations #valjean’s like #“alright take my money for your sAcRiFiCe, my dear fellows :):):)” #bc valjean is a kind old fellow #and he doesn’t want to scare cosette #jesus christ you can sense him ready to hit the thenardiers with the receipts #i just rlly love his whole attitude during the bargain #so fucking sassy in a passive aggressive way i s2g #bless you valjean #pls be my dad #ok but i will not stop talking abt this ever #bc jEAN VALJEAN STRAIGHT UP MURDERED THE THENARDIERS WITHOUT THEM KNOWING IT JFC #HE JUST PUT UP WITH JAVERT’S BULLSHIT ABT THE LAW AND HIS PAST THAT HE NEVER ASKED ABOUT #HE LITERALLY “DROWNED” HIMSELF TO GET TO COSETTE #YOU THINK HE’S PUTTING UP WITH YOUR BULLSHIT???? #HA BITCH U THOUGHT
#4. we slept in the same bed for space reasons but now we’re just waking up and there’s something about your bleary eyes and mussed hair
Enjolras is so comfortable when he wakes, he is more than willing to simply ignore the golden light against his eyelids and curl more comfortably against the warmth beside him. It is only when he realizes the warmth is breathing does he freeze, eyes snapping open.
It takes a moment for his eyes to adjust, but when they do, he catches the edge of an inked shoulder, delicate vines tracing the skin from elbow to collarbone.
When they went to sleep, they’d been two separate people, the distance between them a chasm of carefully tugged up sheets and longing. Now, what Enjolras took to be a firm pillow is actually Grantaire’s upper arm, and his other, the one branded with tattoos of Grantaire’s own design, is thrown heavily over Enjolras’ waist, tangled with the blankets. He is acutely aware of the pressure every time he inhales.
He shifts to check the time, his arm trapped between them. The sweep of Grantaire’s lashes flutter against his cheeks, but he doesn’t wake. A glance at his watch tells him it’s still early, and if he strains his ears, he can’t hear any of their friends moving yet in the living room.
He bites his lip, eyes darting over Grantaire’s chest, the pulse points of his neck, his face. Rarely do they get this close, and Enjolras itches to be closer, burrow himself against Grantaire’s chest, let himself be folded up in Grantaire’s arms, and stay there.
The ferocity of the thought makes him pull back a little, barely catching himself from jerking out of bed entirely.
“Are you getting up?” Grantaire murmurs, without opening his eyes, and Enjolras stills, heart pounding. Grantaire’s arm isn’t tight around him, and Enjolras even feels the pressure lighten, like Grantaire had lifted it slightly, giving him the opportunity to get up if he wants to. He doesn’t want to.
“I don’t know,” he whispers back, though they’re the only ones in the room.
The pressure returns, and Grantaire says, face still half-squashed into the pillow, “Go back to sleep, Enjolras.”
Enjolras shifts, bringing them closer, but doesn’t close his eyes. Instead, he traces his eyes along the slope of Grantaire’s nose, the morning light casting his face half in shadow. His curls cast silhouettes across his forehead, and Enjolras feels the urge to brush them back, run his fingers through and let them tangle there.
He follows the slant of Grantaire’s stubbled cheeks down to his lips, parted and pink. Enjolras licks his own, but shakes himself, tearing his gaze away, darting up to find Grantaire’s eyes, impossibly, unfairly blue, staring back.
“Jesus,” he breathes, blood rushing to his cheeks, and he looks away, anywhere but Grantaire.
“Just me,” Grantaire says, rough voice curiously bemused. He doesn’t sound uncomfortable, Enjolras detects the familiar notes of a smile in his tone, and he risks peeking a glance.
Grantaire looks back, eyes half lidded and bleary, blinking slowly. He looks so comfortable and cozy, Enjolras just wants to curl up against him again, breathe him in and stay there all morning. “What?” Grantaire asks.
Enjolras turns his face into the pillow, hiding his blush. “Nothing.”
Grantaire is quiet for so long Enjolras thinks he might have gone back to sleep, but when he sneaks a look, he finds Grantaire is still looking at him. It is almost enough to return Enjolras to the refuge of the pillow.
Instead, he pushes himself up on his elbow. Grantaire’s arm falls between them and he makes no motion to move it. Enjolras misses the warmth of it on his waist.
From his new vantage point, he can see the creases the pillow left on Grantaire’s cheeks, the curls on that side squashed and flattened. He’s turned his face a little, tracking Enjolras, and Enjolras finds himself emboldened, smiling down at Grantaire. “What?” Grantaire asks again, a surprised curl pulling his own lips up. The arm Enjolras slept on is free now, but he leaves it, brushing his fingertips lightly against Enjolras’ lower back.
Enjolras doesn’t say anything for a moment, breathing careful and deliberate. There is something soft in Grantaire’s gaze Enjolras has seen before, something unrelated to the early hour and the warmth of the bed.
Seeing him like this, smiling, languid and subdued, but not morose and self depreciating, makes something fragile flutter in Enjolras’ chest.
(No, not something, Courfeyrac would argue. It’s his heart, or adrenaline, though he’s sure Courfeyrac would have chosen much more flowery language to describe it.)
It’s not just that though. It’s not just affection, though he knows that’s been there for a while now. There’s the pride that swells within him of late, when he sees Grantaire, so much healthier, doing so much better, and they’re able to communicate with one another of late. And there’s that tenuous hope, when he sees Grantaire smile at him. That’s there too.
Seeing him like this, with his mussed curls and unfocused gaze, makes Enjolras want a lot of things; namely the ability to wake up to that sleepy smile every morning.
Without thinking, he leans down a little, just catching himself before he does something stupid.
Grantaire’s breath catches, eyes blown wide, and Enjolras can feel the way his upper body lifts just enough, searching, but he too stops himself, their lips inches from one another.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” Enjolras whispers.
“You’re not.” Grantaire’s voice is almost inaudible.
It’s enough. Enjolras closes the distance, slotting their mouths together, a chaste press of sleep-clumsy lips. His balance almost overturns, leaning too heavily on his elbow, and he must place a hand on Grantaire’s chest to steady himself.
This makes Grantaire still, maybe reminding him of the abnormality of the situation. Under Enjolras’ fingertips, he can feet Grantaire’s heart rabbiting against his ribcage, and Enjolras pulls away. “Are you okay?” he whispers, eyes darting over Grantaire’s face, searching for any sign of discomfort.
Grantaire swallows and nods. Enjolras raises his brows, a silent inquiry. This gets a smile, crooked and not totally full, out of Grantaire, which doesn’t reassure Enjolras. “I just– are you sure?” Grantaire says, a ruddy blush creeping up his neck to his cheeks, and his eyes are bright and awake now, looking away from Enjolras.
“Yes,” Enjolras says without hesitation. He’s thought too much about this to be uncertain. Grantaire’s surprise makes Enjolras’ stomach twist, so he asks, “May I kiss you again?” He likes the ‘again.’
Grantaire nods, and this time there’s no clumsiness, Grantaire’s hand coming up to cup the back of Enjolras’ neck to deepen the kiss and stay there, thumb rubbing against the edge of Enjolras’ jaw.
It’s a longer kiss, still shorter than what Enjolras might want, but they can hear their friends moving in the other room, grumbles and laughter, and when Enjolras pulls away, Grantaire is grinning up at him. “C’mon,” Enjolras murmurs, leaning down to press one last hearty kiss to the corner of Grantaire’s mouth, and sits up.
The smile fades, uncertain, for a moment when Enjolras stands, Grantaire’s eyes following him. “Come on,” Enjolras says again, holding out a hand, flourishing his fingers for Grantaire to take. There’s only a moment of hesitation before Grantaire grasps it with renewed confidence.
Forget Valjean being buried alive, forget Marius banging his head agains a tree for two hours, forget everything because the absolute highlight of the brick is when Victor Hugo says that lizards are pocket crocodiles
i think we’ve all had a laugh about the idea of valjean bringing home the wrong barricade boy to cosette….but consider…..the following…………..
The man was awake. After a week of feverish mumblings, bloody coughing fits, and uncontrollable nightmares, the man was lucid. And he was angry.
“Where am I?” He demanded a second time, backed up in a corner so he could see the large room and all of its occupants.
Cosette took a deep breath, but she was unable to keep out the edge in her voice. “Again, you are in the house of Gillenormand–”
“Who?”
“Gillenormand. You don’t know him, but you knew his grandson, M…” Cosette’s breath caught in her throat. How could it be that this young man was here, was alive, when it could have so easily been a different student in his place? Cosette did not wish death on anyone, but she did wish life upon the boy she’d fallen in love with. “Marius Pontmercy.”
That gave the man pause. He stood in the corner on shaky legs and sweat tarnished clothes. His blue eyes flashed dangerously around as if everyone, Cosette, the doctor, the maids, everyone that was staring at him, was an enemy. “Pontmercy?”
The doctor was standing behind Cosette, a couple of yards away from the man. “Son, you really should be lying down. Your wounds are–”
“Is Pontmercy here? Are any of them?” The man was looking at Cosette as if she held the key to his understanding, to things suddenly not seeming so impossible anymore.
Cosette felt tears burning her throat. “No. I’m sorry.”
The man’s back hit the wall softly. His legs were no longer sufficient to support him. He voiced the truth that would poison the air around them both for years to come. “They’re all dead.”
Cosette nodded slowly.
Tears caused the mans voice to tighten. “But I’m not.”
Cosette spoke softly, “No. You were saved.”
The man’s face broke into a distressed expression. “Why?”
“Because…” Cosette couldn’t hold her tears back anymore, “Because only one of you could be saved and you were chosen.”
“Why?!”
“I don’t know! Just thank God you have your life!” As she spoke, her voice high and broken, the man slid down to the floor, his chest heaving with sorrow. “Thank God that you were saved from sharing the fate of your friends! They are dead but you were given a second chance!” Cosette fell to her knees, her dark skirts gathering around her like Death’s storm clouds.
The man grasped at his blond curls, suddenly feeling the burn of every bullet wound in his chest like he was receiving them again. “I don’t want to be without them.”
Cosette looked up at him, at Enjolras, and felt their unlikely connection. The one that only those who have lost, and been forced to carry on, can feel. “But here we are.”
Enjolras tries to keep the faith, he really does. For months and months and months he drowns himself in his work, anything to breathe life back into the fast-fading embers of revolution. But they are out, were choked of oxygen in perfect sync with the last man–boy, the last boy–who died that day.
Grantaire was right. He was always right, and Enjolras had ignored him like the naïve fool he was.
The work never takes off, bleeding out of him until there is nothing left to Enjolras but a shell. Everyone is afraid after the June Rebellion, no one believes in the cause anymore. No one believes in anything.
Enjolras has no one, has nothing. Cosette and her father are kind enough, but they are nothing but reminders of what he once had and his role in destroying it all. He hasn’t spoken with his family in years, and he hardly sees the point in re-establishing the contact now.
So he drowns himself in vices, anything to help him forget: whatever alcohol is on tap–he hates the flavor, hates the burn, but it’s a means to an end; the opium dens, littered with people who have long-since forgotten who they are; he picks fights he has no stakes in, just to feel passion about something once more.
And one night, he is invited into a familiar place with a familiar energy. Young faces crowd around a charismatic leader, bright as the sun. They hold onto and cherish his every word like a lifeline, like the truth they so desperately need it to be.
Enjolras sits in the back. He watches, and he drinks. Occasionally, much to the chagrin of the followers, he’ll speak up–never about his experiences directly, and often in long, ambling, sideways retorts, but the point is always eventually made, only to be brushed aside by the hubris of the leader and his confidence in the people.
But in his heart, Enjolras sees that spark alive again–not in the people, but in the leader–and Enjolras desperately clings to that ember and the belief that were this leader ever in his place, he would have kept going, would have kept the faith, and would make the change he preaches.
“Enjolras, you are incapable of believing, of thinking, of willing, of living, and of dying.”