In which a man who’s not really Grantaire loves a man who’s not really Enjolras.
( E/R AU part one, see tags for notes )
Grantaire is late. In another life, one with more liquor, it would be a common occurrence. As it is he hates to miss Enjolras’ fiery rhetoric, and dreads to be chastised or worse, ignored.
It can’t be helped though. Procuring illegal novels is a chore. Grantaire navigates the black market easily enough. He buys cigarettes for Joly and porn for the novelty of it. Still, books are tricky.
Grantaire loves them, though. He loves Rowling as much as Dante, but he especially loves Hugo. The written word is worth dealing with Montparnasse and going hungry for a few days. Small discomforts for the only real pleasure he gets out of life. After all, alcohol is even harder to get than forbidden literature, and Greek gods despise him.
He’s late. He’s soaked to the bone from the acidic Parisian rain and covered in motor oil because he’d gone straight to Montparnasse after his shift and waited an hour for the gamin-turned-bookdealer to find a copy that wasn’t in tatters. The rain is washing most of it off, leaving a rainbow film on the puddles he wades through.
The innkeeper, Thenardier, is furious when he comes, dripping water and gasoline, into the foyer. Grantaire waves the man off and tosses him his last coin. He takes it, and disappears behind the boozeless bar with an unhappy grumble.
He drips all the way across the floor to the back of the inn where Enjolras rents a room for them to meet. He rents the one above in to stay now and then, which Grantaire knows because Grantaire likes knowing all he can about Enjolras.
Apollo refuses to acknowledge him, but Courfeyrac claps him on the shoulder. He isn’t the only one of their group who’s wet (Lesgles is always late) or covered in a job-related substance (Joly is always bloodstained), but he’s the only one Enjolras looks at with disdain. He shrugs sheepishly under their leader’s withering glance.
Enjolras goes on for some time about the New Protection acts and their further encroachment on privacy of citizens. Grantaire thinks Enjolras must be very rich if he still has any privacy at all. He says this, and earns a blush. They don’t talk about who they are outside this room. Whether Joly’s bloodstains are from slicing meat or delivering babies is anyone’s guess.
(Grantaire pictures him a surgeon, which is why he’s called Joly. It’s a stretch.)
Finally Enjolras is satisfied he’s made his point and dismisses them. Courfeyrac squeezes his shoulder once more before leaving. He never speaks much and when he does it’s with a stutter, but he’s mischievous and kind so Grantaire calls him Courfeyrac.
Of them, it’s only Enjolras who truly embodies Hugo’s character. Jehan and Grantaire come pretty close, but not quite. Jehan has no chance to grow flowers and Grantaire’s only been drunk a glorious once. Enjolras seems to be the marble iconoclast himself.
Grantaire stays behind after Bahorel saunters out.
“I have a present for you,” he announces cheerfully. Enjolras doesn’t look excited, or even impressed. It doesn’t discourage Grantaire, who fishes around in his bag for the thankfully dry novel and presses it into Enjolras’ unwilling hands.
“Les Miserables,” Enjolras reads dispassionately. Enjolras doesn’t read novels, he reads social commentary and anarchist manifestoes.
“Read it, won’t you?” he asks. Enjolras looks as if he’s about to refuse but he catches Grantaire’s eyes and he nods slowly. Grantaire smiles at him.
Enjolras holds the book in his hands and glances out the window. The rain is still falling steadily, and Enjolras looks lost in thought. Grantaire knows he’s being dismissed.
He turns to leave but Enjolras surprises him, “Haven’t you got an umbrella?”
It’s probably the most mundane thing he’s heard from Enjolras’ lips and it almost makes him laugh. He looks back at Enjolras, who is perfectly dry.
“I don’t live very far from here,” he says and again Enjolras colors, which delights him. Of course Grantaire lives in the slums, and of course that didn’t occur to Enjolras.
“Right,” he says stiffly. Grantaire makes his leave, sure to drip extra on Thenardier’s floors on his way out.
Motherhen!Q fic: Part 1, as promised
Title: Necessary Measures
Pairing: 00q, Gen
Words: 4931
Summary: or; how Q singlehandedly cows trained assassins into eating their vegetables and sleeping on time and is surprised when they inevitably discover parts of himself that he’s been trying to keep on the dl: A Story.
While watching Flood at 3:00 am.
- Rob: (Yelling and drowning.)
- Me: NO. SWIM DAMN YOU. YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO DIE. YOU'RE NOT ALLOWED TO DROWN. SWIM DAMN YOU SWIM. YOU CAN SWIM!
- Woman: (Grab's onto Rob's hand and misses.)
- Me: GET HER HAND. GRAB HER HAND! COME ON, REACH!
- Woman: (Grabs onto Rob's hand.)
- Me: YES. NOW. STAY. ALIVE.
Virtue Alice Langdon was to everyones knowledge a very nice girl. Kind and sweet, bakes cookies for the local church, helps out at the local animal shelter. She’s not particularly popular at school, but she’t not disliked. She’s the kind of girl that you can’t hate because she’s nice to everyone, and she wears white lace dresses and stutters when asking if she can borrow a pencil. Straight A grades and her room is beautifully tidy.
On Tuesday she dresses for school, white lace dress as usual but unlike her usual routine she doesn’t glance across to her twin brothers room across the wall and ask him if he’s ready to drive her to school. She walks down the stairs and grabs her brothers jacket off the banister, when her mothers eyes widened and she comes out of where she’s been drinking in the living room to try and stop her Virtue raises her middle finger. Grabs a pair of her brothers combat boots and slams the door, walking up the drive to where Violet is waiting.
” Morning.” She says putting her arms through the heavy trencoat . Oh thank you big brother for taking this off and not letting the fucking FED’s have it. Violet smirks and offers her cigarette the blonde takes one and they walk to Westfield Violet puts on the boots and in the distance they can see the group of people they had expected, Virtue turns up the collar of the coat the way her brother did when he walked into school two weeks ago.
As they walk up there’s a collective gasp, nobody expected this. That either of them would even turn up after what happened two weeks ago today, or that little mouse would pull something like this. That the baby angel would don the coat that the devil wore when he shot fifteen kids before being picked up by a SWAT team. Nobody would have thought that the baby angel could be defiant when her brother is standing trial for murder.
One of the protesters finally stops them.
” How dare you wear that coat when it’s the one that your brother murdered all those kids in. Have you no shame?” This statement helps the other protesters to gain confidence.
” You brother should die for what he did.”
” He murdered my sister and now he should pay.”
” Your whole family should burn in hell.”
” Little fucking witches.”
Virtue turns and gives them all a blindly sweet smile. ” You can’t go somewhere you already live.”
Then she gives them a little wave and her and Violet continue up the stairs of the school leaving the camera flashes of the press and shouts behind them. They think they’ve got away with the whole thing when they’re stopped by their English teacher Mr Pryce.
” Virtue. My office. Now.” Virtue doesn’t question him, despite having lost all faith the basic good girl still remains inside of her. Though she walks through the hall as her brother once did with the coat billowing out and her head held high. Mr Pryce’s hand is firmly on her shoulder guiding her away from the shocked students. Tate Langdon shooting people was weird, but his adorable bunny loving sister wearing the coat that he did it in is like an angel putting on the devils horns.
” Sit down.” Mr Pryce rumbles and Virtue sits opposite though she looks nothing like her usual self, the light has gone from half of the golden siblings. She closes her eyes for a moment.
” I really don’t need you to preach to me. Tell me that I don’t have to do this. Because I’m the virgin mary and my brother is the anti christ. I don’t need that bullshit.” She says not opening her eyes and licking her lips.
” I didn’t bring you here to lecture you Virtue.. I brought you in here to ask you how you are.” Mr Pryce replies, little warrior mouses eyes snap open in surprise and she looks so very vunerable. He remembers watching her run when the first gunshot was fired, she wasn’t running for her life. She was running toward Tate, he heard that it wasn’t the SWAT team that reached Tate first in the library. It was her.
” I’m just swell Mr Pyrce. I’m stuck at home with my alcoholic bitch of a mother who actually wants to fucking pretend that she cares. My best friend is slicing up her wrists because her boyfriend murdered 15 of our classmates. My brother is awaiting trail for murdering 15 people. And me.. I’m pretending like I’m ok. It’s never ever going to be about me ever again, I will forever be Virtue Langdon that girl who’s brother took a shit load of coke and murdered 15 kids. They’re saying they might kill him for what he did, my big brother. He’s all I have. He didn’t fight the noble war when he killed those kids like he told the cops, we’ve been fighting the noble war everyday of our fucking life just trying to live in our hellhole of a house. “
afgaganistan replied to your post: afgaganistan replied to your post: iambayonsenoals…
ugh this is such a horrible video it’s like terrible quality like a nicki video but here you go lets not talk about it afterwardsevery male model yea i guess you’re right :/ (ps i wanna see that video of how u make the crystals show me)
MEET THE MUN Q & A || Part I
OOC; You all already know me; I’m “Leo-Mun”, and as far as I know I am the only General Leo RPer in existence on the internet. But this is Mun Monday, and today is set aside to reveal more about who I am behind the character. And, I’m only too happy to do that because I secretly suspect I meet be an attention whore. That or I didn’t get enough affection in childhood which is a distinct possibility because while my father is a very loving man my mother…or my ex-stepmother…eeeeeeeeehh.
My real name is Chel J. Bozievich. No, I do not have any real problem revealing my full name on the internet, and I’m telling you all because I want you all to know it. I have a real face, and a real life, somewhere out there, and if I could ever managed to flip my computer and take the car out on an epic road trip I’d come and visit each and every one of you because you guys are real people too, and you’re the kinds of people I’d like to have for friends.
Sadly, for now, we are relegated to the internet. So, skipping over my real name, my screen name that some of you already call me by (lookin’ at you, Sammish), is “Bozeia”. It’s pronounced “Bo-zeh-ah”, and is the result of me smooshing the first three letters of my surname into the last three letters of “Princess Leia”. I also respond to Boz, Bo, Bozie, and BAWZ. These are all acceptable alternatives.
And this is what I look like. I may not have the prettiest face around, but I’d like to think I’m pretty in other respects. Yes, Setzer, take a reeeeeal good look. This? All this? You move your ass and come give this some sugar. *OUT SASSES YOU*
Now you all can visualize me and have had the questions you all might have wondered about answered; “What gender are they? What do they look like? Are they single?”. And, uh, I should notate that I no longer live in that apartment and I swear to god my room is no long that messy. Ignore the background of that picture, I beg of you. But now, I do believe I had some questions fielded my way and it’s about time we got to those, hm?
(I am going to, however, break this down into parts because I got a shit load of questions; so first up though are questions pertaining to myself as a person).
Army Letters
Dear Sebastian Moran,
Firstly your name is stupid and annoying, I’m going to call you Sebby. And you can just deal with it. Or just not answer and I’ll find another stupid soldier person to write to. I don’t even want to be writing this letter. But my psychiatrist seems to think I need someone to talk to. The idiot thought it would be a good idea for me to write to a soldier because we are both in place we probably aren’t comfortable with and that we’re uncomfortable and alone in. In my case my own head, in your case wherever the fuck you are fucking that stupid ass war. Anyway, she’s an idiot, and she’s totally wrong. I don’t need to write to anyone, I don’t need to do anything. But I thought I’d see what it was like. Plus I’m kinda curious about soldiers. I mean what the hell makes you go out there to somewhere where you could be killed at any moment? Do you do it in order to feel alive? To feel like you’re doing something to help others (if you’re an angel like that don’t bother writing back, I want someone interesting)? I mean why? It’s mental if you ask me.
Anyway, I suppose I should tell you a bit about myself. My name is James Moriarty, you will call my Jim or Mr Moriarty. Call me James and I will make the war seem friendly with what I will do to you, clear? Good, I’m glad. I’m Irish not that that is important. I left Ireland young, but as everyone loves to point out, I never truly lost the accent. And quite right too. I am not British, I don’t want to sound it. And I am the most dangerous man in London. Brilliant title don’t you think, I think it’s brilliant. What does that mean? Well, Sebby, stick around, maybe you’ll find out.
M.
