I didn’t see you there, forgive me
#VALJEAN IS LIKE #YOU STEP BACK YOUNG BOY #WHAT YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? #TOUCHING MY LITTLE GIRL? #HOW DARE YOU #I’M AN EX CON #I SPENT 19 YEARS IN PRISON FOR BREAD #I’M TOTALLY READY TO SPEND THE REST OF MY LIFE IN PRISON BECAUSE I DEFENDED MY PRECIOUS LITTLE GIRL (x)
yeesh, French Teens
and it wasn’t a dream, not a dream after all
No offense but instead of having badass Cosette and Marius clumsily trailing behind her how about:
-Cosette and Marius having a thousand of inside jokes and always making eye contact and going like “EYYY” (usually internally, but not always) when someone unknowingly makes a reference one of them
-Cosette and Marius having secret handshakes that top all secret handshakes ever
-Marius realizing that Cosette is actually a totally chill and awesome and nerdy person and becoming completely comfortable around her
-Cosette finding Marius to be the best friend she never had and enjoying every second they spend together
-Marius and Cosette being the picture perfect couple. Like, they have an elaborate picnic complete with champagne and a homemade quilt and both of them looking drop dead gorgeous and they’re like “yeah we were bored lol"
-Cosette being super supportive and helpful while Marius deals with his anxiety
-Marius introducing Cosette to more friends than she ever had in her lonely, isolated childhood
-Marius and Cosette teasing each other
-Marius telling super cheesy jokes and pick up lines and Cosette adores every single one and snorts from laughter each time
-Cosette and Marius being super gross in public just to embarrass their friends
-Cosette and Marius having an open, healthy, happy, hilarious relationship
“There’s one thing I cannot quite figure out yet,” said Courfeyrac behind her suddenly. Eponine tensed, glancing at him. He was staring at the newly weds, an odd, wistful expression on his face. “Are you in love with Marius, or with Cosette?”
If Eponine had played the lady as well as she wished she could, she would have probably left, after making sure that Courfeyrac knew he had greatly offended and scandalized her; as it was, Eponine was still ill-suited to the role; she could barely fit right in all the dresses she had now and had dreamed of for years, and she could pretend even less that she was as respectable as she ought to be; she’d seen too many things. Courfeyrac wouldn’t have been able to shock her even if he tried, and – if she’d judge the man properly, he wasn’t that kind.
“Neither,” she said, honestly, and when he looked down at her, blinking dubiously, she shrugs an amended, defensive: “A little bit of both, perhaps. I don’t know. What about you?”
“I thought it was just Marius,” Courfeyrac answered, genuine and almost pensive.
It figured, Eponine thought, nodding. Cosette was like that; one minute you hated her, and everything she was – everything you thought you’d be, one day – and the next she was smiling at you and your heart was beating just a little too fast. Or maybe that was just Eponine. She didn’t like thinking about feelings too much; she got wistful if she lingered on it too long; No Marius for her; certainly no Cosette. Still, it was beautiful, the way they looked at each other like they were each other’s entire world. Eponine couldn’t even be properly jealous.
Glancing back at Courfeyrac again, it wasn’t hard to see he wasn’t jealous at all either.
“It’s improper, to stand so near a lady, and not making her dance,” she told him, abruptly, a bit too sharply.
He startled, and then, he smiled, amused and charmed.
“Of course,” he told her and hold out his hand after a brief curtsy, every bit the gentleman. “Mademoiselle -”
Eponine still got a thrill every time she was called “Mademoiselle”. It was nice, feeling proper and respected and all that. It felt right, even, more and more.
“Monsieur,” she said, and took his hand.
i’m sure that’s the first time he’s heard that one, courf
Don’t tell me Marius never went to serenade Cosette under her windows with Courfeyrac playing the ukulele in the bushes cause I’m pretty sure they did
“I confess, it was not my finest hour,” said Courfeyrac,
collapsing onto the chair across from Marius; “I panicked, I prevaricated, I perjured
myself, and in short I told my father that I wouldn’t meet his eligible society
mademoiselle because you and I were passionately in love and soon to be married.”
Courfeyrac let out a great sigh and mournfully added, “The damnable old fellow
didn’t even disown me.”
Marius paled; “But I’ve
just told my grandfather I’m going to ask Cosette to marry me whether he likes
it or not and I can’t pretend to be engaged to both of you at – Courfeyrac, why
are you smiling like that, this is serious!”
cosette visiting courfeyrac’s grave and thanking him for taking care of marius bye dudes
Oh wait I’m not sure any of the amis had graves. Because they all died and there was no one left to bury them (except marius who was unconscious for like two weeks afterward) and even if they did leave people behind (like muschetta) who was going to come claim the bodies of the people the government had just killed as dangerous radicals?
I suppose the national guard (or whoever cleaned up after them, I don’t know) would have piled all the bodies on a cart and dumped them in a pauper’s grave somewhere. There probably wouldn’t be a marker, and marius wouldn’t have been able to find out where they were put since it’s not like he could go up to the police station with a month-old bullet wound in his shoulder and ask about the students who had been killed in last month’s rebellion.
marius goes back to the musain for empty chairs at empty tables because there are no graves to visit.
ah yes you make a fine point
honestly when i’d said “grave” i was thinking along the lines of “the general area of wherever his body would have ended up” but “grave” just sounded nicer, ha
but yeah i hadn’t thought about marius not knowing where they are hm i must fix this now
let the change be noted, then: cosette visiting the decrepit remains of the musain and thanking courfeyrac for taking care of marius
yes i think that’s sadder thank you friend
She stepped down from the carriage several streets up from the corner she wanted. The driver raised his eyebrows when he saw the direction she was going, but she paid him no mind. She knew these streets well, had spent many hours on them with her father. She knew the people here and she knew how to carry herself to blend in with them. She was wearing the plain dress (a faded gray that might once have had aspirations at black) and headscarf she saved in the back of her wardrobe for occasions such as this.
Such opportunities were few, and they would be rarer still in the days ahead, with her husband’s sweet concern added to her father’s watchful eye. But today her father was out “seeing about a few things” and her husband-to-be was sleeping–a peaceful, though exhausted sleep, at long last–and she had seized on the chance to get away, to lay eyes on the place she felt needed to see in order to begin to understand what her beloved was going through.
She had never been to the little cafe, but she found it easily enough (how could you not, when the bloodstains that still streaked the paving-stones all pointed to it, like fingers of infection spidering out from a wound?). The sign was gone, probably carted away with the rubble of the barricade, but a ragged, singed scrap of red cloth still fluttered from the hinge of an upstairs window.
Inside, the rooms were bare, the walls marked with gunpowder and blood. Broken bottles and trampled leaflets were scattered over the floors. In one corner, a neatly-stacked pile of fabric strips stood at the ready. The unused bandages were the cleanest thing in the room.
She took the stairs carefully, testing each creaking step before putting her weight on it, wondering what she would do if she could not reach the top room. (She would climb the alley wall to the window; she knew she could do it–her father, for his own mysterious reasons, had trained her in all manner of unusual accomplishments–although it would be difficult in long skirts.) But the stairs held, and she made it to the upper room, where the stains were everywhere and where, despite the open windows, the smell of smoke and blood still hung in the air.
This was it. This was where they had made their plans together, laughed together, sung together. This was where they had died–all those hopeful, hopeless boys who still haunted her husband’s dreams. The room was empty, stripped of all furniture and bottles and papers, of everything but the blood, but she could feel their presence still.
He had told her, finally, last night. Not about the fighting–that, he had recounted freely, first in gasps and incomprehensible cries as he burned with fever, then later, after he had awakened, more clearly. But always the fighting: the rush for the barricades, the noise of the rifles, the rush of excitement and fear, the way the gunpowder flashed in the darkness, the pain of the wound. It had terrified him–terrified him still, in his dreams–but it wasn’t the part that had truly broken him.
It was his friends. The passionate, generous, impossible students and workers who had taken him in when he was alone in the city and given him a cause to believe in when the old causes were dead, and a family to love when his own family cast him out. They were all dead now, every one of them, and last night he had told her about them for the first time over a candle and a cup of cool water, in that darkest hour of the night when his pain would not let him sleep. His voice was so faint she could barely hear him, and it broke when he whispered the names: Combeferre. Enjolras. Jehan. Lesgles. Joly. Feuilly. Grantaire. Bahorel.
Once he had started, he couldn’t stop, and he talked for hours about them, tears running down his cheeks as he told her how they’d met, how they’d wandered aimlessly through the city laughing at things chalked on walls, how they’d stayed up far into the night talking of France and the glory that could be hers, how they’d breakfasted by the Seine on day-old bread and cheap wine. She had cried with him when he’d awakened screaming, when he told her brokenly of the guns and the chaos and the fear, when the pain was too much for words–but now she sat silent and dry-eyed, feeling too much even for tears, as her beloved poured out to her the men who still filled his soul. They had been so much to him, and now they were gone.
The tears pricked at her eyes now, as she stood in the middle of the room and listened for the echoes of their laughter. She imagined them sitting there, in that very room, at tables littered with maps and pamphlets and lukewarm wine. She imagined them teasing Marius for blushing about her, some of them pestering him for details of their first meeting, others groaning and rolling their eyes fondly at his head-over-heels love. She imagined them dying.
The wooden pillars that held up the ceiling of the ramshackle room were pitted and scorched, as everything else was, but on one of them, another kind of mark caught her eye, and she stooped to examine it. Five letters, blocky capitals, had been carved messily into the wood: COURF.
They were about waist-high, at just the right height to reach easily when sitting at a table. She thought of Courfeyrac sitting there in the middle of a meeting, listening but never content to have his hands still, scratching his name into the column. It was unfinished–had he broken off to poke Marius in the ribs or clap his friend on the back? Or had he never intended to carve more, content to leave this shortened version of his name, the way he was known among his friends? He had–they all had–left so little behind.
“Thank you,” she whispered, brushing her fingertips over the letters.
this is the fic i followed you for ❤
yessss i saw the first line of the post and I was like THIS IS IT THIS IS WHEN I MET JULIA
it’s our old urls and everything wow
(but ugh how awkward i didn’t know how to talk to people on tumblr i just reblogged some stranger’s post and crapped all other their idea oops. it’s a miracle we ended up friends tbh. well not a miracle more it’s thanks to you being a kind and easygoing person.)