Please imagine marius dedicating cute songs to cosette

just-french-me-up:

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

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marius/courfeyrac/cosette fake married au?

aporeticelenchus:

“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!”

takethewatch:

reysaglass:

takethewatch:

combeferrifying:

words-like-weeds:

nicecourfeyrack:

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.

Courfeyrac.

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.)

cdrcdiggory:

Cosette, in her seclusion, like Marius in his, was all ready to take fire. Destiny, with its mysterious and fatal patience, was slowly bringing these two beings near each other, fully charged and all languishing with the stormy electricities of passion,—these two souls which held love as two clouds hold lightning, and which were to meet and mingle in a glace like clouds in a flash.

Marius–Eddie Redmayne

Cosette–Lily James

mamzellecombeferre:

thecoffeetragedy:

mamzellecombeferre:

thecoffeetragedy:

mamzellecombeferre:

Fic where Valjean starts talking to Feuilly in one of the slower moments during the barricade, and they get to talking about families somehow, and Valjean realizes who Feuilly is while Feuilly doesn’t make the connection. In the end Valjean somehow ends up saving Feuilly and Marius from the barricades because this young man is related to his sister and it’s been so long since he’s heard anything about them. He can’t just let him die after that.

oh god, this has the potential to be really painful too – doesn’t it?

(because we’ve talked about the one-ami-surviving-the-barricade scenario before; and even though Feuilly would probably be fine after a while, there’s something even more bitter about the fact that he was purposefully saved because of blood relations he never even knew while the people he actually considered his family died.)

Yep, so very very painful.

(Oh gosh yes. He’d hate feeling like his agency has been taken away as well. It’s established that most of the Amis went into the barricade fighting, understanding that a great many of them may die, and then continued knowing they would. I imagine Feuilly comes to terms with that pretty quickly. As a child on the streets, there was a chance everyday that they may die, of starvation, thirst, murder, etc. It’s completely out of your control, now that he’s older, and the looming threat of death is not there, if they all must die, then let him do it on his own terms for something he truly believes in. Valjean saving him deliberately deprives him of that decision to die with those he considered family for their shared beliefs.)

Oh god. It’s so sad, though, because Feuilly is not a bitter person by nature, but he has moments – about betrayal, and injustice, and I have a feeling that he’d struggle with seeing this turn of event as exactly that. Because he’d chosen to fight knowing that he would most likely die. Because he would have died, the way his friends – his family – had, but that choice was taken away from him too. And for what? Valjean doesn’t know what to tell him after that.

(and the rebellion was crushed, and there will be other fights, other barricades, and Feuilly will fight again, that he knows. He always fought for the peoples, but now he has to fight for eight more friends – and eight isn’t a lot compared to those suffering all over the world, but for a while it’s as if that new weight is finally too much. He still can’t shake the feeling that his own fight should have ended that day in June – and for months afterwards, every time he passes the stone wall where the Corinthe was on his way to work he avoids his eyes, because when he sees the words he scribbled there he feels the bullets again – this time in his heart.)

I imagine he sticks around as long as it takes for him to heal and for the police to start moving on, and then he takes off. He’s not unpractical, and though he expected to die on the barricades, he didn’t go there without making a few provisions should he happen to live, should they happen to succeed. He doesn’t speak to Valjean for several months after he leaves. When they meet again, it’s because he runs into them (in the park, he takes more walks now to clear his head, remind him that life goes on the same as always, even if wishes sometimes (often at first) that he did not. He avoids Marius for sometime too, knowing that wherever he  is, Cosette is there next to him. He was never close to Marius anyways. He didn’t dislike him, though to be honest, he was never given much of a chance to form more than a first impression, and he knows too well how little first impressions can actually tell you about a person.

But then Marius invites him to his and Cosette’s wedding, and though he doesn’t want to, he attends, knowing how much it means to Marius. He’s shocked to see that Valjean is not there (he never expected he would miss his daughter’s wedding), and Marius is cryptic when he asks about it. He spends most of the reception sitting at a table in the corner, nursing a glass of champagne. A week later, he and Marius meet for lunch though, and Feuilly finds out the Valjean has died, and though he is still somewhat angry that he deprived Feuilly of his death at the alter of the Republic, he can’t help but feel sad at the loss of a man who would enter a barricade to save someone he did not know at all.

(He knows it is irrational, but he is almost ashamed. Why is he so special that he should be the one to have survived? Why not Combeferre who had so much to offer the world with his intellect and capability to teach and nurture? Why not Enjolras who loved his country so much that he was willing to fight for the potential that he saw in it? Why not Jehan Prouvaire with his beautiful soaring words that could inspire even the weakness of men to heights of greatness? Why not anyone but him? He has little to offer the world on his own, he feels. Now he drifts, feeling as though he has little purpose for some time. He still works, he still reads, writes, and paints. He avoids the Musain. He stopped by once, four months later, and felt instantly as though he couldn’t breathe. He visits their graves when he can find them. Joly, Bossuet, Courfeyrac, Jehan, and Bahorel all requested in their final wills to be buried in Paris. Feuilly never finds Enjolras and Combeferre’s graves, and assumes they were sent home to be buried. He assumes the same of Grantaire. So he waits, and tries to carry on each day, waiting for the day that he is called to fight again. He knows he will be. Paris grows bored of calmness quickly. She will become reckless once more, and he will be ready, with the strength of eight others behind him.)