somuchbetterthanthat:

@mamzellecombeferre i can’t copy past your prompt properly or make this super long because TABLET but as promised. The prompt was : Bossuet, Joly et Feuilly + one frayed unraveling sock, two ribbons and a paintbrush.

To find Bossuet sitting in the middle of Joly’s living-room, two candles lightened in front of him, and one sock laying on the ground next to them, was not as shocking to Feuilly now as it might have been a year back. He had been the witness of many odd things in Joly’s (and Bossuet’s really) rooms, and he generally tried not to ask too many questions. Still – Joly had been whispering since he’d arrived with the pamphlets for tomorrow’s evening, and Bossuet looked so serious, that this time Feuilly’s curiosity got the best of him:

“Is everything alright?” He asked, finding himself whispering too despite not knowing why. “What are you doing?”

“Alas,” said Bossuet gravely. “Here lies my last sock. She was as brave as one could living at my feet, but now i fear her time to keep me warm is over at last. I will mourn her as it is proper, for none was as itchy, full of holes yet faithful to the post as she. She will be missed.”

Feuilly blinked. Joly moved around him, and came to put a hand on Bossuet’s shoulder, his face full of sympathy, despite his lips twitching like they wished to smile. Feuilly hesitated, stared at his friends, then thought about his lonely lodgings, and sat in front of Bossuet.

“Why is there only one?” He asked.

Clearly Bossuet hadn’t expected him to play along, because his serious demeanour threatened to break for a moment, before he coughed and answered with as much feeling as possible:

“The other left a while ago, never to be seen again, during a trip to the washing rooms. And while we must applaud her will for freedom, for it is what we all want and wishes for, i’m afraid this was the last straw for this one. Abandonned by all, she decayed until she came to this state. There is nothing to be done with it now. Even our best, most talented seamstress as declared her done for. As such, we are saying goodbye today before burying it.”

Feuilly looked at the sock. It looked indeed in a very bad state, and it was clear it would never fit anyone’s feet again. Still – to throw things away was against his nature. He thought for a moment, and then he straightened up.

“You sock may very well never be a sock again,” he said. “But i have another future for it if you let me try, Bossuet.”

Bossuet looked surprised but intrigued. He waved at him permission, and both Joly and him leaned closer as Feuilly grbbed the sock, and started to examine it before twisting it experimentally.

“I haven’t done this since i was a little boy,” said Feuilly thoughtfully. “Do you guys have some strings?”

Joly looked around, then he asked: “we have ribbons?” And went to retrieve them when Feuilly nodded decisively.

Once in possession of that, Feuilly went to work, and filled the poor sock with one the ribbons, making sure it didn’t spill out of the sock’s hole. Then, he carefully took the other ribbon and tied it up around the sock, until it looked like the sock had a little round head, and a frayed dress, with some imagination.

“There,” he said, pleased. “Now your sock is a doll, and kids will be happy to play with it. I made my first doll like that. Of course, i got better at carving tree branches after that, but nothing truly remplaces little dolls like that. They’re softer.”

He raised his eyes, satisfied, but then saw the faces of Joly and Bossuet. They had stilled, their eyes sad and a bit shocked, and Feuilly suddenly felt embarassed by his creation. It was as if Feuilly’s poor childhood had suddenly invaded the room with all its pitifulness and ugliness, and awkardness was not long to follow. Feuilly flushed in shame, tried to find something to say, anything, to have them forget what he’d said when Joly suddenly declared thoughfully:

“Do you know, if you squint, the doll looks like Grantaire a bit.”

“It does,” said Bossuet, moving closer. “I don’t know if it is the color or the form, but all it misses is the ugly nose.”

“Feuilly,” said Joly, “you know how to paint, don’t you? R left us one of his paintbrushes yesterday, after giving up again to paint us. We should draw his face, and then offer the doll to him. He is no child, but i can only assume he will be delighted we have thought of him.”

Feuilly breathed out slowly. It was truly Bossuet and Joly’s gift, he thought, that none of their sudden cheerfulness felt forced or full of pity. When he smiled, they beamed, and something uncomfortable disappeared in Feuilly’s stomach.

“Alright,” he said, holding the sock doll carefully in his hand. “Let’s make it for Grantaire.”

vintage-jehan:

Friendly reminder that the first person Marius talks to after he had just fallen out with his grandfather is Bossuet.

Marius who has to be absolutely heart-broken and angry, whose father has recently died, who has just made his grandfather kick him out, who has just left his financialy stable, secure life, the only life he’s ever had, who has no idea where to go, what to do, with next to no money and literally no one left.

Marius who then hears this random stranger calling out his name, a man he has never even met before and who just got kicked out of law school for someone he didn’t even know. A completely poor, young man who doesn’t even has a place to live, who does something nice for someone he has never met without expecting anything in return simply out of the sheer goodwill of his heart.

Bossuet is literally the first good thing that happens to Marius in this new, probably absolutely terrifying part of his life that just started.

He is like, the epitome hope here, that things might not be as bad as they seem. That even in the most hopeless times, there’s the brightness of unconditional human kindness.
I just. Love. Bossuet. So. Much.

kingedmundsroyalmurder:

So I wasn’t going to do anything this year, and then suddenly this happened. It’s unproofread, so don’t hesitate to alert me to any typos – I’m super rusty at this, so I expect there are many.

Wordcount: 1529


Though Enjolras had ordered sleep, Feuilly was not alone in quietly tending to his affairs. Around him, men sorted through their pockets, refilled pipes, scribbled hasty notes to their loved ones on any scrap of paper they could find. He heard murmurs of conversation as his comrades sat in twos and threes, clasping hands and brushing shoulders. He had never been a soldier, but he somehow knew that this very scene had played out countless times before in countless places across the globe. He felt as though he were part of a never-ending play, as though he had stepped into a role played by countless actors before him, one that would be reprized until the bloody curtain of history at last fell on the human race. The thought offered as much comfort as it did despair – never had he felt himself more part of the world as he did now, squatting crouched behind their barricade, the streets beneath his feet uneven and dripping with blood and with history. He felt as though he could reach out and touch all the others who sat, as he did, awaiting death with open eyes and a steady heart.

“Are you not going to take our general’s words to heart?”

Keep reading

kenobi:

failure (n.)  – when you try your best but don’t succeed.

@paladinical liked your post “Hi! Could I request Enjolras and Courfeyrac, ♟: Patching up a wound?…”

#aaAAAHHHH WHAT A BLESSING#THIS HAPPENED#‘one of the pikes had aspirations of being a spear and tore a rather impressive hole in my new coat—the nerve’#<3#I love my kids#this is super delightful#les mis#fanfic#injury for ts#sun ship

Eep!  *blush*  Thank you so much!  😀  (And I rather enjoyed writing that line, so I’m glad you liked it, too!  ^_~)

♔ for Jehan and Enjolras!

fixaidea:

♔ : finding the other wearing their clothes

I’m… fairly certain this isn’t what I was meant to write but hey…

***

’Jehan… you
need to change.’

Prouvaire
looked down at himself, blushing furiously.

‘I thought
I would try something new with my appearance. You said yourself this is an important
meeting, I might as well try and look respectable.’

In this
case ‘respectable’ apparently meant the almost exact replica of Enjolras’ habitual
clothing – simple black coat, light green vest, white shirt and simple white
cravat, tied in the manner that required the least possible time and effort
while still looking presentable. Even his long hair was pulled back into the
definitely un-fashionable ponytail Enjolras preferred.

‘That is
all very well’ said Enjolras, pinching the bridge of his nose ‘But as I
explained it also holds a certain risk. I suspect there might be a mole in the
group we’re about to meet.’

‘I know.
You said so.’

‘Those who
know us well can of course tell us apart, but to a stranger we now look nigh
identical, but for our height.’

‘I know.’

Enjolras
looked up abruptly, with sudden understanding. Prouvaire was smiling his small,
serene smile at him. Enjolras shook his head, expression suddenly soft, and
gently cupped the little poet’s shoulders.

‘I
appreciate the thought, my friend, I truly do but I cannot support it.’

Jehan
looked back up at him, fingers wrapping around Enjolras’ forearms.

‘The group
needs you now more than ever. Things are coming to a head, I can feel it. You
can too, I know it. You can’t afford to be taken in now. This little bit of
confusion might give you some time to escape if things go awry.’

‘Jehan…’

‘No, please
listen’ Jehan pleaded ‘I’m not the leader the police wants – I’m but a poet who
accidentally wound up with the wrong company and who made some unfortunate
fashion choices. That is all. You need to think of the group above all,
Enjolras.’

‘Oh Jehan… ‘Enjolras
sighed, squeezing the poet’s shoulders ‘Very well then. If you are certain
about this. But do be careful, you understand?’

Jehan
ducked his head, smiling.

‘Of course.
Oh, but Enjolras? If you wish to repay me you can always post bail if I do get
captured somehow…’

a-la-volonte-du-peuple:

do you think that after the barricades fell marius just has a hard time trusting people again. 

he walks into the bakery, unable to look up because there’s the baker’s apprentice and he was the one who was enthusiastically smiling and promising to join them.

walking down the street he sees the family that closed their doors to his friends, sending them off to face the bullets.

he walks into an officer that was looking at him from the other side of the barricade not even a fortnight ago 

every day he walks through the town full of people that turned their backs on them, the people who didn’t come when they called and though the blood of his friends isn’t on their hands, he sees it there because he needs to blame someone to make it just a tiny bit less painful

menthalightfoot:

The Death of Jean Prouvaire: Shoujo Cosette