Well, hello my miserable friends! This chapter was written by Sapphire from the FluffyWerewolves team, one of my favorite British mizzies. She's an amazing writer, so leave her some nice reviews. Next chapter will be written by me, Georgie.
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It truly was a shame, Grantaire found himself unable to assess the situation in any other light.
Enjolras was a wondrous being, a strikingly handsome lion of a cat. Slim in figure, planed flanks concealed beneath oceans of marmalade fur, glimmering, and sun-catching, silky soft in appearance. 'Fluffy' would be an insult to his stature, chiseled muscles visible beneath waves of short cushy pelt, the strength residing within his claws and bite undeniable. Acute shoulders and svelte hindquarters sloping downwards into delicate mitts, each cushioned by a pinkish pad, a veiled switchblade buried within each ink-stained paw. His thighs and appendages were ruptured open in vast stripes of carroty ginger. The plush fluff was thickest at the graceful curve of the revolutionary's neck, forming a ruffled, dense collar, melting down over his spine into tiger-like spotted bands and hide splattered in crimson toner, coming to a point just before his belly. Flecks of white fluff lined his chin, pronouncing the jut and curve of his muzzle, harbouring arched fangs and a quaint flush nose. Perched high upon his cranium lay two perfectly formed triangular ears, notoriously pricked, a constant state of alert. Each ear was tipped thin line of milky white; the same shade edged the thick fur on his cheeks. Glowing orbs of brilliant blue resided within his sockets, punctuated by diamond-shaped pupils, shriveling in the light, trailing downwards in golden tears.
Every feature of Enjolras' feline being was beautiful, flickering adoration and sparks of love into the isolated heart of Grantaire, but it was possibly his tail to which concentrated interest was drawn. The revolutionary's tail could be easily mistaken for that of a fox or a lemur, puffy and full in proportion, comparatively elongated. The clean bands dissolving down his velvety coat oozed into an orange tip. The drunken rival revered Enjolras' appendage, the gentle swish, the coiled motion as he perched upon his paws. Grantaire even found himself somewhat jealous, not that he was proud to admit such a fact, despite his generalised lack of dignity.
Grantaire was jet-black in colour, his rugged hide a shock of coal-shaded fleece, dark as soot. In contrast to Enjolras, the cynical mongrel's fur was dense, a coat similar to that of a winter-dwelling feline, but despite his rough his appearance, silky. Grantaire was stockily built, heavy-set in his paws, tough shoulders to jutting forelegs coiled in unused muscle, secreted by unkempt pelt, paws over-sized, blunt claws protuberant from broadened toes. Around his neck slung a clumsily tied necktie, jade-green and frayed. His head reflected his protected nature, muzzle turned upwards at the nose, torn and nicked ears slid sideways in annoyance or lazy disinterest. All knew the contents of his jowls, often displayed during a meeting of the cobbled together group, a wide yawn boasting teeth and tongue, sharp and sandpaper-like respectively, in an open and unbothered fashion. Grantaire's whiskers were mostly broken, few curling to their full length. It was rare to glance upon his optics, either dropped in heavy sleep or turned to the apparently fascinating floor. But in a rare fleeting glimpse, the long cast gaze to Enjolras, or the longing but disgusted look concerning his next bottle of lactose-removed milk. Bottomless, unfathomable pools of immersing bottle-green, glossed and twinkling in the poor lighting of the Cafe. If tails are to be compared and contrasted between the cats, Grantaire's appendage was miserably average, if inflated in a constant state of hostility. His tail served little purpose - more of Bahorel's preferred target of punishment if the moggie was too loud of an evening - even Mother Nature herself could not fix the drunken clumsiness of Grantaire, though he did use it occasionally to swish irritably at people, as a type of warning when he was irked.
It was upon such an evening that the unfortunate tragedy ensued, just another stuffy night cramped into the back room of the Musain, warm, furred bodies crammed together in a sardine-like fashion, tails surfing over dimming candle-flames, paws finding residence over another's. Enjolras appeared particularly spurred upon this day, whereas his passionate nature could never be rivaled, he was practically pouncing upon each of the Amis, singing of freedom and chanting of war, calling for muskets and pianos alike, even knocking over Combeferre's favoured ink pots in one instance of provoked animation, of which the philosophical cat was not best pleased. The spotted cat was infamous for his overwhelming, enthusiastic attitude, but it was clear that such misadventures had begun to wear out his fellows. Grantaire had discovered himself to be lying beside Courfeyrac, flanks touching, whickers gently brushing, not that the pair were complaining. It was only when the crowd began to dissipate, leaving few but the most enthusiastic of the group (and Grantaire) behind, that the trouble really began to brew, Enjolras' inner demon taking clear dominion over his reasoning.
"We will erect it upon the cobble! Before the doorway of the Musain! Join me brother!" yowled the ginger tom in delight, mitts placed before Combeferre in a bow, blocking the larger cat's exit. Enjolras had fallen to his front paws, tail twitching, eyes wide with excitement. The moth-catcher observed his companion's electrified shape, before cautiously shaking his head, careful of the map clenched between his canines. Combeferre flicked his ear in the general direction of Courfeyrac, who doggedly dragged himself to his paws, removing Grantaire's snug, warm pillow, leaving the black moggie cold once more. Enjolras studied the action, his gaze fixating upon the fluffy form of the cynical cat, who had coiled into a more rigid ball, tucking his tail over his snout, ears flattened against his cranium. He bounded towards Grantaire, bumping his muzzle against his shoulder in an attempt to rouse the lazing cat while his fellows made a muffled escape. Grantaire stirred, but did not fully wake, forcing open a questioning optic to regard his idol, sleep and exhaustion riddled throughout his dulled mind. Enjolras tenderly prodded his thick hide again, a slight whimpering plea slipping from his tongue.
"Be off with you," snarled Grantaire, flapping his ear, knocking the whiskers of Enjolras, causing him to start, "I wish to sleep." Enjolras stood over the cynical cat for a short while, before, in an act of theatrical annoyance striding to the opposing wall, huffing slightly. Grantaire watched him leave, admiring the curve and strut of his legs, before reliving his eyelid and slipping back into sleep. Enjolras, meanwhile, had stationed himself beside a chair, raised upon his hind limbs, gently placing a mitt open the seat, preparing to lift his light body upwards.
That was when it happened, a sudden change of events, fate rising from a dormant state to deliver its bite. There was a deafening crash, the clattering roar of wood striking tile, the surprised wail of a cat swallowed by the louder of the echoes. Grantaire's eyes flashed open, head snapping up, ears pricked, fully facing the location of the ruckus, only for the sight to bring laughter to his throat and a smirk to his lips.
The chair had fallen, unbalanced by the sudden weight of an ecstatic Enjolras, and now lay sideways, frame pressed to the floor. Enjolras himself, the source of the surprised yelp, rested close to the furniture, limbs splayed out awkwardly, having landed on his belly. The revolutionary made a move to stir, raising his heavy head and shivering slightly, blinking in innocent shock. He attempted standing, dragging in gangly legs to his body, gaining his paws. He succeeded in elevating to knee-height, before thundering back towards the tiles. Enjolras rose again, instead plumping to sit, decidedly washing his paws in a faked unconcerned fashion, a cat's surefire way to avoid embarrassment or loss of dignity. Grantaire gained his feet, staggering towards the upturned chair with a curious yet humorous expression, determined to discover the cause of Enjolras' newfound clumsiness. He circled around the tom, still engrossed in his fruitless endeavour, only to reach a shocking, horrific conclusion.
It could only be described as a shame.
The chair had fallen, atop Enjolras, yet part of the cat remained trapped beneath the wooden beams. His tail, the glorious appendage of which Grantaire adored and admired, was lodged beneath frame and floor, crushed under the chair's substantial weight, rings of marmalade and bronze disappearing beneath. The scenario apparently pained Enjolras on a more physical level, for the ensnared cat winced and lowered his over-clean mitt when Grantaire poked at his caught tail. The simple sound, a low whine of distress, clutched at his heart like an iron hand, tugging at the delicate strings.
"Trapped, dear leader?" he managed, relying upon his exerted sarcastic nature to cover the slight waver in his voice. Enjolras growled, the angered sound reverberating from within, his overexcited nature having obviously fled. Grantaire pawed once again at his tail, assessing the depth of his trouble. Enjolras, in an reaction to such contact, increased the volume of his snarl, hackles gently rising as jagged spikes along the neat curved of his spine, throwing an angry look over his shoulder, a warning for the larger cat to back off, to no avail. "May I?" enquired Grantaire, gently leaning closer to the revolutionary's tail. Enjolras did not reply, staring intently at the floor with sudden rage and disappointment to his lack of ability to move. The black cat took his chance, gently taking his tail into his mouth, closing gums around the puffy fur as a mother would hold her kitten. Enjolras did not stir from the action, but even Grantaire noticed the slight tensed movement of his forelimbs. Another pang of guilt struck his weakened core, eyes slipping shut. Averting his clouded thoughts, the cynical cat jerked at his tail, struggling to dislodge the glorious feature. He continued with this movement, each yank or pull increasing in power until, abruptly, a shuddering gasp emitted from Enjolras. He paused instantaneously, removing his jaws, starring with worried eyes onto the form of Enjolras, moving to his side in muffled steps.
To put it simply, Enjolras lay in deep hatred, ashamed and humiliated at the current situation. He was the leader of the revolution, a paladin of France, a warrior, battling for his Patria, yet, in the most plaintive of mistakes, a fool's error, he had come to be captured by a piece of solitary furniture. He had allowed himself to be overtaken by the ecstasy and exhilaration of the moment, a shocking burst of the thrilling thought of building his long-awaited barricade. He had leapt, and fallen. A thundering shock of realisation, a metaphorical bucket of icy water. And now he was situated beside the treacherous chair, tail trapped awkwardly beneath it, small jolts of pain causing him to involuntary whimper or cringe. And who stood by him? Not sympathetic Combeferre nor the burly Bahorel, capable of hoisting a table onto his back, Grantaire, a cynical burden to the demonstration, never to be utilised.
Yet, in objection to his unchangeable opinion, here the cat remained, both in fur and flesh, sober and awake. Bright eyes glaring with a diligent light, assessing the problem with a wise expression. He had attempted to free his leader, and stopped when the ache became unbearable. He was almost compassionate, aiding Enjolras in this manner, the golden cat-
Enjolras felt a sudden warm sensation running along his flank, a terribly coarse texture scraping and smoothing his slicked pelt, his rapid mind comparing the perception to that of Joly's tightly bound cloth bandages, scratchy and calloused. Beside him, forced against his shoulder, Grantaire's muzzle was pushed into the plush fur of his coat, rough tongue trailing over each stripe with unknown accuracy. A low purr had evolved from within the dark tom, a reverberating single-noted tune, a noise of pleasure.
"Why are you..?"
"Hush, your fur is full of dust. Courfeyrac will be here to collect me soon, he can help."
"Collect you?" probed Enjolras, beginning to enjoy the wash. Grantaire halted, retreating slightly, tongue protruding from curved fangs.
"Oh? I guess you forget; you may remain until the moon is high, but I am the one to drink myself to sleep. Courfeyrac commonly finds me in the early hours, drags me home. I am not surprised, many do not remember much about one such as I. Even your fellows me see as nothing more than the obnoxious drunk."
"You are loyal; an admirable quality," the revolutionary cat muttered, triggering a slight meow to emit from Grantaire. Enjolras twisted his neck to acknowledge the source of such a sound, coming snout to snout with the sooty cat.
"Loyal?"
"You are still here, despite my ridiculous behaviour." Grantaire dragged his tongue across the golden tom's pink nose, a comforting lick.
"Do not speak of such nonsense," he muttered in a tender tone, nuzzling into the ruff of Enjolras' neck. A pleasant moment of silence followed, concluded by a muffled grunt of discomfort from the revolutionary.
"It hurts dreadfully..." he mewled helplessly, ears sliding sideways in irritation. Grantaire buried his muzzle within his dense pelt, huffing with joy and sympathy, still unbelieving of the situation he had found himself to be in.
"I know." the drunkard reassured, swishing his tail over the base of Enjolras' trapped appendage.
"No, my paw, you are standing on it."
"Ah." Grantaire sniffed, removing his misplaced mitt, claws clattering against the tiles as he readjusted his limbs. "Better?"
"Are you not still here?"
Grantaire yelped with sudden glee, thrusting himself against Enjolras, engulfing his snout into his leader's broad chest with a furious purr.