So, I'll say only one thing : blame Seredhiel05. For. Everything.
and I'm sorry, I have a thing with Drunk!Jolras, I can't help it !
Plus, nothing is mine. I wish that Combeferre was, though…
Dedicated to the awesome Barriss-before-it-was-cool.
Tuesday morning, Enjolras woke up with the worst headache he ever had. He hadn't much experience to compare it to, but it was definitely the biggest hangover he ever had.
He was barely aware of his surroundings as he made his way to the café.
It was the week of the Carnaval and Courfeyrac, along with most of the guys, had been out every night since it started that past Thursday. Even Combeferre had been out on Sathurday with some girl he couldn't recognise in an Alice in Wonderland costume. But for the last and biggest night of the holiday Courfeyrac insisted on all of them going out together. He even had the 'perfect group costume for them all'.
This Carnaval was early enough to be on the last week on the Uni break so Combeferre agreed quite easily. Too easily. During the day he had received dozens of texts from the Amis asking him to come, so much so that he didn't remember how he ended up it that Musketeer costume, in that crowded pub, asking himself what he was doing there. Enjolras was sitting in a corner, nursing his beer, while watching Courfeyrac show everyone his fencing skills.
Suddenly, a woman with a bloody, stripped, blue dress- that he would date from the end of the 18th century- sat next to him, letting her prop knife fall on the table. She had so much blood on her face that he couldn't recognise her.
"And which one are you?" she asked.
He looked at her quizzically.
"You're one of the Musketeers, right? We have Courfeyrac over there, claming to be d'Artagnan. Although something tells me he has never read the books…"
"Yeah, Combeferre has been explaining this to him ever since we left home. He abandoned it after the fifth time."
"I'm not surprised. After all, d'Artagnan is supposed to be the sexy one… So, which one are you?"
"I let you decide since you seem to be quite an expert on Dumas' work…"
"Well, I'm a literature major after all but Dumas wasn't my teachers' favourite, though. But I read a lot of his novels when I was a teenager.
"Let see… Courfeyrac would be Porthos, he's the funny one. Combeferre would be… Aramis. And you're Athos, the leader… Yeah… That would fit. But again, I read it when I was fifteen…"
He ordered their strongest coffee and around an hour and two coffees later, his friends arrived one by one. They appeared to not be in any better shape than him which was, in a way, quite comforting.
Bahorel sat next to him and gave him a big slap on his back.
"So, my friend, who was the lucky girl last night ? Don't think we didn't see you two in that alley. In the middle of February! We were afraid you would catch death but then we decided that you were both hot enough, so we weren't worried." He said with a wink.
Enjolras was surprised. He didn't remember that part of the night, but as Bahorel was babbling, flashes of the night started to come back to him. He could remember how, after their first Tequila shot, he recognised her.
"You're Charlotte Corday, right?"
She nodded with a radiant smile.
"Why? Why put so much effort in a costume that half of the people wouldn't recognise? Haven't you got better things to do?"
"Because it's fun. The chase to get the perfect accessories. There is also the bonus of not being yourself for a night. And it helps to make new acquaintances. Plus…"She hesitated for a long moment. "There is this guy; I know he would've got it."
"And did he ?"
"Yes. Yes, he did." She answered looking intently at him.
"And are you're going to see her again?" Jehan asked dreamily.
Enjolras was certain that he was already planning their future wedding in his head.
"Hum, I don't even know her name. I don't remember half of the night."
He was seriously embarrassed, which increased even more when he saw Jehan's sad expression.
It was around this time Grantaire chose to walk into the café. He was the only one who didn't look like shit; but it was mostly because he had training for this and he kind of always looked like shit.
When he asked what was happening Joly happily explained everything about Enjolras' mystery girl.
"Charlotte Corday, you say? Blue dress? Lot and lots of hemoglobin?"
"Yeah!" answered Jehan excitedly, even though he hadn't been there the night before. He was too happy, seeing that the fairytale ending had a second chance. "Do you know her?"
Grantaire laughed. "Guys, it was Éponine!"
They all looked at him, eyes wide as saucers, then started babbling about how they hadn't seen her that night and how it was destiny (mostly Jehan).
Enjolras, as calmly as he could, asked, "Are you sure?"
"Yeah! I helped her with her costume! I suggested the blood!" he said very proudly.
A few hours had past and all his friends had left. Except for Courfeyrac who came a bit later and fell asleep, drooling on the table, next to Enjolras.
Enjolras tried to read when they left but he couldn't concentrate on his book. His mind too focused on the night before.
Around three drinks later; they found the pub too loud and crowded for them to talk without yelling at each other. She suggested they leave, saying that there was a nice little place they could go that had a bench just next to the river.
They were walking next to each other down the street when she tripped, either on the ice or on her dress. He caught her hand instinctively. What he hadn't planned on was the fact that she kept her hand in his the whole time, even as they sat down. At first he was hardly able to listen to her because of it. Which was a shame, for she had a lot to say. Slowly he got used to her hand in his and started playing mindlessly with it.
"Hi!"
Then, louder. "Hello!"
He looked up to see the only woman he wasn't ready to see, standing behind the chair right in front of him.
"Can I sit here? I don't want to sit alone. Arseholes tend to take it as an invitation, and I'm not in the right mood to break kneecaps today."
She looked like she had a hangover as bad as his.
He cleared away half of the table as a way to signify that she could. She smiled and sat, ordering a strong coffee when the waitress came by.
They silently went back to their books. So silently that when Courfeyrac woke up he quickly left, cursing them for being such boring creatures.
It took Enjolras a lot of courage before asking "Why?"
She looked up, surprised. "Would you care to specify?"
He had thousands of questions swirling in his mind, making it hard to choose.
"Why didn't you tell me it was you?"
"Would you have acted the same if I was me? Would you have flirted– No don't try to deny it! You were flirting! Would you have if you had seen me?
"Well, Marius did see you, didn't he? Why didn't you stay with him? Spent the night with him? You dressed up for him, didn't you?" He snapped.
She closed her book with a thud, ready to leave, and hissed "It wasn't for him. It was for you!"
She was already half way to the door when he caught up with her. He took her by the arm and led her to the hallway going to the bathroom. The café wasn't exactly crowded but he knew that with both of their temperaments he didn't want to make their conversation public.
His eyes where on his feet, avoiding her, while looking for words. Never he had thought about her that way, she was always hiding behind Pontmercy. But she was smart and, even if she didn't speak often, her observations were always relevent to the point of being annoying. She, however, had always seems to prefer fooling around with Grantaire in the back of the room. Which was a shame he would say, now that he had spent a whole night talking to her and learning how passionate and interested in literally everything she was.
"Since when…"was all he could articulate. He looked up into her eyes. It was her. He couldn't forget those warm brown eyes.
He couldn't think anymore. Or, rather, his brain was overheating and all his thoughts were colliding in his mind, to the point that he felt his head was about to explode.
There were still a lot of holes in his memory from that night, but those bright, mischievous eyes, he could remember them clearly.
They left the bench after some time, he couldn't remember why. Probably because they were cold; even all the alcohol they had ingested couldn't make up for the coldness of a February night.
Hers hand found his, again, as she led him, laughing and walking fast, despite the ice. She almost fell multiple times but it didn't stop her. He was too preoccupied by her fearlessness and too scared that she'd hurt herself. Because of his fear he didn't bother checking where she was leading him.
In was only when they stopped that he looked down into her eyes. She was resting against a stone wall, smiling at him, her eyes shinning even with the darkness of the alley.
He barely understood what was happening to him. He just let her guide him, her hands on his own and placing them on her hips. Then, she was on her toes – or so he assumed – decreasing the distance between them. All he could see were her eyes and her smile coming closer and closer until he could no longer see it but feel it. Her lips on his was something he hadn't experienced since playing with the neighbours' daughter when he was seven. What followed, though, was entirely new and he couldn't decide what he should focus on the most. Her hands which were now in his hair, her tongue playing with his own, or those little noises she occasionally let slip ?
He had needed some time to react. He had been slowly pushing his hands further along her waist, so she would be closer to him, but this was not enough and his hands moved by themselves under the dress, as if to check if her underwear was historically accurate as well as the rest.
Someone cleared their throat. Loudly. Ostensibly. He opened his eyes to see Éponine's bright ones staring back at him. She was smiling and slightly dishevelled.
Did they?…
"I would advise you both to choose a more appropriate place for this kind of demonstration. People might get shocked at such outright displays of passion." Combeferre suggested with a wide grin.
Éponine giggled and murmured something about seeing him later in his ear, before squeezing his hand one last time. She then collected her things from the floor and left.
As he sat back with his friend who started ranting about… Was it about that new law on health insurance? he looked at what she had left in his hand when she squeezed it, only to see his mustache. His fake Musketeer mustache. As if he needed one last piece of evidence to prove to him that all of this hadn't been a dream.
So, I don't know how much blood were on Charlotte Corday after she had killed Marat, but I decided that Éponine and Grantaire would go for the gory version. And the dress is the one you can see on the picture by Paul Jacques Aimé Baudry.