Holes
Post-barricade Marius angst fic. I know, I know, everyone does these, and they're depressing and not original, but I wanted to. So there…I guess I was in the mood to write angst today, guys. Sorry for the feels. -Marseillaise
My heart is falling apart. I barely knew them, and at the same time they were my everything. Their ghosts follow me, everywhere I see their faces, laughing, fighting, dying. Dead. Like I should be. Their cockades, bright pins that proclaimed the future, lie bloodied and torn amongst the hole in the ground they called a grave. The future came, alright. It came in a bloody dawn, which none of them would live to see.
Every day I live, feeling my heart beating steadily, and all it does is remind me that their hearts were silenced, along with their voices and existence. Wiped from the earth in a single blood soaked day, the bright flames that lived within them were extinguished, and all that remains is a demolished wine shop.
I still hear them, inside my head, because I cannot let them leave me, too.
Courfeyrac, whom I first met. The charmer, always laughing, each week bringing home a new grisette. Always losing his hat, the hat that covered his fashionably cut curls. He detested umbrellas; claiming that they were unromantic. Since he died, I have never once used an umbrella.
Bossuet, the king of puns. The unlucky one, always kind and good-humored. He dropped out of Blondeau's law class so that my name might not get erased. Bald at twenty-five, the Eagle of Meaux. L'Aigle de Meaux. He used to make the most wonderful puns, and despite his bad luck, always made the best of things. I try to also make the best of things, now.
Combeferre, the philosopher. He always was thinking, reading books and seeming to carry the knowledge of the world inside his head. He died looking at the sky. Envisioning the future with him was the schoolteacher; he wished for education. Condorcet was his favorite, not Robespierre. It is difficult reading, I have discovered, but it illuminates his dream.
Joly, the hypochondriac. Always convinced he had contracted some major illness, and then laughing at himself for his ridiculous ideas. Always merry, and never one to turn down a glass of wine. He had the oddest habit of touching his cane to the tip of his nose. A funny thing- I have also contracted this habit.
Bahorel, the fighter. He used to come to the café with taped knuckles and bruises, claiming it was nothing and sitting to play dominoes. He loved nothing more than a fight; unless it was an uprising. Strong, yet amiable. He was one to get drunk. Scarlet waistcoats were his favorite; they made him feel bold. They make me feel bold, too, as if I am on top of the world.
Feuilly, the worker. An orphan, poor, and yet he was the most honest of them all. Living solely off his own dime, and never accepting money. Shy, quiet, but strong. He revered Poland and its determination never to give up. Poland is a beautiful country, but I have found it rains rather too much for my liking.
Jean Prouvaire, the poet. Seemingly timid, but never one to give up. He knew Latin, Greek, Italian, and Hebrew as well as French. A flutist, and adept at music. All day long, he thought, contemplating questions of socials and liberties. A Romantic, with a capital R, he was unbreakable but blushed at the slightest thing. He used to love looking at the stars, and knew all of their names. Since that fateful day whence he screamed long live the future, I have also studied the stars.
Grantaire, the cynic. He claimed he believed in nothing, but we all knew it was a lie. An artist, and a fencer, but he wasted away with the bottle. He made classical allusions all day, and his corner was always the same. I suppose we only tolerated him because of his ability with dominoes. No one could beat him, not even Bahorel or Bossuet. I have tried vainly, but I believe that I will never be any good at dominoes.
Enjolras, the leader. Nothing could faze him, his heart was solely set on Progress, and Patria, and their ideals. Serious and yet fierce, he was beautiful and yet terrible. All he wanted was a better tomorrow for the French People, and he was willing to pay anything for it. He had a firm sense of justice, and all I have left of him now is a bloody cockade, torn and with a bullet hole through it.
They will never leave me, not while I continue to dwell on the past. Their absence leaves holes, huge, bloody, gaping holes, holes that cannot be filled by anything. I almost wish I had died with them, because I now realize that their hopes and dreams have become mine, and that now, I carry with me a part of each of them. The slightest thing reminds me of them. When I read, I am reminded of Combeferre, and his love of learning. Even when an omnibus rattles past, visions of students running up to it and pushing it over assault me. "No omnibus goes on Rue de la Chanvrerie!" they had cried. They had not let anything come in, not until the soldiers came. The paving stones make me think of Bahorel. A hat in the gutter, soaked and decimated, reminds me of Courfeyrac. The only time I remember him without his hat was at the barricades, when a cannonball liberated it from him. A flower that grows in the crack in the road makes me think of Jehan, and his soft yet passionate love of all things beautiful. A broken bottle, some sort of cheap wine, which resides in the street, gives me images of Grantaire, sitting in his corner. When I pass someone and they sneeze, I see Joly, concerned for us all over the slightest sniffle. Cosette came home with a new fan yesterday, and all I could think of was Feuilly, Feuilly and his fans. Moreover, the cockade, which I always carry in my pocket, makes sure I never forget our leader.
No, I will never forget Les Amis de l'ABC, even though I knew them but for a short time. Although with every day I memories of the past hit me like the bullets that should have, I believe I feel blessed to have had the privilege of knowing such brave young men.