Children of The Barricade
DISCLAIMER: Everything you recognize from Les Misérables does not belong to me, and is the property of Victor Hugo, the old genius.
A/N: So, I thought I'd try my hand at writing a Les Mis fic. Easier said than done, for me at least; I get so caught up in the moment when I attempt to write one that I often end up crying. Then I have to take to my bed for an hour with a bar of chocolate and the Les Misérables album until I feel better. I put a sign on my door that says OVERCOME WITH INTENSE FEELS so that my family know that if they come near me, I'll slay them.
The Enjonine ship has RUINED MY LIFE. NO JOKE. I love it so much I bring it up in every conversation. If I had one wish, it would be to travel back in time, find Victor Hugo and be like "Write them together! For God's sake, man, do it! You'll be sparing hundreds of fangirls/boys years of pitiful despair!"
I'd enjoy that a lot.
Also, I apologize to those waiting on an update on my other story, 20 Moments, but this is what happens when you are part of multiple fandoms. Total chaos. I will update shortly though, I promise. Christmas is coming soon; I'll have plenty of spare time then. In between watching It's A Wonderful Life and getting fat.
Anyway, regarding the actual story: Ehh…I don't know. It's not my best effort – I HAD A WAY BETTER ONE WRITTEN ON THE NOTES ON MY IPOD AND THEN MY SISTER DELETED IT. OUT OF PURE, MALICIOUS SPITE. (That's just the kind of relationship we have.) But, I just had to write this. I couldn't not. I'm not sure if I have done the characters the justice they are due, but I tried my best. Sigh.
Constructive criticism, anyone? Please review. Please? Please? For Enjonine?
Grantaire was drunk. Drunk as a skunk. Drunk as a skunk who was in a funk. Drunk as a skunk who was in a funk in an elephant's trunk. Grantaire snorted to himself as he fumbled with his keys. Drunk as a skunk. He should say that to Combeferre. That was good.
When Grantaire finally managed to locate his house-key and swatted enough of the alcohol-induced fog out of his mind to open the door, he fell into the apartment with an air of cheerfulness that always accompanied him when he was sloshed.
"Combeferre!" Grantaire picked himself up and leapt over the couch where his roommate was reading the paper. He collided with the coffee table with a crash.
Combeferre didn't even look up. "Christ, R."
"Combie!" Grantaire stood up and jumped on the couch, unfazed. "Combie. Guess what."
Combeferre sighed. "What, Grantaire?"
"I have a joke!" Grantaire clapped his hands gleefully.
"Oh, do tell."
"O.K. So, you know how I'm drunk-" Grantaire hiccupped – "Like, all the time?"
"Really?" said Combeferre indifferently. "I hadn't noticed."
"Oh, Combie," Grantaire punched his arm and giggled girlishly. "So, you know how-"
"Hello, you two!" Feuilly came in and dropped his keys in the bowl by the door. He frowned, and then picked up the black lacy bra that was in the bowl.
"Ah. So I'm guessing Musichetta's here, then?"
"Yup," said Combeferre, turning another page of his newpaper.
"I'm sure Boussuet will be overjoyed," Feuilly remarked dryly as he dropped the offending undergarment back into the bowl. "Who was it who thought it would be a good idea for all of us to move in together?"
"You," said Grantaire and Combeferre together.
"You thought it would save on rent."
"Oh, yes, that was me, wasn't it?"
"Stroke of genius on your part, I think, Feuilly."
"Well, at least Enjolras decided to move in with Couf and Jehan and Pontmercy instead I don't think I could bear sitting across from him at the breakfast table each morning, listening to his plans about revolting before I've even had my coffee." Feuilly sighed and flopped down on the armchair. "Anything good on the telly?"
"No, unless you fancy a couple of re-runs of Antique Roadshow."
Feuilly huffed and kicked off his shoes.
"ANYWAY," Grantaire turned back to Combeferre. "So, you know how I'm always dru-"
The phone rang. Combeferre flicked another page of the newspaper. Feuilly got up and began to raid the fridge.
From inside Joly's bedroom, Musichetta yelled, "Phone's ringing!"
"Yes, thank you 'Chetta!" Feuilly called back, picking up what looked like a mouldy block of cheese and examining it.
"Is everyone intent on ruining my joke?!" demanded Grantaire.
Boussuet appeared suddenly from his study and scanned the room, eyes wide.
"Was that Musichetta I heard?"
The phone kept ringing.
"Musichetta? Here? What?" scoffed Combeferre. "She is most certainly not here, Boussuet."
"Yeah, she's most definitely not in that room having sexy fun time with Joly right now," chipped in Grantaire helpfully. "Most definitely not having sexy fun time. With Joly. Here, in this apartment. Most definitely."
Combeferre glared at him.
Boussuet swore and charged into Joly's room.
The phone still rang.
"Boussuet!"
"Boussuet, what the hell-"
"Well done, R," Combeferre rolled his eyes and walked into Joly's room to sort the three of them out.
The phone kept ringing.
"Drunk as a skunk!" Grantaire called after Combeferre. "That was the punchline! Drunk as a skunk!"
Feuilly unscrewed the cap off a litre of milk and sniffed.
"Answer the phone, would you, Grantaire?"
Grantaire did a forward roll on the couch to reach the phone (because, he was, after all, still drunk as a skunk.)
"Stupid Combie,"muttered Grantaire. "I'm clearly a comical genius."
He picked up the phone.
"Hellllllllllllllllllllllloooooooooooooooooooooooooo?" he drawled in a posh accent.
"Hello," said a woman at the end of the phone. She had a slightly hoarse voice that sounded familiar to Grantaire. "Hi, I'm looking for Enjolras. Is – is this him?"
"Nope," Grantaire shook his head violently, even though the woman couldn't see him. "Nope, nope, nope. Darling Enjy doesn't live here anymore, see. This is Grantaire. You sound familiar, you do."
"Grantaire!" cried the woman and relief flooded her voice.
"Grantaire! How are you?"
"Me?" hiccupped Grantaire. "Me? I'm…. well, I'm drunk as a skunk."
The woman laughed, a high, beautiful laugh that reminded Grantaire of those silver bells that Christmas carollers used whenever they came to the door.
"Well, I'm glad some things never change. What about the others? Feuilly? Coufeyrac? Combeferre? Jehan? Marius? How are they?"
"Marius an' Couf an' Jehan don't live here," slurred Grantaire. "They live with Enjolras. But they're all fine. I saw 'em this morning. The rest of 'em live with me. They're all here right now. Even Musichetta." He lowered his voice. "But she's only here because she's having sexy fun time with Joly right now. You've a nice laugh. Has anyone ever told you that?"
"Thank you, R. Uh…do you…do you happen to have a number for Enjolras that you could give me?"
"Of course. His number is 123456789010." Grantaire felt proud to have Enjolras' number so correctly. He rewarded himself with a sip from the flask of whiskey that he kept in his pocket.
"Grantaire, I don't think that's his actual –"
"Course it is, silly! 1234…5…678…9…"
"Grantaire?"
"Yup?"
"Do you have a pen and a piece of paper?"
"Maybe I do, maybe I don't."
"Grantaire, come on, this is important."
"Alright, I do!" God, women. So demanding.
"Alright, well, can you give a message to Enjolras for me next time you see him?"
Grantaire took a swig from his flask before he answered. "Yup," he replied. "Yuppity yuppity yup yup…."
"O.K. Could you please tell Enjolras that…."
The woman repeated her message and Grantaire scribbled it down very carefully and surprisingly well, for someone who was…well, you know. Drunk as a skunk.
"O.K, O.K, its all written down here," Grantaire said, lying on his back with the antique flower vase Combeferre's grandmother had given him balancing on his head. "But who shall I say is, like, calling him and stuff, because he'll wanna know, you know."
"Oh. Oh, yeah, right. Tell him that it's, uh…" the woman sounded worried. Nervous. Grantaire cradled the phone to his ear, shoving Feuilly, who had switched on Antiques Roadshow.
"Tell him that it's –"
When the woman said her name, alarm bells went off in Grantaire's inebriated mind and it sobered him up straight away. He sat up straight, sending the flower vase crashing to the floor and said into the phone, very quietly and calmly, "Thank you for calling." He hung up the phone. Feuilly looked at him questioningly.
Grantaire smiled and then screamed at the top of his lungs: "COMBIE! BOUSSUET! JOLY! GET YOUR SHOES! WE'RE GOING TO ENJOLRAS'S!"
Grantaire took the stairs to Enjolras' apartment two at a time. God, he hoped Enjolras had whiskey. He hadn't exercised this much in years, and he was exhausted. He only thanked God he hadn't been sober enough to remember Enjolras's actual number and given it to her.
"These stairs are so steep," gasped Joly. "I'm getting out of breath. Oh God, I must be going into cardiac arrest –"
"What exactly did she say, Grantaire?" pressed Boussuet, stumbling on the stairs. "Did she actually say the words-"
" 'I'm getting married?' Yes, of course she did, you numpty," snapped Combeferre. "Do you think we'd all be racing over here at midnight if she didn't?"
"Just saying, Grantaire's not the most reliable source even while sober. And he –"
"I'm not making it up!" Grantaire stuck out his tongue.
"I'm freezing. Doesn't this building have any heat?" asked Musichetta.
"I think the fact that you're only wearing a thong and a trench coat might have something to do with that," replied Feuilly smartly.
Musichetta blushed. Joly smirked and grabbed her hand.
Boussuet growled.
"You two sicken me," groaned Combeferre.
Marius opened the door, sporting a Muppets shirt and Simpsons boxers.
"Guys? What are you doing here?"
Grantaire pushed past him, the others following his lead.
"There's no time to explain.
"Loving the boxers, Pontmercy," smirked Boussuet.
"Shut up, you bald coot," snapped Combeferre. "Marius, where's Enjolras?"
"He's in the kitchen," yawned Marius. "But why-?"
Grantaire almost tripped over his own two feet in his effort to get to the kitchen. "Combie will explain!"
Enjolras was indeed in the not-very-well-painted-turquoise-by-Cosette kitchen, making a cup of tea, his back to Grantaire. However, anyone with a nose in their heads could smell the stench of whiskey radiating off of Grantaire in waves, so Enjolras said, without turning away from the kettle, "Hello, R. To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"She's getting married," Grantaire panted, out of breath. He searched his coat pocket for his flask. He needed a drink.
"Who's getting married?" asked Enjolras good-naturedly, putting a spoon of sugar into his tea. "Cosette and Marius? Musichetta?"
"No!" cried Grantaire. "If you'd just –"
"Oh, I thought it was 'Chetta and Joly and Boussuet were fighting or something. And you wanted me to sort it out."
"No! Lis-"
"Who is it then?"
"It's…it's…it's a disaster, 'Jolras, that's what it is!"
"Don't be such a drama queen."
Grantaire groaned; he couldn't find his flask. "Enjolras, do you have any liquor?"
"No, and even if I did, I wouldn't give it to you," said Enjolras brusquely. "You smell like an alcoholic."
"I am an alcoholic!" Grantaire wailed. "'Jolras, listen –"
"Yes, yes, someone's getting married and it's a disaster. Well, I for one, don't care about lonely souls or married ones for that matter, so if you could just leave me alone and let me enjoy my cup of tea in peace-"
"ENJOLRAS!" roared Grantaire with so much ferocity that Enjolras stopped dead in his tracks.
"Enjolras," Grantaire began calmly, smoothing down his hair and digging a crumpled piece of paper out of his pocket.
"Enjolras, it's not Musichetta getting married."
He put the piece of paper down on the table gently.
"It's Éponine."
A/N: Oooooh! A twist! (DUN DUN!) So, what did you think? Obviously, not a whole lot of Enjonine in that chapter, but I wanted to get a feel for the story myself (never mind about you!) Feel free to review to tell me what you liked, what you didn't like – oh, or PM me! I only found out what that was recently (Yes, I know. Stupid me.) and I'd love if any of you could drop me a line. Thanks for reading the first chapter!