So I wrote a thing.
I've been obsessed with Les Mis for a while now, and wrote a bit, but this is the first thing I've posted...yeah. A whole lot of present tense confusion I sort of experimented with...anyway, read it and find out.
Disclaimer: I don't own Les Misérables.
Visiting
Marius looks down at his boots. Dusty. He…was certain Cosette – Ursula – Mlle Lanoire – would scoff at his boots. Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, says he's ridiculous. Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, somehow knows he's in love...
Does he tell him about Cosette? Marius stops. Does he tell him? Courfeyrac makes so many little exclamations, so many ready quips about his…romance – Ursula deserves a less sensual word – as if he stores them all up in his free time. But does he ever really tell him? Marius doesn't know. Surely that is something he would remember?
Sudden vertigo, and Le Baron Pontmercy leans against the doorframe of 16 Rue de la Verrerie; he feels Cosette's hand on his shoulder – but her real name isn't Cosette, is it? It's Euphrasia. She tells him it's Euphrasia in the garden.
"Marius?"
He smiles. Her voice is lovely – her voice speaks with the essence of her.
"Are you sure this is a good idea?"
He has to go in. He owes them that much … he owes Courfeyrac so much already – he doesn't want to run into more debt: the prospect is disgraceful. And yet, he must. There's nowhere for him to go.
Courfeyrac, being Courfeyrac, makes the whole situation easy, even when he fumbles for coherency and the words don't come out how they sounded in his head. How foolish he is, to wait on the doorstep for so long when Courfeyrac merely rolls his eyes and hands him in a moment lodging, food, and friendship! Does it matter that Marius himself gives him nothing? Does not even share the name of his beloved, does not trust him enough to explain his circumstances, is scared away by nothing more than the date of Waterloo and a taste for melancholy?
"No –" Marius says. "No, this is what I need to do."
"I'm right here," says Cosette.
He goes in.
The memories – the mirages – are too much for him; they fill every inch of the room. They infuse themselves with regret and nostalgia and happiness and uncertainty. Is his friend there, sprawled on the divan, trashy novel in hand, amid piles of crumpled, fashionable clothing – grinning the same easy grin, declaiming the colourful parts to him in perfectly unabashed, delighted tones that gain delight as Marius' face gains colour? Are the four of them there, confident in their victory, speaking in excited, passionate tones about something Marius, who never asks, doesn't know about? The creased pages of Therese-Philosophe, sandwiched between Combeferre's copy of The Social Contract and a well-worn Ivanhoe, move him to tears.
A hand squeezes his own, and he turns, choking out "– Courfeyrac – "
Cosette's own eyes are wet.
His friend sighs and flings himself onto the (perpetually unmade) bed, running a hand through his auburn curls in what would, perhaps, to the naïve grisette, appear as despair. "You haven't even talked to her? Monsieur l'abbé, you never fail to astound me. This is ridiculous! This borders on the absurd! I can scarcely – "
Mlle Lanoire isn't a stranger to him, though; his soul and hers are the same, they promise each other, don't they? She's right there, right behind him. Isn't she?
He never makes any promises to Courfeyrac.
If he had, maybe then –
" – who do you think you are, Enjolras?" Courfeyrac promptly drops his face in a pillow, and his ranting trails off into muffled silence.
He's not there though, not anymore. It's dark outside, and Courfeyrac is lying on the bed, still and silent, his green eyes open and at the same time so very closed.
Marius hears two deep breaths rattle in his chest, and he moves forward.
Courfeyrac is pale, like a wax figure, and blood is soaking through his shirt, running down his bare forearms. He's been shot, more than once. Marius is drawn up into the present as if taking a gulp of air – he remembers. It takes Courfeyrac so long to die.
He's shot at, over the barricade, still mocking the shooters with the words he loves so much. He takes a bullet in the shoulder and a bayonet slash to the chest. He falls back in a storm of blades; wildly, laughs; screams at the others to get into Corinthe as another shot brings him to his knees. They aim at Joly, and he throws himself into the path of the gun. Each shot brings a gasp, sometimes a bit back cry of pain. His eyes are bright and now they are filled with horror and despair and somehow still, that unwillingness to back down, to abandon his amis – that fear of letting them down, weak in their eyes, in his last moments – that charm that still refuses to desert him – still burns there, brilliant and emerald-green.
Courfeyrac sways dizzily, staggers backwards – looks up at the soldiers, and down again – and smiles, half-smirks. It is a strange smile and it says, shrugging, "Fine, it's over" and "You may think you've won, but you haven't" and, in a whisper: "I loved the world, and there is no way in hell you're going to see what this is doing to my soul."
They fire, and he falls.
The moment and the smile take scarcely more than a minute.
"Marius."
"He was my friend!" Marius shouts, as if his voice can carry through the still-open window and into the barracks of the Garde Nationale. And repeats, brokenly: "He was my friend."
Cosette puts her arm around his shaking shoulders as he sinks to the floor of 16 de la Verrerie, and holds him tightly so he won't fall apart.
The reflection of his grief rages through the pale mirror of her face.