So, I saw the movie last Monday. Mind you, I've never been the slightest bit inclined to see Les Mis, or listen to the soundtrack. Even though I'm a huge fan of theater, Broadway and West End, etc, Les Mis was never something I had any desire to see. My only exposure to it was the Liam Nealson movie in my sophomore World History class.
But then I saw the movie musical. And bought the album. And researched the book.
Boy, did I fall hard.
Anyways. I've read a lot of E/E fanfiction over the last week, but nothing has satisfied me. So, I've turned to writing my own. Of course.
Just a warning – this piece is AU, as it's setting is in modern times. Also, I'm only in my second semester of college, so updates might not be oh-so-frequent as I'd like. But, I've got an outline and a passion, so we'll see. This shouldn't be more than about 12-15 chapters.
DISCLAIMER: Les Mis isn't mine. Neither are the characters.
La Belle Vie
-XXX-
A hush fell between the two people as gently as a blanket placed over a sleeping child by a loving mother. For a long moment, neither the young man nor the young woman spoke. In the pause, feet were shuffled, nervous glances exchanged, lips bitten. She put hands to her temple, massaging the coil of nerves. Finally, the young man spoke –
"But, why?"
His voice was a low murmur, yet clipped and articulate. This was a fellow who emulated care – in his appearance and manner, in the world, for others. Passion poured from his every pore when it chanced to sting him, and he was ought to be fevered with violently zealous speeches on a variety of causes – mostly social – on a regular basis.
"I don't know." She paused. "Perhaps we're being punished. Or given a chance," her lips twisted as she added irony to her tone. "For missing the boat in the last lifetime."
He glanced up sharply. "So, you do believe it, then? That we're merely recycled bits of another life. Reincarnated." Bitterness and excitement both tinged his voice. "Brought back by fate to play out miserable lives again – for what?"
"Do you really think that?" she asked softly.
"That our lives were miserable?"
"Yes," Eveline concurred. "And that they are miserable?"
Quietly, Leo said, "I think perhaps they were. Else…else we wouldn't be here now. For the moment however…." He met her eyes, smiling faintly. "No. I'm not miserable."
-XXX-
Blessed are the poor in spirit: for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are the meek: for they shall possess the land.
Blessed are they who mourn: for they shall be comforted.
Blessed are they that hunger and thirst after justice: for they shall have their fill.
Blessed are the merciful: for they shall obtain mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart: for they shall see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God.
Blessed are they that suffer persecution for justice' sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
I never thought myself to be one to be blessed in any manner. After we lost the inn, after we moved to Paris, after we took refuge on the city streets among the underworld of criminals, no part of my life was blessed. My only ray of sunshine was a certain Pontmercy – but it was light that wasn't to fall on me. It was merely light that would pass by, occasionally gracing me with a few seconds of warmth. A smile. Or, perhaps, a kind word.
That light was for another.
Enjolras didn't have a very blessed existence, either. Dead by twenty-one for a cause that he wouldn't see through. Disowned by a family he'd never really known. So devoted to the disillusioned city, so impassioned by the cries of his Patria that he would never live to see a settled life, nor any life at all.
It seemed like, just maybe, we were the furthest thing from blessed – cursed. Destined to live and die in ruins.
But even so…
We were blessed. Our rewards were coming. Comfort, mercy, justice. All that we had been promised in exchange for our suffering.
It simply wasn't coming in that particular lifetime.
-XXX-
Marcus is the one I notice first. In fact, Marcus is the one I always notice. We could be in a canyon in pitch darkness along with a thousand other people and I would still manage to notice Marcus. I could be blind and I would still sense him. He could walk around in a ski mask and wearing one of those cloaks the weird kids from the Dungeons and Dragons wear all the time and I would still recognize him. From the first day we met, at orientation over the summer before our freshman year, I've been drawn to Marcus.
He smiles when he sees me, warm as ever, the green irises lighting up as the corners of his eyes crinkle. But he says nothing, merely waves. At the moment it would appear he's wrapped up in a conversation with his lean friend.
The friend I notice second – but only after my flash of resentment, like every other time his attention is taken from me, a pitiful result of my less-than-healthy infatuation with Marcus.
It's the red scarf that catches my eye – a scrap of a thing, once, perhaps, a rich burgundy, but now faded with years and washings. Against the dark brown of his coat, it stands out, leading the eye upwards. If, by chance you brave it, you might meet the eyes of the scarf's owner. These eyes can be described in variety of ways, numerous lovely metaphors could be used to conceive them, but only a few scatterings of adjectives will I use: Bright. Flashing. Intense.
And a crystalline shade of blue-gray.
My mouth half-opens. I feel the pressing need to say something. Yet nothing comes to mind. I'm left looking like a fish. Snapping my jaw shut, I sit up a little, shifting the books on my lap. The guy continues regarding me, following my motions though he's still talking to Marcus. After about thirty seconds of eye contact – heavy emphasis on the contact – I drop my gaze. I've got some Mead to focus on at the moment for my Anthro class. Unsettled, I allow myself to be tentatively immersed in the text once again. "Stupid, for letting yourself get distracted again." If I didn't pay attention, my grades would slip again from trying to gain Marcus's affections. Two semesters ago I nearly dropped down to a 3.4 GPA after I all but stopped my Italian homework so as to tutor Marcus in Environmental Studies and Biology. "Never again." My scholarships wouldn't hold out if I dipped below a 3.5 again.
"It's only the first official day of the semester. Eveline, do you ever stop reading?"
I jolt at the sound of my name, almost dropping the textbook. Somehow I manage to fumble enough to keep it in my hand. "Well," I gasp. "Some of us want to graduate in two years."
"Something you'll never achieve if you keep going on this way," a dry voice says, and I realize Marcus's companion, the one with the scarf, has joined us.
Marcus takes a seat beside me on the bench, crooked smile sliding into place. "I don't know what you're talking about."
His friend rolls his eyes, though there is a slightly smirk-y purse to his lips. "Grant was not the only one black-out wasted last Saturday."
"No," Marcus agrees. "He was not. Drunk is no fun alone, Mr. Enjolras."
"I wouldn't know," says the man named Enjolras. "Drinking is no sport to me. So I have no opinion on the matter."
"None whatsoever?" I ask, brows rising.
Both look at me, surprised.
"Not one I'd care to share," he replies finally. "Marc, who is your friend?"
Marcus blinked once, twice, before saying quickly, "Eveline! Leo, this is Eveline, Eveline, Leo. She lives in Franklin with me," he explains. "We've known each other since freshman year. Evie, this is the illustrious and charming Leopold Enjolras. We're in Senate together."
"Oh," I say politely. There's not much else I can remark upon. "Hello."
"Pleasure," Leopold Enjolras returns shortly.
"Enjolras," I continue after a pause. "Is that…Spanish?"
"French," he corrects. "Though, not too common of French."
"Ah, that's interesting…."
He grins. It's relatively genuine, lighting up his entire face. "Well. Not really."
We laugh.
"Call me Leo," he says.
"I rather like Enjolras." It's almost said with the litheness of teasing. Almost.
And just like that, we're friends.
-XXX-
"Eight-thirty seems awful early for any class," I thought as I slid into the desk. But Dr. Valerius's Philosophy and Ethics in Literature promises to be fantastic. I'd had several of his courses last year. He's always been phenomenal. Last year he'd told our Eastern Religions class that all he required of us was our minds – no tests, no quizzes. The only thing we absolutely had to do to pass the class was write a twenty-page essay on the religion of our choosing, including a description of our own intimate connection with it.
Fifteen of the thirty-five students switched out the next day. "That's okay," Valerius said, winking at us. "I prefer small classes."
The entire course was a series of conversations, a few guest speakers, several videos, and dramatic readings of religious script courtesy of the professor. We wrote our paper, which was only fifteen pages, and left with a significantly deeper understanding of Eastern culture.
I am anticipating a similarly fulfilling experience.
It's eight-fifteen. The room is empty, save for sunlight, a scattering of desks, and myself. I appreciate the peace. With a happy sigh, I remove a pen and notebook from my backpack. Opening the book, I inhale the scent of new paper. In a light scrawling print I write the title of the class, my name, along with the date. It takes some time, and I become so focused I do not take notice when someone else enters the classroom, nor when that someone takes a seat beside me. It's only when the elbow brushes mine that I notice.
I look up, abruptly torn from my focus. A pair of amused blue eyes greets me. Enjolras.
"Are you always this unaware?" he asks.
"I thought it'd be awhile before anyone came in," I confess. "Sorry."
"No need to apologize." He examines me. "Up a little early, aren't you."
"So are you. You're taking Valerius's Philosophy in Lit course?"
"Yeah," he says, sounding a little surprised. His desk shifted so that we had a better view of one another. "Why, not what you'd expect to be my cup of tea?"
Biting my lip, I shrug. Actually, what is really surprising me is his candid behavior – he's being almost friendly, really. That's what was unexpected. When I met him yesterday, he'd struck me as a little aloof. Cold. But I don't say this.
"Not really, no. I mean –"
"Didn't think I'd be so deep?" One brow rises. Leo tilts his face back, giving me an excellent view of his profile. "I'm offended, Eveline."
I grin. "Well. You just seemed more like the…science-y type, to me."
"I'll have you know I am a very deep person."
"Oh, I'm sure," I assure him. "What's your major?"
"Political Science and Philosophy, minoring in Sociology. I'm kind of pre-law," he explains.
"Interesting combination."
He's wearing the scarf again. It looks good against the fawn-coloured coat and his dark jeans. In fact, all of Enjolras looks quite good. Then, I remember who he's friends with, the thing that connects us – "Marcus." Guilt rises to my throat. "Oh, but you're not even dating him!" I scold myself. "You can appreciate other guys."
"Yes, I thought so," he agrees. "They are fields that interest me. And what about you?"
"Ah, English, Religions, minoring in Sociology too, actually." I half-smile, biting my lip. "That's funny."
"Now that is truly an interesting combination," he remarks. "Mine interrelate closely…but yours…well. It could be a stretch. We're hard workers, then, you an I. Double majors and minors. What are you going to do with that?"
"Oh, I don't know." By now other students are starting to shuffle in. Many are clutching cardboard cups of coffee, others tall cans of energy drinks. This reminds me of my water bottle. I stoop to remove it from the mesh pocket on my backpack. "Probably go to grad school. Then…I have no clue."
"Just leaving your life up to chance?"
I grin. "Yeah. Pretty much."
He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Professor Valerius sweeps in. He's wearing a long woolen coat, grey, a white shirt, suspenders, a bow tie, and black ankle boots. A worn messager bag is all but thrown upon the table – it's ancient, probably older than Jon Valerius himself, the leather cracked and discolored. The flap falls open, allowing a few volumes a papers to spread upon the desk. Valerius heads straight for the board. Without so much as a pause to take attendance or survey the class, he scrawls the title of the course and his own name down in chalk. Then he turns to the podium – to us.
"As a three-hundred-level course, this class will be challenging. And as students at this fine establishment, and students taking a three-hundred-level Philosophy course, I am sure you are prepared to be challenged. In fact, I am very sure you're prepared to face challenges from me. However, I'm not going to be the one to challenge you, exactly. You are going to challenge each other, yourselves.
"Now, before we learn each others' names and other quaint details, please pull out a sheet of paper and write down the ten more philosophic texts, specifically pieces of literature – stories, poems, the like. For the first part of this semester we'll be focusing on the philosophic portion of text, next part the ethical. So, commence!"
I automatically spit out six titles, then spend the next three minute contemplating the rest. Beside me, Enjolras has completed his list. He's looking over my shoulder, reading my titles. A smile tugs at his lips. I ignore him.
We then submit our lists. Valerius briefly peruse the, before looking back to the class. "Next class I will compile a list from yours. You will sign-up for a book you are unfamiliar with, group with others to read it, then present the philosophic themes. We'll split the presentation up between genres – metaphysical and so on. We shall do this three-to-four times before tackling ethics."
When class is dismissed, I slowly pack my bag. Enjolras lingers with me.
"So…you look forward to the presentations?"
I nod, swinging my backpack onto my shoulder. "Why do you ask?"
"Because you were practically beaming through his outline of the class," he says, lips pursing. He briefly tugs at his scarf. We exit the room together, talking all the while. Enjolras is also excited about the project. We discuss the possible novels we might choose from, the types of presentations, and then our majors. We end up in the Union, in line for coffee at the café.
"Don't you have class?" I ask, after turning from the counter. The barista has already taken his order.
"Not for another hour or so," he assures me. "And I've nothing else to do."
My nose crinkles. "Thanks."
He laughs at that. "I mean, I'd love it if you could trouble yourself to entertain me."
People don't typically come to me to talk. I'm not a…conversationalist. It's not a characteristics I've been attributed with before. So I'm surprised. But happily so. Once we have our drinks in hand – blackberry sage tea for Leo, mocha for me – we head to the cluster of armchairs and couches in the big Georgian room. I settle into a chair, Leo following suit.
"You're quite good at this – Philosophy, I mean. I find non-majors are not so invested in conversations such as these," he says when we've reached the dregs of our drinks. "You, my friend, have left the cave to see the light."
"I'm on the tip of the rabbit's fur," I tell him, referring to Sophie's World.
"'Ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space!'"
We share a smile.
For a moment, we are silent. Enjolras appears to be considering something, his brow furrowed. He snags one of my napkins and pulls a pen from his coat pocket. He begins to write. I wait, running a finger along the edge of black plastic lid of my coffee. Since we've spent time together today, I've noticed a slight edge to him – a bitterness. He is friendly enough. But certain topics spark a crystalline hardness in his gaze. I've noticed, just in the last hour and a half alone, any mention of school administration cause him to clench fists. Finally, he speaks.
"You…should come to one of our meetings." The napkin is pushed across the small sidetable between us. "I think there's a lot your could contribute. You're progressive….we need people like that."
"Friends of ABCs," it reads. "Nine o'clock. Tuesdays and Thursdays at Muse Diner." Then there is a number.
"My cell," he explains. "And you already have Marcus's, I'm sure."
I do. At Marcus's name, my heart flutters. "He's in it?"
"Yeah, he's kind of an executive member." Enjolras stands to go, coiling the scarf 'round his neck. "You should come."
"Yes, but, what's it for? What's the aim?"
He's impassive. "We're just a group of undergrads demanding change. You'll see. Come."
"I'll try," I promise.
With that, we depart for our respective classes.
-XXX-
Later I will note the thin features, a weary tightness to his face – along with the more attractive aspects. Such as unruly hair the colour of caramel and intensely brilliant eyes, a certain sharpness about his checks and chin, the way his smiling is almost blindingly handsome - on the rare chance that he actually smiles. But that's only later.
-XXX-
Reviews would be grand, especially considering this is the first time I've written in this category. Questions, comments, critiques, I take 'em all!
Also….
Sophie's World is a fantastic book that details the history of philosophy, as well as teaching so of the basic schools of it. I highly recommend checking it out. It's probably something you'll want to read more than once – in an Inception-kind-of-way.
