A/N: This is the only story I'll be working on for a while- yes, I've attempted to write multiple stories at once before. It really didn't work out. Of course, if you follow my FictionPress under the same pen name, I have another story posted that I will (hopefully) stay consistent with as well. Yes, the name of said story is a huge Les Mis reference. "When Dreams are Made, Used, and Wasted".
As for this story, the influence comes off of Facebook roleplay. I roleplay with tons of Les Mis fans; as Les Mis characters, of course! I play an Éponine, Grantaire, (occasionally) a Valjean, and an Enjolras. Well, kind of an Enjolras. Not really.
Back to the story! This all takes place sometime before the revolution and all. So all my characters can live for a while! Before they all die in Act Two.
"GET YE'R LAZY BUMS UP, 'ZELMA! 'PONINE!"
Azelma grumbled to herself, rolling over in bed. It couldn't be much past five in the morning, and not even their earliest customers had arrived. Still, the inn had to be in prime condition, according to her father.
Against her own will, she rose from her bed and walked across the room to fetch her apron. "Geddup, 'Ponine. Mam's callin' us."
Éponine mumbled something intelligible, not that it mattered to Azelma. Tying off the apron straps, she marched to her sister's bed, tore off the bed sheets, and sent Éponine tumbling to the floor, shaking her head and swearing under her breath.
With a smirk in her sister's direction, Azelma hurried down the steps to the main section of the inn. A large room with tables and chairs scattered about was before her. She headed behind the bar, rummaging around for a rag, then set to work scrubbing the counter.
"Good, good, my darling!" came the deep voice of her father. Azelma barely glanced up to recognize that he was there, then returned to scrubbing; knowing that if she didn't, she would be in for it.
Éponine was downstairs shortly after, arranging chairs and scrubbing the tables. Thénardier chuckled and shook his head, a sign that he was ultimately pleased.
"No slacking, my dears!" he nearly sang. "There'll be trouble!" And, as was his parting every morning, he dipped into a mocking bow and stalked off to God knows where.
Azelma shook her head. All her life, she had worked and worked in the inn for her father's personal gain. Years ago, when she was a child, the inn ran smoothly. But the money stopped coming, and it was harder to earn a living. His daughters had to enter the game of cheating, stealing, and lying. And, if the need arose, they would even stoop as low as to selling themselves. They would do anything for a franc or two.
It was a while before the inn was teeming with life. It was well past six thirty, and drunken men and their girls were filing in. Men planning to get themselves drunk came right alongside them. The entire lot of them made her sick to her stomach.
Azelma shrugged the feeling off, filling several mugs with brandy and setting them on the counter. Two scraggly looking men picked them up, throwing their payment on the table. She snatched up the precious money greedily, shoving it into their money box.
Only twenty hours to go…
The morning, for the most part, was extremely uneventful. Save for the oh so coincidental thieveries she could only match to her father, the occasional stumble of a drunken man that had a near domino effect on the rest of them, and the never ending squeals of the men's ladies, patronizing their lads.
It was sickening.
Azelma rested her elbows on the bar counter. Here comes another drunk.
Éponine rushed up to her before the man did, however. "I know 'im!" she whispered excitedly. "They call 'im Grantaire at the Café Musain."
"Hmm?" was her distant reply. "Well, what in the world is a student like 'im doing in a place like this?"
"He drinks, all the time."
"Well, he certainly came to the right place."
Before the student could approach the counter, Éponine scurried off, leaving room for him to stand or sit. Grantaire plopped onto one of the barstools, throwing a cheeky grin at Azelma.
"Give me some of your best," he said, pulling out a small pouch and, from there, a handful of coins. "I'll pay in advance for my fifty refills.
Azelma rolled her eyes, filling a mug with brandy and handing it to him. "There. And with the reputation you've got, people won't be surprised if you do get fifty refills, or more."
"My reputation, you say?" He chuckled, amused. "And how'd you know it?"
"My sister," was Azelma's tart reply. "She hangs round you lot all the time."
Grantaire's eyebrow shot up. "Eh? Who's your sister?"
"Éponine."
"Ah, Éponine! I know 'er! Fine little thing. Might've guessed you were related."
Azelma smirked, walking toward the back of the bar to fetch another pitcher of brandy. "Might ya?" She set the pitcher down on the counter, leaning close to Grantaire. The drunk- who, oddly enough, sure didn't seem drunk- gave her a sly look and reached one hand toward her. She caught his wrist in her grip, amused.
"That kind of talk will get you nowhere, m'sieur."
For a moment, Grantaire seemed to lean closer to her. Her grip on his wrist slacked, and his hand slid right into hers, their fingers interlocking. Their lips were inches apart…
"Not a chance." Azelma smirked, shaking her head lightly in the little space she had. He seemed to pout for a moment, then grinned and released her. She took a step back, inhaling through her nose and shaking her head with more fervor.
"Try anything like that again with my father looking," she warned teasingly, "and heads will roll."
Grantaire laughed. "Pardon me, fine mademoiselle. But I do not know your name!"
She fought back a bout of laughter. "Azelma," she replied, ducking under the counter to pull out a few more mugs. "I don't see why you must know my name, though."
"Perhaps I'll have need of it in the future." Azelma quirked an eyebrow at him, as if to contradict him. "Alright. The very distant future it is."
"I told you, drunk. That'll get you nowhere."
"You and Apollo," he muttered. "He calls me winecask!"
"He ain't far off."
Grantaire placed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt. "I'm sorely offended!"
"Who says you shouldn't be?" Azelma laughed. "Besides, who's Apollo?"
"'Nother student," was Grantaire's answer.
"And I'm guessing he ain't a drunk like you?"
"Once more, mademoiselle, I am offended."
"What makes you think I care this time?"
The student chuckled, leaning over the bar, his face incredibly close to Azelma's. Her heart skipped a beat, and for a moment, she wondered why on earth it did so.
"Just a feelin'."
"Well whatever you're feelin'," she teased, "do me a favor and get a room."
"With or without the charmin' lady?" The brandy was finally having its effect on him.
"Charming lady?" Azelma inquired.
"You, o' course!"
She laughed, stepping back from the counter, leaving behind a disappointed Grantaire. "Without, I'm afraid."
"Shame."
With a meaningful look at the so called winecask, Azelma smirked. She'd never be bored if Grantaire kept this up. And the winecask himself had every intention of doing so.