Hello!
I'm B, (I'm Not Calling You A Lyre). This fanfic is an idea that's been floating around my head for so long, and I'm so excited to finally let it out! If you like it, think it could be better, hate it—please tell me! I would love any criticism that could improve my writing.
There are several dialogue scenes including French in this fanfiction. I'll be sure to include a translation at the end of each chapter in English. I am fluent in both languages, so don't worry about the accuracy of the grammar—it's not off google translate.
Thank you so much for reading!
Chapter One
Enjolras was trying to compose—really, he was. It just wasn't coming to him. Every time he would try—like now. for example—he would find two, maybe three good chords, and then pfft. The keys of the piano became still and silent, and his hands would fall to his side. His inspiration would fizz out as quickly as it had come.
His professor, Monsieur Lamarque, had told him that it was because he wasn't trying hard enough; that he knew he had it in him to compose, but he was too afraid to try. He believed Enjolras thought that his best wouldn't be good enough, so he was putting up a sort of a mental block to prevent himself from actually trying.
Well, damn Lamarque.
He looked around his room—his large, embarrassingly expensive, though quite simplistic, room. The focus of it, naturally, was his gorgeous grand piano. It was the first thing you'd see upon entering. Behind that, was his bed, sitting beneath a large window.
Honestly, with the exception of his piano—lovingly named "Patrie"—the window was Enjolras's favourite part of the room. It was enormous—large enough that he could crawl through, if need be. It was Enjolras's way to sneak out. Undetected, he'd slide out the window at night, and shimmy down the drain pipe of the neighbor's house.
Right, that too: the window was practically conjoined with the neighbor's windows, which bore similar dimensions.
Enjolras liked to think that if there were any who lived in that room—the house next to them had been empty for years—he'd be best friends with them. They could crawl into each other's rooms at night, to talk, to kiss… The two windows were so close, it would take only a small jump to reach the other room.
Of course though, Enjolras knew that was wishful thinking. With his luck, if someone actually did move into that room, it would be an eighty year old man, or something. Not exactly the cute teenager he was dreaming of.
Enjolras stared out that closed window now, edges frosting slightly from the cold outside, and ruffled his tangled blonde hair.
It was still fairly early the morning, though he suspected he'd be late to school anyway. Sighing, he gathered up his blank music sheets, and closed the lid of his piano. As an afterthought, he closed the curtains sharply. He checked his phone for the time—finding it to be 8 o'clock—and realized just how late for school he was going to be.
In reality, Enjolras's school— École d'Abaissés, or École ABC for short—wouldn't start until ten after nine, but he had quite the walk ahead of him. He could have a drive from many people: his father in his shiny Audi, his spoiled sister in her sleek Volvo, his own new Lexus (despite the fact that both of them were still too young to drive,) but he had said on many occasions that he would prefer to have a fork through his eye than to show up to school in any one of their ridiculous, frivolous cars. He was only slightly exaggerating.
He said it was because he was embarrassed to be driven to school by his family, and because it was an unnecessary pollution for the environment. The second part was somewhat true at least—Enjolras had marched in a save the bees protest earlier that year—but he truly couldn't care less what kids at school thought of him.
In reality, he hated having any connection to the wealthier parts of town. He hated the thought that he was in some way contributing to the issues he so passionately spoke out against.
He closed his bedroom door behind him, and walked down to his home's foyer where his shoes, books, bag, and jacket were waiting.
His small town was diverse in means of economic status: they had the very rich—the people in the big houses with nicely landscaped lawns, who had been born with doctors and lawyers as parents—and the very poor—those who could not find work, or maybe were unable to do so, who lived off of small government welfare checks split between big families. The idea that he was living a life filled with such unnecessary luxuries and indulgence while there were those who so often went without, sickened him.
Imagine where you'd be if you dedicated even half the amount of time you do ranting to your piano lessons, his father often chastised.
Sitting on the stairs before the door in the large entrance, he pulled on the black converse sneakers and slung a backpack heavy with books over his shoulder.
His immediate family—though "immediate" was the only kind of family Enjolras had—consisted of his father and sister. Their father, Jean Valjean, had adopted both him and his sister Cosette when they were very young. Though younger, she had been first; Enjolras had been brought into the family one year later, when Cosette was nine and Enjolras was twelve.
All three of them were French citizens—and proudly so. Jean had thought it necessary however that both Enjolras and Cosette learn English, and as such, all three were fluent in two languages. It wasn't uncommon for them to switch fluidly in the middle of conversations between French and English, to the dismay of any house guests who might be around.
Initially, following his adoption, Enjolras had argued learning English was unpatriotic; even from a young age, he was fiercely loyal to his country. Jean explained however, that as English was the most spoken language around the world, it would allow international travel.
Travel is freedom, mon cher, he would say with dark eyes. And we are nothing without our freedom.
So he grumbled, but Enjolras learned English. He couldn't imagine ever wanting to leave his country, but his adoptive father was persistent of its importance.
"À ce soir, je serais ici pour le souper." Enjolras called out as he laced his shoes, his words echoing in the big house.
His father walked to the top of the stairs and smiled warmly.
"Et oui mon cher," the deep, heavily accented voice came down from the stairs above. "Prends soin."
His younger sister, Cosette, appeared next to their father, and bounced down to where Enjolras, sat in a whirl of pink skirts and blonde hair.
"Love you, Enjy. Dis bonjour à Marius if you seem him today for me?" She asked, hopefully.
"Bon Dieu Cosette for the last time I'm not setting my little sister up with a kid she barely knows from a different school." He rolled his eyes, but smiled at her anyway. He opened the heavy wooden door, hugged both his father and sister, exchanged one more "je t'aime" and with a "bonne journée," he was off.
Enjolras's jacket lay forgotten back at the house.
—
School passed as it normally did for Enjolras: a long day, strenuous, and quite boring. Overall, not quite what he'd call "educational." It wasn't that he didn't try in class, or didn't understand the material—quite the opposite. In fact, he had very good grades. The problem was, it was unchallenging, and he found his classmates to be uninteresting and ignorant on most topics. The only classes he truly enjoyed were his high honors classes: English and French Language Arts, and History.
History was an easy one: he was good with dates and names, and beyond fascinated by politics. The problem he found with this was that he knew all that he was being taught had censored, and probably slightly rewritten, to fit the agenda of his government. Thus, upon learning something in that class, he would do research on it when he got home, fact checking and source reading. This lead to a pretty thorough understanding of the topics, as well as numerous detentions for correcting the teacher.
English and French Language Arts though, were much more free. There, he could read and learn about different ideas, opinions, and perspectives, and could write his own too. There, nothing could be censored, because everything was fair game. It was a great relief to be able to speak freely about anything that might be bothering him, whenever he picked up a pen and paper.
Unfortunately though, without those subjects, Enjolras was thoroughly bored during the school year.
He knew his classmates (all 900 of them,) were bored at school too—but from a lack of drama in the student body, instead of the level of difficulty of the homework. They practically fed off of scandals and newcomers; they were teenagers, afterall.
The last big scandal, with the exception of one girl getting pregnant in eighth grade, had been Enjolras's arrival. But the excitement from that had long since worn off, being nearly four years ago.
He remembered now what it was like, those rough first few weeks at École ABC. People claiming to want friendship had flocked to him: the pretty, popular girls, the big, athletic boys. He had known though, that once his novelty wore off—and it had—they would leave him alone. Except, they kind of didn't.
His father often called him a natural leader. Okay sure, maybe he was charismatic, and maybe he was good with people. That didn't mean he had to like them.
His charisma had hooked the kids in—suddenly, he wasn't surrounded by people because he was new; he was surrounded by people because they thought he was "cool."
His father called him something else, though, too: opinionated.
Imagine what happens in this situation: a boy is suddenly the most popular kid in school. He's surrounded by friends, invited to all the parties, has a seat saved for him at every lunch. Some people are close to him because they're trying to claw their way up the social totem pole, some because they're trying to get connected, and very, very few because they actually liked him.
All those people tolerate a few oddities—snarkily correcting teachers in class, refusing to wear his uniform to code, passion for politics. There were some things though, that popularity simply could not accept.
Remember that girl, the pregnant one? In eighth grade, after Enjolras had held his social status for almost a year, she had announced her pregnancy. It created quite the stir in the school.
"I bet she wanted it…"
"Who's the daddy, 'Ponine?"
"I can't believe she did that…"
"Well, look at how she was raised…"
"God, what a sl-"
Comments like the latter would receive one hearty fist to the jaw. His adoptive father had taught him to do what was right, not what was easy. And easy, it was not.
In truth, the schoolmates enjoyed tormenting Éponine. Lord knew she was tough, but day in day out mockery, shaming, even some beatings…
Enjolras wouldn't stand for it.
But his popular "friends" wouldn't stand for what he was doing, either.
Slowly, Enjolras fell from power. He was included in less and less conversations, invited to parties infrequently, and began to sit by himself at lunch.
And God, he was so happy.
He quickly discovered though, as he became less popular, he gained more friends.
Enjolras found there were quite a few kids who had agreed with him—who thought the way Éponine as being treated was awful and who resented the staff for doing nothing about her torment. Who thought that, yeah, their principal Monsieur Louis-Phillipe was being extraordinarily homophobic for not allowing the openly queer Courfeyrac and Combeferre to go to dances together; transphobic for forcing Feuilly to use the women's bathrooms; sexist for sending girls home on for showing shoulders in their uniforms.
Their ideas, beliefs, opinions clashed dramatically with the conservative values of the rest of the school. The way they found to combat any conflict was to band together—safety in numbers, and all that.
In total, their little group consisted of twelve students.
There were the couples, the snarky Courfeyrac who was kind only to his handsome, philosophical Combeferre; and the polyamorous Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. The latter had met during the group's first meeting—Joly had been talking animatedly about his plans for med school to anyone he could find, which happened to be Bossuet and Musichetta, dancing with each other in the corner. Meanwhile, Combeferre and Courfeyrac had been a thing since the sixth grade.
Then there was Puerto Rican-French Bahorel, whose father was making him attend a law school when he graduated. He could often be found wearing a DIY t-shirt that read: "never a lawyer," and losing Pokemon Go battles to the eleven year old Gavroche.
Gavroche was a member by association, being the little brother of sisters Éponine and Azelma. Also, ever since Gavroche had slung a sour cream covered baked potato at Monsieur Louis-Phillipe for calling Azelma a racial slur when she was dancing in the cafeteria last year, he had pretty much been considered a god.
There were also best friends Jehan and Feuilly. Jehan was a transboy, writer of terrible poetry, and shopper supreme—the man's closet could give fashionistas a run for their money. Feuilly was genderfluid, and a trans activist with a passion for... fan making, of all things. After being orphaned at a young age, Feuilly had immigrated from Poland to France, to live with his current foster family. The two related to each other intensely, not only because they were the only two trans students at École ABC, but also because of their love for terrible puns. Together, they were a whirl of fans, poetry, high heels, Polish flags, and truly awful internet jokes.
So yes, Enjolras's little group were close friends, and huge nerds. Enough so that they decided to name themselves. Gavroche had come up with it. Actually, he had originally come up with an entire list of names, starting with "Elephant Squad," and ending with "'Friends,' But Less Cool." Somewhere in between though, one name had echoed in the back of Enjolras's mind: Les Amis d'ABC—The Friends of ABC.
Obviously, it had stuck, and now that's what they were, to the absolute glee of their mocking classmates. The friends tried to stick together, but when they couldn't all hang out during school, they met once a week. It was Enjolras's idea—Courfeyrac would tease, it always was. They met under the guise of debate club, something he knew no one else in the school would join—and, to be honest, debate was something they often did.
Those meetings, those Wednesday afternoons were heavenly. They were such a diverse, interesting, educated group that Enjolras found being around them easier than breathing.
He would enter the room, see one of them—probably Musichetta—had brought drinks and snacks, and watch with a smile on his face as Bossuet and Joly playfully wrestled for the last cookies, Combeferre nearby with a hand on his neck worriedly murmuring "oh my," while Courfeyrac tried to distract him with kisses. Bossuet would be sitting where the wi-fi signal was best, snapchatting the entire thing. Éponine, Azelma and Gavroche would often bring along their cat, as Gavroche insisted he was their mascot. In the corner next to the door, Feuilly and Jehan would sit giggling at their phones. Enjolras would then walk inside, and call to order the meeting with easy charm. Each member would report anything they'd liked the group to know.
On one memorable occasion, Éponine had taken Enjolras's place at the podium and began ranting about Patron-Minette; their school's local crime gang. One of the members had been the one on get Éponine pregnant, and so even the mention of their name elicited boos and groans from the friends. Half an hour later, Azelma had gently wrestled Éponine away from the podium.
For this reason, and also because of Courfeyrac's tendency to release a long string of curses that would show up a sailor each time news about a certain American Republican candidate reached him, there were always a spare set of earmuffs around for little Gavroche during their meetings.
The worked perfectly with each other, though; they balanced each other out. Together, their group were a perfect harmony—they were major chords.
Enjolras didn't realize he was smiling thinking of them until he was shaken out of his reverie by a timid voice asking:
"Lasagne, monsieur Enjolras?"
It was the lunch lady, Madame Magliore, asking what he wanted for lunch.
Lord, he wondered, how long have I been standing here?
Judging from the exasperated sighs of the impatient teenagers in line behind him, he would guess long enough.
Making the quick decision to take the lasagna, he nodded assent to the smiling lunch lady, and left the line.
He sat down at the nearest empty table, not seeing any of his friends seated already in the cafeteria.
As he muched absentmindedly on a green apple, he began to think again about their meetings again. What was today, Tuesday? That meant the meeting was tomorrow. He should probably bring muffins or something. 'Chetta had supplied snacks the past month—
"So Enjy. How was your morning?" Courfeyrac asked, interrupting Enjolras's thoughts as he slid in the seat across from him. His voice was his usual monotone sarcasm, which Enjolras now knew was about the least snarky tone Courfeyrac could manage.
He was about to answer, when he noticed his friend's attention. Strangely, his eyes were raking the room. Normally, he would hold eye contact for their entire conversation. Honestly, sometimes Courf's eye contact could be unsettling.
Not today, though. His friend was scanning the cafeteria's students behind him.
He sighed.
"What is it you're looking for?" Enjolras asked, ignoring Courfeyrac's first question. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing suspicious.
"Hmm?" Courfeyrac murmured, bringing his attention back to his friend. "Oh. Haven't you heard? Apparently there's a new kid in today—in our grade, too."
Enjolras grimaced in sympathy.
"Poor bugger. Why's he moving here in eleventh grade? That'll make it so much worse." He resumed eating his apple, and began picking at his now-cold lasagna.
Courfeyrac's neck remained stretched as he continued to survey the cafeteria.
This time, it was his friend who sighed.
"Okay, Courf, honestly," Enjolras said, "what's the big deal? It's just another kid."
The boy's eyes shot down to meet his own.
"Enjy, are you joking? This new kid—he's American. He doesn't even speak French."
Enjolras whistled, "Patron-Minette's going to eat him alive."
"Un moment de silence pour les brâves esprits conquitent," Courfeyrac smiled grimly. Enjolras nodded his head in agreement.
They ate for a moment of two more—well, Enjolras ate more, Courfeyrac continued his search for the mysterious American—when suddenly Courf's eyes lit up.
"Enjy, right there, there he is!"
The boy practically screamed it, and Enjolras hushed him as heads turned in their direction.
"What?" Enjolras hissed.
"I found him, he's right there at table three! He's the one eating the fruit cup—and Holy Lord Enjolras he's cute. I know you aren't queer and everything, but hot damn."
Enjolras rolled his eyes, but tried to look subtly behind him to where Courfeyrac was excitedly pointing.
Okay, wow.
The boy, looking to be Enjolras's own age, was sitting down, a spoon hanging out of his faintly smiling mouth. He was sitting at a full table, but he seemed more alone than he would be in an empty room. Not because he looked sad—not at all. He just looked kind of bored, and uninterested.
He had curly black hair, and seemed to be quite tall, even sitting down. He was wearing a green cargo shirt and torn jeans that Enjolras could tell even from where he was, were covered in colourful paint splatters.
The people at his table continued to try to engage him in conversation, but he seemed to be answering them with vague, one worded replies.
He was so beautiful. Enjolras didn't even think men had the power to be that gorgeous.
In a way one might appreciate a painting, or a nicely sung tune, though. Not like—not like that. It wasn't like he was queer or anything.
Enjolras realized he had been staring for quite some time, and quickly turned back to his food, shoving a bite of lasagna into his mouth.
He looked up at Courfeyrac to see a smug, knowing smile.
"What?" He asked him indignantly through a mouthful of cold pasta.
"Oh," he replied, that smirk still plastered onto his face. "Nothing. Hey, have you seen 'Ferre around lately? He didn't answer my texts this morning, and I didn't see him in class."
"No, but he's probably in the library," Enjolras smiled, grateful for the subject change. "Studying for something." Combeferre volunteered in their school's library. It was a perfect fit, as he spent much of his time there anyway.
"Yeah, you're right. Maybe I can surprise him again," Courfeyrac said with a grin, and a wiggle of his eyebrows.
Enjolras groaned. "Don't get caught again, please. You guys were suspended from debate club for a month last time."
"Listen—it was totally worth it, we both agreed." He laughed. "Hey, your American's on the move, by the way."
Enjolras whipped around to see the boy stand up, and walk out the cafeteria with two other students.
"Alright, yeah. I'm gonna go…" He trailed off. "Um, I'm gonna go see if I can… If I can talk to him, okay?" He stood up, and emptied his tray into the nearest trash can.
"Okay, see you, Enjy."
"Yeah, later. Wait, Courf?" Enjolras called. The other boy turned around. "He's not 'my' anything."
"Sure, Enjolras. See you later."
—
Enjolras followed the three boys. He still wasn't sure who the American's companions were, as they had their backs to him in the cafeteria, but he assumed they were just two overly friendly freshmen, trying to show the cool older kid around the school.
He wasn't sure why he was sneaking around so much, but he kept behind them silently, at one point ducking into a washroom when he thought he was getting too close.
After about five minutes of this, the group stopped in front of a row of twelfth year lockers. He was confused, when one of the boys opened a locker, and produced from it a small flask. The boy turned slightly, and Enjolras could see his face.
Damn.
It was Montparnasse, one of the members of the much detested crime gang, Patron-Minette, with a snake's smile on his face. And beside him, it had to be… Yes, it was Claquesous, Montparnasse's partner. As far as Enjolras knew, none of Patron-Minette could speak English—very few students at their school could, and certainly not well enough to easily converse.
But that didn't matter, because they seemed to have communicated efficiently enough "illegal underage drinking" in English, and the American apparently understood that. He accepted the flask, and shoved a small wad of bills in Montparnasse's open palm in return. He thanked them, and sauntered in the direction of the men's washroom, presumably to drink his alcohol without getting caught by any nosy teachers.
Right into his hiding spot.
Enjolras panicked, and quickly hid in one of the stalls before the boy could see him. He locked the door behind him.
In Les Amis, they had a strict rule: no drugs, and no drinks. The reason wasn't any of the regular, conservative excuses—not because they thought it "unholy," or "shameful," or anything like that.
As previously stated, the group was quite diverse: they consisted of a wide variety of ethnicities and nationalities, economic statuses, genders, sexualities, political ideologies—in short, they were different. As it was, many of them faced enough discrimination and hate, simply for existing.
In fact, the other day Musichetta—a black, queer girl—had been reading a book the administration had deemed "immoral," and "inappropriate," and had sent her home for the rest of the day. The book was "The Colour Purple," by Alice Walker, and Chetta had borrowed it from the school library. The friends knew that to give their persecutors something to actually complain about—using illegal substances, for example—would essentially be looking for trouble.
Another reason they constructed the rule: there was absolutely no need for any of them to develop an addiction, or a dependency upon drugs or alcohol. All of the friends—every, single one of them—had big plans for their futures.
Enjolras, for example, wanted to go into politics, cure the corruption from the inside out. (The group teased that he just wanted to be the French, teenage Bernie Sanders.) (They were right.)
Jehan and Feuilly planned travel across Europe when they graduated, get degrees in fashion, and start a business.
Combeferre wanted to be a Psychologist, and Courfeyrac was completely content to become something of stay-at-home Dad for all their foster children. (Yes, everyone thought it was strange they were planning children already, but it was pretty evident to anyone that met Courf and Ferre were as close to soul mates as you can get.)
Musichetta and Bahourel, who both had immigrated when they were very young—Chetta from Kenya, Africa, and Bahourel from Syria— and were both going to travel to their birthplace to visit their families and old homes, before meeting up again with Joly as he went through medical school.
The sisters, Éponine and Azelma, were highly interested in activism. As they were both queer, poor, Asian women, they were heavily affected by social culture, and wanted to have a hand in influencing it. Maybe by creating an educational resource or clinic, by protesting, by contributing to media… or maybe all three.
(Gavroche said he wanted to be a professional bank robber, but he was eleven so they hoped he was just joking. Or that he would change his mind.)
Regardless of whether Gavroche decided to become a thief or not, all of the friends had ambitious plans for themselves. They weren't about to let some stupid decision they make as teenagers ruin that for them in the future.
And then there was this stupid, stupid American idiot.
Did he think on his first day he could just walk in here and stir up this much trouble? Trouble with Patron-Minette, nonetheless. Enjolras worked hard to try to clean up this school; when he left next year, he wanted it to be safe for the ones he was leaving behind.
To think he was going to ask him to join them! This boy, was an idiot. Enjolras, was an idiot. It was this kid's first damn day, and he messed it up. Apparently, all it would take to befriend Enjolras was a pretty face. (And he could say that, because he was secure enough in his sexuality. You can appreciate someone for their aesthetic without any feelings attached, right?)
The more he thought about this, the more riled up Enjolras would get. Drinking, in his school, around his friends…
Outside his hiding place, he could hear that conspicuous sloshing of the liquid as it made its way down the boy's throat; could hear the loud "pop!" his lips made when they slid off the flask.
That was it.
He balled his hands in tight fists, unlocked the stall door, and barged through.
"Just who in the hell do you think you are?" Enjolras demanded angrily.
The boy, leaning against the wall opposite him, seemed stunned. He was silent, eyes wide, as he took in Enjolras from head to toe. His nearly empty flask sat perched on his lips. He asked silent questions—How long have you been there? Are you going to rat me out?—and was answered only in long glares.
Slowly, the American dropped the alcohol, and extended it out to Enjolras. A small smile played on his lips.
"If you wanted some that badly, you could have just asked."
Enjolras didn't realize he had swung until his fist connected to the boy's jaw—until the stranger's own fist was upon his left eye.
It sounded like what happens when he would strike a chord wrong on his piano—an ugly clang, a gross mistake.
Yeah, he thought. This'll bruise.
"À ce soir, je serais ici pour le souper!" = I'll see you tonight, I'll be here for supper!
"Et oui mon cher, prends soin." = Yes my dear, take care.
"Bon Dieu" = Good God.
"Je t'aime" = I love you (guys).
"Bonne journée. = Have a good day.
"Un moment de silence pour les brâves esprits conquitent." = A moment of silence for the brave, fallen souls.
I'm still working on a solid schedule, but I hope to have one chapter up every week or so.
Thanks for reading!
- B