A/N: Modern AU oneshot. Bonfire Night. A night of friendship, romance, togetherness, bad dancing and pure, undiluted fluff concerning Les Amis because my brain can't cope with anything else at the moment!
A completely out of season apology present to Stagepageandscreen and Guineamania for the latest, emotionally draining chapter of 'Fallen Angels' and for the rest of you wonderful people who have decided to read, review, follow and favourite my work- you have no idea how much it means to me to think that my work is appreciated and I love and thank you with all my heart!
Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC (with Eponine, Gavroche, Azelma and Muschietta included!) into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
The Fire of Friendship
Bonfire Night. The half way mark between the horrors of having to actually begin academic work again or so Bahorel believes and the stress of finals coupled with the awaiting jubilation of the end of term.
It had been Jean Prouvaire's idea at first, Enjolras muses as he curls his gloved fingers tighter around the steaming plastic cup of Heinz Tomato soup and sighs at the warm, peppery scent tickling his nostrils; feeling a slight smile catch at the corners of his lips as he watches the poet spin Azelma Thenardier round and round the leaping, living, mound of wood and fire which they had erected on a solitary hill overlooking the city. The poet's auburn coloured braid seems to catch in the flames; the sparks and tongues of fire setting off the conserved heat and energy bursting from the lithe, slim frame as he catches the younger girl in his arms and lifts her; earning his antics a delighted squealing scream as he continues to tramp a barefoot dance circle around the flames.
Way back in their first year of University Jean; self nicknamed Jehan Prouvaire had decided once he had officially moved out of his grotty student halls of residence and in with Courfeyrac- whose birthday happened to be on November 5th that Les Amis de l'ABC should make an occasion of it; taking themselves and friends off somewhere quiet to laugh and joke and sing and revel in each other's company whilst watching the stars.
Eponine watches on; basking in her little sister's new found happiness as she moves between the gathered Amis; earning a wink from Grantaire as she pours a drop of brandy into his mulled wine that Feuilly and Bahorel had brought; lugging the great steaming vat up the hill in a blaze of red faces and chapped hands which had almost sent Joly into hysterics. The glowing evening light; a splash of sunset amid a deep, cavernous indigo bed seems to to catch her mane of ebony coloured brilliance as she tugs her tartan scarf tighter around her neck and flashes him a brilliant, white toothed smile.
'Flirting with me Bourgeois boy?' The smile seems to say as she twirls around to a call from Courfeyrac who is listening with rapt attention to Gavroche recounting his day at school, which earns her a wine, soaked kiss and the sound of violent retching from the younger boy. The chief is glad that Joly is nowhere in the nearest vicinity when that happens.
Gavroche had had a part in this too; Enjolras thinks; this yearly gathering of fire branded souls to laugh and drink and talk and dance the night away until a rosy fingered dawn slowly slipped her fingers into nights' inky abyss and swept it away into oblivion. It had been when his class were studying Guy Fawkes and the child had raced into the Musain desperate for more information that Combeferre, who had been taking a break from revising for his Philosophy exam, had gladly given, warts and all.
'Not at all', he ducks his head and studies a slowly unravelling hole in his left glove before the sound of Grantaire starting up a hearty rendition of 'Think of Me' from Phantom of the Opera; clutching his nulled wine in a purely dramatic gesture of romance to his chest and making Courfeyrac roll his eyes and pouts his lips in a gesture of 'I told you so' towards Enjolras who raises his eyebrows sardonically back at him. He is glad, lucky even to have friends such as these.
The moon slips out from behind a cloud; bathing the whole scene in a sudden, dazzling bath of silver brilliance.
The sparks from the fire crackle and spit as Bahorel heaves another branch onto it; the moss and bracken making the flames sizzle in delight at more food. Grantaire is still singing, the words slurring into a tuneful, yet completely incomprehensible ramble that makes the smile tugging at Enjolras' lips widen as he silently contemplates the cynic whose arm is thrown over Bossuet's shoulder as together they sway in unison around the fire; alcohol soaked faces glowing in the light of the flames. Enjolras is glad that Grantaire could make it tonight; glad that the cynic is here amongst friends and not sitting alone in some dingy, badly lit, rundown pub somewhere; drowning out his sorrows and worthless woes in bottle after bottle of Absinthe or else in the flat that he can barely pay the rent for; surrounded by forgotten artist materials and a blood soaked soul that is caked in bitterness. Combeferre is yet to appear.
Enjolras takes another sip from his soup; feeling the spicy warmth flood through his body like molten fire as from nowhere in particular he feels the weight of warm, known hands cupping themselves around his own and the comforting pressure of a head leaning itself against the bony plateau his shoulder. Breath that smells of peppermint spice lands hot and vibrant against his cheek as he leans into the touch; relishing in the warmth emanating from the body as a long, calloused finger reaches up to tuck a stray strand of spun sunlight back behind his ear.
'Hey', the words are lost within the soft, chaste kiss which Enjolras sweeps against the lightly freckled cheek; reaching up to cup his fingers around it as he does so.
'I thought you weren't going to make it tonight', he murmurs into Combeferre's chest; shifting his soup into his free hand to toy at the buttons of the guide's coat; basking in the solid security of the regular, throbbing heartbeat he finds there.
'The causes and effects of whooping cough in infants can wait', Combeferre replies with a wry chuckle as he deftly spins Enjolras around so that his back is pressed up against his ribcage and pulls him close; interlocking their fingers together above the chief's heart. 'For now…' He stops as their eyes wander for a silent moment about the scene of sparkled, fraternal friendship laid out before them; taking in Jehan who is now lying flat out with Azelma and Muschietta next to him; manes of auburn, mahogany and ebony black fanning out on the grass behind them as Jehan's ink stained finger points out the constellations. Their eyes travel next to Bahorel who is deep in conversation with Gavroche, leaning on an unopened barrel of what Enjolras suspects is whiskey; the younger boy hanging on the boxers' every word; bright, blue-grey eyes alive with wonder and caught with fire as the inky pupils echo back the flames behind.
'For now I want to be with you. And our friends. Together. The reading is long, but really of little importance, though my tutor thinks otherwise', Combeferre gives a wry chuckle at this and smiles his thanks to Eponine who hands him a cup of soup with a whispered kiss to his forehead and Enjolras has to snort a sudden laugh into his own cup at the ridiculousness of the statement that any of his best friend's reading is nothing but of the utmost importance as he leans closer into Combeferre and closes his eyes; allowing the combined heat of the fire and the warmth of their friendship to overcome him for just a moment.
The throbbing beat of a old school tape player throbs through his reverie; the ground beneath their feet seeming to consume the pulsating, breathless rhythm as Bahorel and Jehan break into a dance battle of terrible hip hop; the poet's braid flying in a crazy arching dance of its own and Bossuet's deep, hearty laugh booms across the silent city as Muschietta scrambles up from the stamped down dance circle and pulls him into a spinning sexily Italian jive; a waterfall of laughter bursting from her lips as Grantaire decides to start a swaying conga line that makes no sense and really; isn't supposed to.
The air feels electric tonight, pulsing, reckless energy bursting through bodies that have so recently been confined to the walls of the library, the lecture theatre, the classroom or the laboratory in a dizzying whirl of colour, light and noise. The sparks and heat from the fire, the roar of the tape player, the stink of smoke, the bursting passion exploding from his friends as Feuilly; abandoning all sense of self-restraint and fuelled by alcohol dives into the fray with Gavroche and Courfeyrac straight behind; spinning the younger boy round and round until he nearly bursts with laughter.
'Shall we join them?' Combeferre grins in the gathering, fire lit gloom at Enjolras who nods; his finger groping in the darkness for the guide's hand as with a whoop of delight from Courfeyrac and roars of pleasure from Bahorel and Joly; they find themselves somehow caught in a swaying, disjointed conga line that is kissed by fire, friendship, laughter, alcohol and freedom.
Tonight is a good night to be alive, Enjolras thinks as Grantaire twists himself towards him and presses a smoky, alcohol soaked kiss to his cheek; emerald eyes sparkling with unadulterated adoration for his glorious, fire branded Apollo. He will remember tonight he thinks as he sees Joly and Muschietta kiss under the moonlight; bodies entwined in perfect harmony, sees Combeferre clasping hands with Eponine; the fire of passionate adoration that is alive in his eyes reflecting off his glasses and Jehan doing the same with Azelma as they stand in perfect silence watching Courfeyrac trying to teach Gavroche how to dance much to the others amusement. Sees Bahorel attempting to open the whiskey barrel in a malt soaked waterfall of foam as Feuilly drags him back towards the others because the next person who samples the freedom of this hill far away from the choking confinement of the city can clean it up. Sees Bossuet pull Grantaire into the fray and reach for him too as the wine soaked artist sends a slurred toast to the moon.
Yes, tonight is a very, very good night to be alive and Enjolras for one is not going to forget it in a hurry.
Fin
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy x