Well, I only got ONE review, but oh, well…this is still my most-reviewed story EVER!!! And certainly one of my longest…although I've realized that technically it could go on practically forever, because there are endless amounts of trouble that our boys can get into…we'll see.
And has anybody else seen/downloaded Shoujo Cosette, the Les Miz anime? It is officially my new love, and I think next week or the week after will be the big, climactic barricade episode…the students seem to get due recognition, at least, which is always good.
I'm trying to translate the raw shows with my limited Japanese in order to show my parents, and my mom is 'helping…' which is why Valjean is apparently going out to buy some egg foo yung pork…Hmm…
Disclaimer: Not mine. Boo…
Chapter Eleven
"He got shot?"
"Yes, François. Calm down," Enjolras sighed at the other's antics. "It's not nearly life-threatening."
"But he got shot."
"Yes," Combeferre sighed. "Now are you coming or not?"
"Of course I'm coming!" Courfeyrac stood.
"Then come." Enjolras walked out of the room.
000
"But he'll be alright?" Courfeyrac pressed as they walked.
"From what Apollo says, yes," Combeferre nodded. "Of course, I shall have to examine it myself to get an actual idea."
"André, stop calling me that," Enjolras turned to the other man. "You've known me longer than anyone else here, so why must you persist with this 'Apollo' nonsense?"
"Because it suits you perfectly," Courfeyrac grinned. "Even you have to admit that it is a very fitting name."
"I concur," Combeferre nodded. "And since you won't actually tell me your given name…"
"We've been through this all before, André," Enjolras waved an impatient hand. "There's nothing to tell."
"Therefore, you have been christened, 'Apollo,'" Courfeyrac proclaimed. "But I don't see why you're so afraid. Feuilly positively loathes 'Sébastien,' but at least he told us what it was."
"For the last time, I am not telling you," Enjolras said coldly, his eyes hard.
"All right," Courfeyrac shrugged. "In that case, you'll just have to live with 'Apollo.'"
Enjolras did not reply, and a few moments later they had arrived back at his place. Combeferre went to tend to Feuilly and Jehan, Enjolras and Courfeyrac went into the bedroom to wait. After the introductions were given, Courfeyrac cut right to the point.
"How is he?"
Jehan looked somewhat cautious about the other man, but he sat on the bed and replied, "I hardly know, myself. My knowledge of the human body and things pertaining to it is, alas, sadly lacking."
"Hmmm…"
"No."
Courfeyrac looked at Enjolras and blinked innocently. "But you don't…"
"No."
"Can't I even…"
"No. He's far too young to be caught up in this mess."
"You were sixteen," Courfeyrac pointed out, crossing his arms.
"And I hardly knew what I was getting myself into."
"But does he not have a right to choose for himself?"
Jehan was looking from one to the other in confusion while Enjolras heaved a sigh. "Not yet."
"Then when?"
"Later, perhaps," Enjolras replied. "After he has been in the city longer."
"Excuse me for inquiring, but what are you speaking of?" Jehan asked.
"It's not important at the moment," Enjolras assured him. "I'm going to check on André and Feuilly." With a warning glance at Courfeyrac, he left the room.
"So…" Courfeyrac sat on the bed. "You're the son of the Paris-famous Jean Prouvaire."
"…I am…"
"In that case, my good man, I am sure you would be appalled to find out that the poor people in this city are being very unjustly treated by the King and his nobles," Courfeyrac said off-handedly.
"My father says that it's their own fault, because they think that merely because they are poor they should get free handouts and sympathy. He bettered himself; they should also be able to."
"Jehan, let me tell you something," Courfeyrac turned his head to the side, blinking thoughtfully. "Your father was a rare case. Why, I know a man who was certainly on his way to becoming quite self-sufficient, but it seems that some street crooks don't like ambitious people. They stole his savings and destroyed all of his material, leaving him cold and hungry in the middle of a harsh winter," he said, never moving his eyes from the young poet. "What do you say to that? Do men like him deserve to be persecuted?"
"No, of course not!" Jehan vehemently shook his head. "If that is the case, then certainly something must be done. But if street rogues are the problem, can't the police take the initiative?" he asked.
"Patron-Minette are far too clever to be caught by the police," Courfeyrac responded. "And they're not the only problem; not all the poor even have the opportunity to try and better themselves. It's hard to do anything without money of some kind."
"True enough. This man you spoke of…did he ever get back on his feet?"
"You can judge that for yourself," Courfeyrac replied.
"What?" Jehan's eyes widened. "You mean…Sébastien? But he's…he's…" Jehan stopped, looking unsure as to whether or not he should continue.
"He's incredible is what he is," Courfeyrac smiled. "I mean, Enjolras and Combeferre helped him get started, but he's a talented artist, to be sure.
"And think, Jehan, how many other undiscovered talents are out there, being squandered because nobody will stop to appreciate them!" Courfeyrac exclaimed.
"True enough," Jehan agreed.
"Then you'll help us?"
"Well, I…"
"Oh, please, Jehan," Courfeyrac mock-pouted, "Please say you will!"
"I…alright, then," Jehan blinked, sounding still somewhat less-than-convinced.
"You're a good man to agree, Jehan Prouvaire. Now, let me tell you a little about my talents…"
000
"And you left them alone?" Combeferre shook his head and sighed. "Apollo, you should know by now that…"
"He'll try and recruit the boy. Especially because he is directly defying my orders by doing so," Enjolras replied.
"And you're alright with this?"
"If I weren't, André, I would never have said it," Enjolras replied. "But how are you, Feuilly?"
"Been better…and worse," he admitted. "Remember when I told you my brother was killed by bandits? Well, I was with him when it happened and I nearly died as well. Some kind citizens took us to the hospital, but it was too late for him," Feuilly propped himself up on one elbow.
"You certainly haven't had it easy, have you?" Combeferre asked, sympathy evident in his eyes.
"No worse than any other gamin," Feuilly shrugged. "I am not dead, at least; and among us, that in itself is an accomplishment."
"But it should not be!" Enjolras retorted. "And that is the whole problem. If living to be twenty years old is a feat worth admiration, something is seriously skewed."
"We knew that, though," Combeferre sighed. "But to see someone who's been through it first-hand can tend to change one's perspective," he added.
"The last thing I want is pity," Feuilly assured them. "Believe me."
Before either Combeferre or Enjolras could reply, however, there were voices heard outside the door. "But he's gone!"
"Calm down, Pierre."
Enjolras went to open the door, and Joly and Bahorel came in, still arguing.
"What happens to be the problem, gentlemen?" Combeferre asked.
"Bossuet," Joly heaved a sigh, sinking down into a chair. "He's been gone over a week…he's never disappeared for this long. The last time I saw him was at our meeting, and he barely even acknowledged me."
"Pierre," Bahorel perched himself on the arm of the chair. "More than likely he's merely found a mistress or something. It's nothing to worry about."
"I would hope, Tristan, that if he has found a girl, he would at least tell me," Joly replied bitterly.
"You're not his mother," Bahorel snorted.
"No, but…"
"Well, give him some space," Bahorel shrugged.
"Alright, but if it's something more…"
"You miss him, don't you?" Feuilly asked, shifting slightly to look at Joly.
"I…what?"
"When he's gone. Pierre, why don't you just tell him to stay for good?" Feuilly continued.
"He'd say no, of course, and that is hardly…what happened to you?"
"You're changing the subject?" Feuilly noted. "Answer my question."
"Well, of course I miss him! Satisfied?" Joly glanced at the fan-maker.
"Enough. And as for me, young Jehan Prouvaire and I ran afoul of a sort of insurrection; took a bullet in the leg, but it's hardly going to keep me down for long," he assured him.
"So where is this young man?" Bahorel inquired.
"François is trying to recruit him, of course," Combeferre replied.
"And you think he shall have luck?"
Combeferre shrugged, and Bahorel added, "And, if you don't mind my asking, where is this little insurrection taking place?"
"You know that large factory down by the river?" Feuilly asked. When Bahorel nodded, he continued, "Right around there."
"Ah. Well, you know how it is: I can never miss a good brawl. I shall see you all later," Bahorel waved and went out the door.
"What do you think of Prouvaire?" Enjolras turned back to Feuilly.
"He's a nice boy, but far…far too innocent for his own good. His father seems to have taught him that all poor citizens follow the direction of Patron-Minette. I think he was quite convinced I was going to rob him," Feuilly replied. "And he has no idea what Paris is truly like. I think someone needs to show him around if he actually agrees to join us."
"The only one who could do that well is yourself, Feuilly," Combeferre noted, "And I don't think you'll be up and about for a couple of weeks."
"You don't give yourselves enough credit," Feuilly returned. "I know for a fact that the two of you ran all over Paris looking for a place for me."
"Well, true enough. I suppose I could show him a bit when I take him to his house," Enjolras shrugged.
"Just don't scare him, Apollo," Combeferre cautioned.
"Don't worry. We want to recruit him, not mortify him, after all," Enjolras replied.
"Well, we'll just have to see how he takes it," Joly leaned back in his chair, and all of them were quite obviously wondering the same thing.