Mhmm.

Finals are bad. Evil, one may say.

Finals are the antagonist of my life, and are much worse than Dorian Grey.

But I got a 100 on AP Lit (after a 40 point curve, but...)

And now, after like a month of trying to crank this out (as my finals were done ages ago, but I'm finally finishing this a week before school restarts)...

I'm not sure where I was going with this. Sorry.

Prompt: (Valjeaned from Tumblr)

'Modern AU Grantaire shouting "SOURCE" after everything Enjolras says in his speeches, until one day Enjolras walks in with a stack of papers and drops it on the table in front of Grantaire, and starts in on one of his rants and it's a packet of source articles for every single statistic and quote he used that night'.

Fandom: Les Miserables

Characters: Enjolras, Grantaire, other Les Amis.

Word Count: 1, 024

It was a quiet night at the Café, no different than the ordinary. Night had just fallen, leaving a coolness to the coffee shop as people drifted in and out of the front doors, the wind sweeping out the lovely scent and bringing mystery and a damp aura. None, of course, were bothered by this, as it was a daily occurrence, and as the familiar movements danced in the beginnings of moonlight, there was a loud argument brewing along the horizon.

Where in the centre of most shops there would be a square table, placed for the biggest parties, this humble abode proved to be different, possessing a round table in the corner, right where the very same issues were being voiced. This, too, was an average thing to witness- there was always some pair going at each other's throat, always in good humor. Now, though, it seemed to have a much more violent reason.

Jehan was contemplating this as he ventured towards the very same circle, his hands clutched around a green tea, shoulder shrugging up the black sack of books. Although the mood seemed to still be light, he found a sense of tension floating in folds past the outskirts. What in the world was going on? Had one of the speeches gone wrong? Was he in trouble for arriving- god forbid!- five minutes late?

No, it was nothing of the sort.

The issue was much simpler, if he was to be plain.

It was Grantaire.

It seemed that, as Jehan shoved his way into his spot beside Feuilly, the pair were in a heated debate over... Sources?

"What in the world is going on?"

His friend cracked a grin, running a hand through tousled brown curls which were streaked with paint on one side, and his hands still greased from working diligently at the local diner for his minimum wage. "You know how Grantaire has been demanding for sources?"

The poet nodded, sighing rather abruptly. Oh, how he was sick of the pair of them. They snapped, snipped, and every other synonym that one could come up with for arguing. And, like he and Courfeyrac had discussed multiple times, they refused to simply kiss and be done with it. Even Feuilly- Feuilly!- believed that this was true! The stone heart of the businessman (because, when one really thought about it, he was more of a statue than Enjolras) had almost melted, and he had even attempted to gossip with he and Courfeyrac!

It was ridiculous.

"Yes, I know," he managed to spit out, bitterly glaring at the silly duet as they continued to argue. "And it's irritating."

Feuilly shrugged, and tugged Bahorel, who was cheering on the pair, over to the outskirts, Jehan's usual spot. The three of them stood, plotting with their heads together, brows twitching lightly.

What to do, what to say? Did they dare interrupt the tirade of Enjolras for something as innocent as this? Could they even attempt to shove the pair of them together?

Not exactly.

Instead, they froze, and simply watched the end of the argument.

"- NO RIGHT TO ACT LIKE THIS!"

Combeferre, thank the heavens, happened to walk through the door at the exact moment, which let little shivers of relief dance down his spine. If there was anyone to steady this, it was him and Courfeyrac, though the latter was much more interested in studying one of the grisettes which lurked wistfully around their corner of the room. Jehan was unsure as to why they were able to steady him so much (perhaps it was their closeness from the past?), but with the steady arm on their fearless leader's shoulder, Enjolras faded off into the background, and the argument was soon forgotten.

"I will continue now on the fact of the matter. We have a rally very soon, and, as some of you may be aware, we have absolutely nobody siding with us. There is our group, there are our friends, and then, in the corner, we have those who we consider to be allies. But where do the people rest within this? They do not consider us to be equals, nor betters, and they dare not to be allies."

"Then what are we, to them?" the calm Jehan interrupted, taking great heed to place his thoughts at the end of the statement, awaiting the spew of facts and other truths which would steady the amis in their feet.

It came like a storm, the sudden whirlwind of speech dancing around, his words awash with hope and fear; care and carelessness folding into one as the thought was pouring from his lips. It was magical poetry, it was something that he was proud to be a part of. No one else was able to twist the magic into a talk as the leader Apollo, none able to make a poem where there should not be one.

He was simple: "We are their kin."

He was brutal: "We are their enemy."

He was soft: "We are not the nation. We are men."

He was red: "And we will change this for them! We will become their rallying cry! Their hope!"

And the dream-filled man was no longer paying attention. Instead, he casually followed the rise and fall of the man's breath, dipping a toe occasionally into the depths of the sea of thought. Here and there, he dabbled, always turning back to the poetry in his thoughts. Did he dare compose in the middle of a meeting, risking trouble?

Yes.

He was not a wimp. He might have been the youngest, barely seventeen, but that was nothing towards the wimps of the mind. Brilliance (if he could say so himself) danced past his lips.

And-

"SOURCES."

"COMBEFERRE!"

"According to 'The Established Regiment', the percentage of people living in poverty of this month exactly is 79%, as stated. In the article..."

It was definitely worth tuning this out.