youfightlikemysister asked: I am so in love with your Mutant!Les Amis, it's incredible. I didn't think I'd like any power Grantaire was giving and then you went and made it the most perfect power! I'm quite emotional right now. If you every chose to write more that would be a very cool thing!
Aw, I’m so glad you liked it, it was a lot of fun! Here, this is kind of ADHD and random but it’s KIND OF plot, right, so yeah. Also OH MY GOD this got grim, Christ, this is just sads, I don’t…I don’t have a defense for this, except that I was kind of consumed by my feelings about Feuilly in this universe and things got away from me.
Okay so Mutant Registration, right? And the rise of the Cure. That’s what we’re dealing with here. The Cure is in development, there’s discussion of forced administration to mutants who are a hazard to self or others, and the mutant population is terrified, angry, desperate, Les Amis as much as any of them. They’ve been at least tangentially involved in at least one protest a week for months, and it’s gotten to the point where they’re recognized on the news.
They have moments of uncertainty, sure, like anyone who’s spent years being told how unnatural they are. Even Enjolras, who is so aflame with his defense of his people that he burns like a white-hot star even in bright sunlight, has his moments where he wonders—just a little—if it would be better after all to be normal. Those of them with obvious mutations, or mutations with nasty backlash, have worse moments, more moments, and they all objectively know that, but somehow it’s still a surprise when Feuilly, steady and smiling and gentle, wavers.
They’re all a bit drunk—it’s a Friday, they’re exhausted and safely ensconced in the back room of the Musain and Madame Huchloupe can read minds, so if there’s ever been a safe place for a rather motley crew of mutant activists to get drunk, this is probably it. Musichetta is there, very solemnly drawing daisies up Jehan’s right arm in Sharpie while Grantaire sketches roses up his left and the honeysuckle braided into his hair twines itself into a crown—Jehan almost always has a few cuttings of his plants in his hair, living off his power. Cosette is watching Eponine set off tiny crackling fireworks that dance over her fingers, delighted, and Marius is staring like Cosette’s glee is the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. Even Enjolras and Grantaire are getting along (this is before they get together), having an entirely cordial conversation about the details of their last protest.
And Feuilly, who usually sweeps into rooms like a light going on, warm and friendly, slips in silently, staring at the floor, with Bahorel radiating fury on his heels.
“Feuilly?” Courfeyrac says, turning immediately, his hands already out toward the dark blotch of Feuilly’s emotions. Bahorel hovers behind Feuilly’s shoulder like he’s planning a murder, downright thunderous, and then Feuilly raises his head and the room goes very quiet indeed.
He has a black eye starting and an ugly mess on his cheek, like someone ripped at the scales against the grain, pulling them out at the roots. The places where the skin on his arms—littered with bruises—blends into black snakeskin is raw and abraded. His lip is cut and bleeding, his black-on-steel snake eyes damp, and his shirt is stained red at the nape of his neck, where his scales scraped against something rough, like stone. He holds himself like his ribs hurt, like he might have broken bones, and stands crookedly, all his weight on one leg.
There’s a long beat, because no matter how many times one of their number appears bruised and hurting, it never becomes normal. Feuilly and Grantaire always get the worst of it, because no matter how obvious pyrokinetics are no one wants to mess with them, but this is the most damage any of them have walked in with.
“Oh,” Jehan says, soft and grief-stricken, and he shrugs Grantaire and Musichetta away to walk forward. He reaches out and rests his hand on Feuilly’s arm, seeking permission, and Feuilly blinks at him for a moment before he sighs and leans his head on Jehan’s shoulder, his ruined cheek turned away. Jehan hugs him, cautious of his injuries, and Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Combeferre close behind him, is the next to reach them.
“What happened?” Enjolras asks, unusually soft.
Feuilly closes his eyes and doesn’t answer, and they can see his flinch when a tear streaks down to the mess on his cheek, salt water in the wound.
“They caught him on his way from work,” Bahorel half-snarls, because Bahorel is a buoyant and glad soul right up until his friends—or Feuilly, whose position is somewhat indeterminate even to the other Amis—are threatened. “Seven guys—big guys, too.” Enjolras nods, because Feuilly can take care of himself, but one on seven are nasty odds at the best of times. “I don’t know what they used on his face,” Bahorel continues as Jehan steers Feuilly over to a chair and pushes him down. “I got there and ran them off.” He smiles grimly, all teeth, and says, “Remind me to pick up some more krav maga.”
“Feuilly, let me look at your chest,” Joly says, limping over—it’s due to rain tonight, his leg is troubling him, but he’s discarded his cane in his hurry. Feuilly doesn’t say anything, lets Joly unbutton his shirt and doesn’t react to his hiss at the red and purple mottling that spans one side of his ribs. “Someone get me some—thanks,” he says, taking the glass of water Bousset holds out and a napkin from the table. Feuilly closes his eyes, as if he can’t stand to watch the others watching him—Feuilly’s proud, but right now he just looks tired, as if it’s too much to bear. Joly starts to dab at the blood on Feuilly’s face and the room falls quiet again, except for the shuddering sound of shadows stirring over the floor and the quiet crackle of sparks showering through Eponine’s long hair.
Once Feuilly’s face is clean, the damage looks even worse, the beds of scales raw and seeping blood. Joly cradles his cheek in one hand and closes his own eyes to focus, and the damage begins to vanish, new scales pushing through the skin and settling flat against each other. The black eye sinks away, the bruises and scrapes evaporating like a dream. Once it’s done, Joly brushes a thumb over the repaired scales on Feuilly’s cheek and they slide like water, black and sleek. Joly lets Bousset wrap an arm around his waist and support him as he retreats from Feuilly, and Bousset clasps a hand briefly around Feuilly’s wrist, fingers pressing against the sweep of scales over the pulse point. There’s a faint crackle, as if of ozone, and Bousset pulls away. Feuilly opens his eyes briefly and offers a wan smile, then closes them again and raises a hand, pressing the heel of it into the socket of one eye.
Grantaire is the one who sits down next to him and grips his arm firmly, and Feuilly leans to the side, like a strong tree toppling under a gale, to lean against him. Grantaire’s all-black eyes half-lid, and he rests his hand between Feuilly’s shoulders instead, his shadows still for the moment so as not to disturb his friend.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” Feuilly whispers into Grantaire’s shoulder, and it’s the first thing he’s said since he arrived.
“I know,” Grantaire says, heavy and tired, and Cosette and Eponine exchange a look, drifting over to the table themselves. Cosette’s wings are pulled tight around her shoulders, as if she’s retreating into them, and Eponine’s flaming eyes are shaded by her lashes—freaks among freaks, the ones who can’t hide.
“I don’t want to be like this.”
“I know.”
There’s nothing else to say.
