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.
