Rise Up, Oh Heart, For There is Another Battle to Win

Anonymous asked: Idk, you've always reminded me of Grantaire.

Well, I mean, given that I actually have a tag ‘I am Grantaire and Grantaire is me’, you are not incorrect.  

Tell me what fictional character you think I am!

Anonymous asked: oooooh, i would love a exr shortie where e has to teach r how to dance and it's very frustrating and they feel thINGS, please?

*hides face* Oh my God, it’s been like a MONTH, I am so sorry, but HERE.  There is dancing and feelings and kissing and Enjolras actually having a social life because Courfeyrac forces him to.  Also, I seem to have a tendency to write ‘getting their shit together’ ficlets so if you want…not that, feel free to ask.  And if you want the reverse of this where Grantaire teaches Enjolras to dance, it is here.

Enjolras goes to clubs.  It’s not especially common knowledge, because he’s usually too busy, but whenever Courfeyrac feels like it’s necessary, he’ll drag Enjolras out to a nightclub, pour a few shots into him, and turn him loose for a few hours with instructions to not think too much.  This time, it’s a group outing, all of Les Amis laughing and tactile with alcohol, hands on arms and cheeks flushed with the triumph of their latest protest.  

Joly, giggly with his second rum and coke, is the one to start the dancing, pushing Musichetta and Bousset onto the dance floor ahead of him.  The three of them fit together like puzzle pieces, Musichetta’s petite body pressed back against Joly’s chest and Bousset’s broad shoulders behind the pair of them.  They’ve clearly done this before, because Bousset and Musichetta know just how to move so that Joly can dance without aggravating his limp.  It’s fluid and sensual, Musichetta’s head tipped back on Joly’s shoulder and her smile dazzling up at her boys, and Enjolras feels the brief pause around him, the rest of them caught up in the trio’s giddy joy.

“Aw, they’re cute,” Cosette says, and Éponine smirks, finishes her scotch, and pinches Marius hard in the side.  He yelps and flails—not a graceful man at the best of times, and less so with alcohol—but gets the hint, shyly offering his hand to Cosette and letting her tug him onto the floor.  Éponine is still snickering when she darts out herself, bouncing and coiling like a ribbon in the dim club lights.

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pilferingapples:

tenlittlebullets:

storytellerluna:

selenethedaydreamingwriter:

The real tragedy about the barricade is that we don’t know how much is true. Victor Hugo was there at the June Rebellion, so what is fact and what is fiction? That question gives me chills because we’ll never know. 

Charles Jeanne (who I think is probably actual real life Enjolras) wrote an in-detail account of the ACTUAL barricades in a letter to his sister after the fact

you can read it, tenlittlebullets translated it into English :)

it’s really graphic, he leaves no gory details out, just FYI if you’re gonna read it, keep TW: VIOLENCE  in mind

#how is he real-life enjolras if he survived (via metellus-cimber)

I’m so glad somebody asked this, because the answer is: when they finally ran out of ammunition, Charles Jeanne rounded up everyone who was still standing, went, “look, if we’re going to die, we might as well die fighting,” and led a suicidal ten-man charge against an entire flippin’ infantry column, armed with nothing but bayonets. The first few ranks of soldiers were so unprepared for such a spectacularly insane attack that they were too surprised to shoot. They crossed bayonets and tried to hold the insurgents off in hand-to-hand combat, but Jeanne’s swordsmanship was apparently aces, because he held off a bunch of them at once and covered his friends as they tried to breach the ranks. And once they were in, nobody could shoot them for fear of taking out their own guys.

So the last stand that the insurgents had intended as a noble suicide ended in them breaking through the ranks entirely and winding up in the next street over, outside the combat zone, going “well shit, what do we do now?” (I’m guessing the infantry column wasn’t very deep; central Paris at that point was a rabbit warren of narrow twisty streets, and assembling troops en masse for an organized attack was a logistical nightmare.) Unlike the National Guard, the army weren’t total chumps and got themselves turned around to give chase and start shooting once they weren’t at risk of friendly fire any longer… and that’s when all the civilians holed up in their houses went “no way, you’re not getting your hands on these crazy bastards” and started hurling furniture and crockery down on the soldiers’ heads. Jeanne was understandably distracted at the time, but afterwards somebody informed him that the barrage of unlikely projectiles included a piano. A piano. That is some straight-up Looney Tunes slapstick right there. No wonder Hugo went for the heroic death scene instead; if he’d stuck to real life, he probably would’ve gotten complaints that he’d wrecked his readers’ suspension of disbelief.

Anyway, someone opened an alley gate for them to shelter in and take stock of the casualties—most of them survived(!!!), but a few were pretty nastily wounded. Their host then had to lock Charles Jeanne in to keep him from charging right back out and taking on the whole goddamn army singlehanded. He probably would’ve broken down the door if the poor man hadn’t pointed out that going back out would give away his wounded comrades’ hiding place and the identities of the people sheltering them. They sat there listening to the gunfire gradually slow and go silent, and then in the middle of the night the ones who could still walk were allowed to slip away one by one at long intervals from each other. Charles Jeanne went straight home, slept like the dead for a few hours, was woken up at five in the morning with a warning that he’d been denounced and the building was surrounded, and then slipped out in disguise and managed to evade the police for four months before a former comrade ratted him out and he was arrested.

And this, ladies and gentlemen, is why Charles Jeanne’s letter is an absolute treasure that deserves to be available to anyone in Les Mis fandom who wants to read it. Incidentally, “how Actual Historical Enjolras survived the barricades by being too good at his suicide mission” is also one of the stories I tell when anyone asks me what the hell is so interesting about researching people nobody’s ever heard of from an obscure chapter of French history. 

#charles jeanne#what a BAMF#and then he managed to derail the whole trial with impassioned noble speeches and dramatic gestures worthy of a Hugo play#while visibly dying of consumption#seriously how was this dude even real#saint merry#june rebellion#à cinq heures nous serons tous morts#1832#history geeking ahoy

(Source: jiubilee, via cthulhu-with-a-fez)

microcroft:

After cosette introduced her dad to them les amis de l'abc accepted jean valjean as their dad weirdly fast and as did valjean like over the course of a week Jean Valjean had unexpectedly adopted 11 college students and 1 ten year old and they all look up to him as a fatherly figure and randomly call him for advice and he is pretty sure that over half of them have him as their emergency contact now. Sometimes the call him and give him life updates like enjolras excitedly calling him one night: “GRANTAIRE ASKED ME OUT TO GET COFFEE TOMORROW!!! Wait what am i supposed to do?” Then proceeded to slightly panic while valjean gave him dating advice and told him to be himself (yesterday grantaire had called him for advice on how to ask out enjolras) and every time they tell him about one of their latest achievements in life he gets this swell of pride in his heart.

He goes to gavroches soccer/football games, grantaires art shows, courfeyracs plays or musicals, every protest he can go to, and every big event that matters to them because even though they arent actually his kids they practically are at this point

(via youfightlikemysister)

ghostdog401 asked: What about a Star Trek AU, but with Les Mis characters

Aaaaaay, hell yeah, I fucking live for Star Trek AU’s.

All right, so I’m going to take this to mean that one AU where the fair ship Revolution is out on her five-year mission under the command of Captain Lamarque, a steely-eyed woman with a reputation for even-handed care of her crew whether they support her or not.  Her first officer, Commander Enjolras is a communications specialist, beyond his command training, and everyone who knew him before his commission jokes that he chose it because he always wore bright red anyway.  Those jokes are mostly made by his two closest friends from the Academy, both of whom went out of their way to get assigned to the same ship—Combeferre, the youngest out of the three doctors on board (and half-Betazoid who will cut you if you ask about his species’ “sensuous nature”), and Courfeyrac, the ship’s counselor (technically a non-com, but still part of the crew).  

A quick overview of the crew of the Revolution:

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Anonymous asked: ♫ Enjolras/Grantaire

words-writ-in-starlight:

RIGHT, so I got Third Eye by Florence + the Machine (also I super love this meme and more people should do it.)  I ain’t even a little sorry.  Canon era, motherfuckers, because I can.

Grantaire was arguing with him again.  Most of Enjolras’ mind was occupied with ripping down the other man’s case, almost enjoying the familiar pattern, but that quiet part at the base of his skull, the part that had been getting louder of late, was distracted.  It was discomfiting and foreign, as if he no longer quite knew himself.  It did little to inhibit his argument—they were second nature by now, he could spare that scrap of attention—but he was bothered by its persistence.  Just when Enjolras believed he had shaken off the strange abstraction, Grantaire would tip his head back and laugh at something Joly had said, his wild curls falling back from the line of his throat, and it would return with a vengeance.

He’s brilliant, the quiet voice noted now.  It was true, something Enjolras had noticed before. For all that he dulled its edge with wine and other, stronger spirits, Grantaire’s mind was as keen as the edge of broken glass, quick and incisive, and he soaked up information as effortlessly as he did liquor.  Grantaire claimed to know nothing—nothing but love and liberty, he had said—but he could hold his ground against Enjolras, and quote Greek and Roman writings without so much as a pause to recall. He spoke rapidly, as if the thoughts piled up behind his tongue and pressed to be first through his lips, and was prone to winding, tangential thinking, but his points were good and clear and glittering.

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Reblog for the daytime crowd.