tushanshu_logs | [closed] let's make the most of the night

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[closed] let's make the most of the night

Characters: Dead, Miserable, French People
Date: Early March
Location: A pub somewhere out of the way
Situation: Courfeyrac is gone. We'll drink to that. Javert is gone. We'll drink to that.
Warnings: Swearing, debauchery, miserable French people, Pontmercying.

Yes, yes, everyone had a lovely time in and out of the bottle, but the remaining citizens of the turtle who had been lucky enough to die together at their home (and Marius) still had something else on their minds. After returning from the bottle, they'd been greeted with a half-empty suite that had formerly belonged to M'sieur de Courfeyrac, and a completely empty suite that belonged to Police Inspector Javert.

Whomever had organized it, it didn't matter. What mattered was that the remaining members of their party, Eponine, Enjolras, Combeferre, Joly, Bossuet, Marius, were all there to drink to their lost friend. And while that in and of itself was a sad occasion, no one was about to mourn the loss of Javert, particularly not Eponine.

So come on in, take a seat, pour a pint, and drink with us to time gone by.

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"Then it shall be," Eponine says as sagely as she can muster, taking a long drink. "We shall take it as it is, as he would wish. We will not forget him. We shall love him. I shall love him, but I shall move on, as I am sure he would want me to. He knew how I was in my feelings for him, and for others." For Marius. He'd been happy she had found others, but...

"There is, after all, only death awaiting us after this turtle. Everything here is fleeting." She pours another glass for herself, relaxing a bit more into her chair.

"At least our friend the Inspector is gone."

Only death awaiting them. It's not a fact that Enjolras has failed to acknowledge. He's faced that long ago, the idea this is a temporary lull, but even so, the thought of that death, at least when it comes to his friends, is still something that hurts, when he allows it to hurt. To think of himself here alone, with less of them...

No. Too close to pity, and too close to thinking of himself, he decides, yanking at his hoop again, forcing his features into something of a smile. Courfeyrac would wish that after all. As for Javert.

"It IS funny, really. Here, where things were equal, he was not so terrible as all of that. I think that proves something about the need for that equality among all people. If one cannot exercise power over another, without their consent...I think he is a better man for that. I think that the inspector might have been so, once. I wish the point could still be made at home."

There. An easier topic by far. One which he can be a bit removed from. Much better by far.

"HA!" Eponine's shrill laugh echos throughout the pub. "A better man for all that? You jest! He is just as bad here, as he was in Paris. Perhaps he dogged your steps- but he was the one who arrested me, sent me to Madelonettes, I have told you!" She took another swig, tossing her head back.

"No, he is not a good man, the inspector. He would have had me hanged, mark me. Me and the rest of my lot, sooner than ask us what it was we'd done wrong."

"I did not know him at home so well as you." Enjolras had to concede a little. "Still, at heart, I would contend that, while I doubt he would ever be kind exactly, the position made him worse. I think...there was a sense of honor in the man, at least, despite his sneaking into barricades and spying."

There is a pause as Enjolras considers how best to put this.

"It seemed that the inspector was one of those people who...always believed that he was right, and was one of the only people to be right. Thus, once he had an idea of someone ingrained, as his position caused him to think of so many of the people, including you...it would have been too late. I think though, that his nature was shaped by that, and badly so. I cannot have sympathy exactly but.."

There is a respect there, regardless, as strange as that sounds to say to anyone. "I think we ARE all better served that he's away if he would do the same to you here, though." And better for the man too, Enjolras suspects, but does not say.

"Honor?" There's another laugh there, Eponine shaking her head. "No, Enjolras. Honor is nothing more than a concept. You cannot have it, you cannot hold it. It exists for men to lord it over one another how wonderful they are, when deep below they are all terrible. Rich men talk so often about it! You should know better now, Apollon. There is no honor amongst men. And certainly not in Paris."

She finishes this up with another long drink.

If it is nothing more than a concept, Enjolras would argue, perhaps that is because men have never been given the chance, most of them, to see it in action, or to feel it. He does, nonetheless, feel Javert was one who understood the concept well enough, though they approached each other from different sides of the equations dealing with it. He could never, for example, have seen himself admiring the man exactly, even though he did respect him for his part. But, no use explaining any of that now, when it will only lead to sharp words that he has no desire to take part in, really, not just now.

"I would say that it is something we must cultivate at any rate, in everyone, not only the rich, if we wish to see it used correctly. You are right enough that many rich men throw the word about, and they abuse it rather than applying it. But I have seen honor, of the true sort, among men, and in Paris."

And here, Enjolras is leaning toward Eponine a little more, not enough to touch, but enough to try to make the point.

"You wear the hat of one who lived by it, where it counted. The Inspector's sense of it was...very different than Courfeyrac's, legalistic. Demanding even. Too exact for anyone to follow and of the sort that's quick to be abused. But for both of their parts they did wish to do right. Courfeyrac's sense of it allowed for people to stay human. I doubt that the Inspector ever knew quite what that meant."

Like him, Enjolras thinks, before the others, before Courfeyrac himself, and Combeferre. "I do know whose example I prefer."

Eponine's hand gently skimmed the brim of her hat. "Perhaps. But I have no use for honor. There is none amongst thieves, and I am one of the worst there was in Paris. If I had kept to my honor, I would have died far sooner than my own death. You cannot forget that, Enjolras. I did things I did not for honor, for that is an obtuse thing. But because it is what I believed. If someone is to do such a thing, they should be plain and say they do it because they believe it, not for something abstract like honor!"

She tosses the last line away, taking another drink.

"Now tell me something happy. Tell me a story of our Reynaud."

Enjolras has always regarded honor as secondary to survival of course, and secondary to a few other things, but reasonably high up there. Eponine's words about it, however, are not surprising, really. He simply thinks that everyone COULD behave with honor if society allowed for it, that it is intrinsic, and is something that gets smashed into bits before too long in the wrong circumstances.

It is not as though that truly matters at the moment, he supposes, as he pauses to consider. "A story of Courfeyrac...I forced him to come to class once, do you know?" It had been a foolish moment, really, but it was one that Enjolras was fond of anyway.

"The others had been playing keep away with one of his hats, and it was nearly time to leave. Bahorel tossed it to me, and I was so tired of taking notes for that lecture when we were MEANT to go in halves on actually attending. I ran the hat all the way to law school and into our lecture hall, at which point I tossed it back to him...just as our professor, Blondeau wandered in. Class was delayed for half an hour while he attempted to impress on us how terrible we were. It might have been forgotten, once we'd settled down, if we'd not happened to look at each other."

Edited 2014-03-06 06:24 (UTC)

As Enjolras told his story, Eponine drank and laughed, applauding once it was done. "Bravo, m'sieur Enjolras! I had not heard that story before, no, and I am not disappointed! I shall believe it is this very hat I wear now. He has so many, such a fashionable man. I would go shopping with him, as here I have money! But! That is a good story. I shall not forget it!"

She punctuates the sentence with another drink. "You all had such wonderful times together."

And as the story took place some time ago, Enjolras doubts it, but he can give her that illusion for now.

"Courfeyrac's hats ARE all rather similar at that. And so he does..."

Did? Enjolras is not sure, really, or entirely how to respond to Eponine's next words. They did indeed. The nine of them, yes, even Grantaire must be included, though Hell if Enjolras ever understood him, truly did have wonderful times, because there was wonder and awe even in the horror, even at the final heights of sacrifice he witnessed as they made their stand.

At any rate, he's nodding, letting a small sigh that's almost more a shudder pass through him there, head falling onto his folded arms (damned if that doesn't hurt but Enjolras doesn't CARE), for a long moment there. He does not cry exactly, ever, but it is still overwhelming, and..embarrassing though it is, he very much wants to, now.

"...We did." he agrees at last, his voice muffled a bit, but clear enough. "Even, perhaps, more so, at the end of things. That we stood side by side though that darkness, in order that we together we might someday meet the dawn...I could trust no one more than I trusted them then. I could not..."

He's keeping his head there for now, trying to will away the tears as best he can. He's never been of the Romantic school himself, and while he'd not condemn anyone for showing them, it all feels so entirely strange, so unlike him. Is this to be his life as they all vanish from him then, in such slow motion as all that?

Because, if so he truly does not like it.

"Apollon." Eponine says his name the moment his head drops. There's an unfamiliar note in his voice, and it brings out something deep inside of her that she wasn't sure what to do with. Pity? No. It was the sort of thing she felt for Midii, when she held the girl close, or Gavroche...

Standing, Eponine moves to Enjolras' side of the table, and, shockingly, moves to kneel at his feet. Taking a hand of his in hers, she looks at him patiently through kind eyes. Slowly, she brings up her other hand to gently cup his cheek, running the pad of her thumb along his cheekbones tenderly.

"He trusted you more than anyone else. Valued each moment with you. He shall not be forgotten." It was all she could think of to say, kind or otherwise.

Quite honestly, Enjolras is not sure what is going on deep inside of himself right now. Along with the cold dread, the emptiness, there is a fear, and a knowledge that he should not be falling apart here. Of course he should not, and Eponine's voice is a shameful reminder of that as he looks up at the contact, not pulling away just now, his eyes a little wet in spite of his resolve.

But then, he'd never cried for them in life, or so far in coming here. Perhaps, sooner or later, that was something of a dam that had to break. Nonetheless, he might have preferred that it happen not in front of poor Eponine, who already had much to deal with.

"As I trusted him, and Etienne." He manages at length, "As much as...he held our group together, do you know? We had no finer glue, or stronger stitch than Courfeyrac. As selfish as it is, I wonder how it is we'll fare without him. And I hope that in his death, at home, when he reached it again, if he reached it again, or here, if something happens along that regard, that he did not feel any pain."

There's a long pause as he attempts to figure out what he might say next, and finally something else, not at all grudging, but especially awkward anyway, comes out.

"Thank Christ that you are here with us."

If he chooses to cry, she will not judge him. Instead, she takes his hands and presses them gently to her lips chastely.

"You trust him. You still trust him now, do not condemn him to past tense," she says kindly, holding his gaze. He needs this, she decides, and she is all the happier to listen, to be some sort of rock for him, the way he has been for her since her strange arrival. He's been there for her feelings with Marius. Through Gavroche's exit. And now this.

She would have used his pause to tell him how she had felt no pain, and how her own slow death had felt, but before she can even think to wrap her mind around those words, he confesses something so strange to her that Eponine cannot help but to laugh.

"With you! Come! Why do you say that?"

Letting that go is harder perhaps than a matter of anyone else seeing tears, but Enjolras does appreciate the lack of judgement all the same, truly. It simply feels so unlike him that he's uncertain, to say the least. Perhaps it's that uncertainty which means that Enjolras is not quite able to collect himself just yet, because the tears are streaming freely enough, as Eponine continues.

"It was one thing at home." He finds himself trying to explain now, sucking in a shaky breath that does not do much good. "When we knew that we risked death, when I could reason it, when it was necessary for the future that we spend our lives, and when he had the choice to do so. There was less of an injustice to it, terrible though it was.

Though yes," He's adding, managing a little nod. "I do still trust him and still love him as I love the others. There are those things that a death does not negate. Still..." And he is going to look even worse very soon, because, contrary to popular belief, a crying Enjolras is not exactly gorgeous with his nose and cheeks all flushed and his eyes rimmed with red, but he finds that even though he speaks clearly enough, there is not much to stem the flow of tears.

"Indeed. There are those things that only those who have walked through the fire understand. Even the presence of another who has done so helps."

"Hush," she whispers, reaching out to hold him to her breast, stroking his hair tenderly. The gestures are sweet, maternal even, in their type. The sort of thing she wished someone would do for her, when she was heartbroken. Enjolras clearly is, and she will hold him, and say nothing about his state. Instead, just offer an ear when he needs it, and her shoulder.

"Knowing the tragedy does not make your sacrifices any less. He knew what he was doing. Here was simply an in-between. He is happy now. And you must be happy for him- is that not what you told me about Gavroche?"

That is enough for the moment, really. Who knows how long it might be though? At any rate, there is enough trust in the moment that Enjolras can allow her this, now, with very little problems.

"He did. We all did. I...cannot blame myself for any of that." Enjolras is admitting, as he continues to blink. "For the barricades or anything along those lines. It would be selfish to do that. But I...suppose I never quite considered...it is not just Courfeyrac now. All of them. All of us. The sacrifice was more than worthy but...it has never hurt before."

If that makes any sense. "Though yes, of course we must be happy for them. They'll have..." He's swallowing hard, remembering a speech, some words, haphazardly come together at the barricade, a few moments before he spoke.

"I told the people, all of them included that whoever died at our barricade died in the radiance of the future. And I do still believe it. I simply did not know then...how it hurt."

"Because now, as they leave, you know that they are gone. And there is no comfort in knowing that you, too, will join them one day soon." She squeezes his hand gently. "I may be wrong. I am not as close with any of you as you are with them. But that is how I see it. But, I must tell you something, Apollon.

"When I leave, disappear, die. Do not be sad for me. Mourn me, yes, miss me, but do not be sad. For me, I sought death. This here was wholly unexpected." She offers a mournful smile.

"I do not know that my own death would...I was dead once, and I suppose it would be much the same, of knowing nothing. I was not afraid to offer my life to Patria." He begins, thinking this out now. "But that I had somehow not accomplished enough. It is a feeling I might live...However briefly...with again, but watching them fading away like this? It is far harder."

You will soon see to what I have condemned myself... it rushes through his mind again, and he knows that it must be, that condemning himself to hell as deserved by anyone who killed another, even in the name of justice and the barricade, even one who killed for the sake of right and for love. Still, it does not mean that he expected any of...

"I did not realized I had condemned myself to such as this." He mutters, shaking his head. "I would have done it still, it was deserved, THIS is deserved, though unfair to the rest of you, and to Courfeyrac, but it may have been nice to have some warning somehow. I suppose the rules here are still not much different than home. And I shall miss you, yes, and be sad for myself and for the rest of us as I am now, but so it was. Hard to remember sometimes, I suppose."

Eponine considers this, humming a tuneless song as she strokes Enjolras' hair comfortingly. A handsome man, and a kind one. To see him in the midst of sorrow like this... It was a tragedy.

All of this was a tragedy.

But she had to stay strong for the men she had come to care so much about.

"But you would do it again in a heartbeat. All of us would. You had no way of knowing what would become of us. Or any of this. You cannot blame yourself. And know that Reynard will live in our hearts and minds. We shall always have that. And I shall always have his hat."

That someone could stay strong in this was something of a marvel. Enjolras had fought for that, then failed, quite miserably, and a stab of shame filled him with that, not for the depth of his feeling, but that he had shown it so publicly as to disturb another. It felt so...selfish to be thinking of these things about himself just now.

"I would." He agree, and his tone held firm on that. "And so we would. It was a thing worth dying for, worth even this. I cannot say I blame myself for any of that. All of them...they made the choice. I do wish though...there were more things I might have said, had I not grown..complacent in that he would always be among us. That always seems the way of it, of course. Regrets, sorrow, and all the like. But yes, of course he will, until we've gone to join him once again. A cold comfort, perhaps, but...something."

"There," she said confidently, squeezing his hand. "Do you see? It is cold, but still a comfort. I have learned to take joy in little things, in my life. To celebrate scraps of bread. To take the cold days because in summer it shall be too hot."

Glancing around the room, she took notice of a few others who had seen fit to join them. "I should let you enjoy the company of the others. They, after all, knew him before the turtle and the barricades. I must find more wine."

The little things were better than nothing, certainly. Enjolras could not, would not dispute it, now or ever, and he was not at all qualified to speak to it at all, so he nodded, slowly. He did not see much to be happy about, in the fact Courfeyrac was not here, and likely would not return to them, on the personal level, but, to think of what his friend had gained in life, for all of them? It helped a little.

He must continue to be the leader after all, and perhaps to circulate the room a little, to be strong again, for all of them. What was it he and Hawke had talked about? Pretending one knew what he was doing until he did? Well, better an approach than sitting here being maudlin, he supposed, giving Eponine a tiny smile.

"Will you be all right yourself? I did not ask that yet?"

"Of course," Eponine said, bending to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. "I always am, m'sieur Enjolras."

And that was...particularly odd, that kiss. If Enjolras shut his eyes and imagined, for a moment, because Courfeyrac's scarf was close enough to brush against him a little, that it was his friend, he could not really be blamed, could he? At least for the half second that he let himself believe it, then...

"Thank you, Eponine. Speaking with you has helped."

He couldn't be blamed, no. Eponine had often pretended that Courfeyrac, with his kisses, was Marius. But it would confirm what she already knew, deep down: that she was replaceable, and always second.

With a tight smile, she nodded.

"Of course. I am happy to help. You speak with your love and your friends. I shall drink."

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