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

[jondrette]

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.

Comments

[philosophe]

He knows that, of course, but he also knows Courfeyrac well enough to know that it is true; he would not wish to be remembered with such solemnity as this. Perhaps it is still too raw and new, is all.

"I remember," he replies, half-distractedly, with a small trace of a smile. "I was tending to someone at the time, but I do know I heard him." And saw him fall, too, but he's certainly not going to mention that now.

"It is. If you wish it, I would not -- well, we've a spare room. If he wishes to stay in it, at least."

[solo_patria]

No, perhaps he would not. More than perhaps, but it is still too much for Enjolras to pull his mind out of this, though, intellectually, he can tell himself to do so, not to burden the others with any of this. It IS raw though, and very, very deep. Do some wounds never heal? This feels as if it may be that sort of one, somehow.

But, there is nothing to be gained in sitting here simply being sad either. Enjolras is doing no one good like this, and he's letting his gaze close over a bit, offering Combeferre a half smile of his own now.

"I did not see it when he...or when you...I only knew it when I looked behind me, reached there and neither of you was to be found. I do not...I am glad I had no time then, to really think of it, if it was like this. But I suppose that no one can escape their given sente...fate. I hate it that the rest of you must suffer too, and that Marius... Yes, I think that we might ask him at least. Courfeyrac would wish for us to do as much."

[philosophe]

"It was not a sentence, it was a -- possibility, which we accepted gladly. Perhaps -- as you said, a fate, if you care to believe in such things. Do not regret it." He presses an absent kiss to Enjolras' cheek, reassuring, and snuggles a bit closer.

"You must know that, I never regretted it; neither did he. But -- to other matters. If Marius does arrive, I shall certainly ask him."

[solo_patria]

"I wonder sometimes." Enjolras might as well admit to this, because it is here, in his mind, and will remain firmly planted, much as he hates to say the words in front of anyone else. "Have wondered since the summer about that. A possibility that we chose, yes, but one that you all chose because of me."

And he's sipping at the glass of wine a moment, gathering those thoughts, and it occurs to Enjolras that that was not quite the way to put it.

"That is, not the fact that you came to the barricades and fought there. I know it was your own choice, all of you, and that is...I do not regret that you did so, though having lost you hurts. But...earlier, at our barricade. It was not any of you who became executioners. And I would not have allowed you to, at any rate."

As he speaks, Enjolras can feel the gun in his hand, smell the blood and powder, nearly see it, in his mind's eye, and it is terrible still, and awe inspiring and beautiful, in the starkest, most horrible sense of the word he's known or used.

"It was a duty, a terrible one, and one that bore a greater price than later, or elsewhere. No matter that it was right, it had a price. It deserved a condemnation. I came to face that once, when we'd already come here, and I was not...I shied away from the penalty due me for it, cringed and begged at Mal...at its feet, to avoid that fate, that punishment once, and now..."

His hand, the one that he's ignored the sprain in, is shaking now, with the effort of holding the glass he's been sipping from, and then gives way, sending a little trail of wine across the table, which, in this light, and mood, seems very much like blood, the blood of the man whom he was forced to kill at gunpoint, the blood he ought have shed himself, when Malicant offered him the chance to even the score, and he's stretching a finger forward, fingers idly tracing some sort of pattern or other, not able to care about a mess just yet.

"Losing all of you again hurts worse than what it might have done to me. As far as fates go, it seems...fitting somehow considering that I once escaped what punishment was due that it would come to me, and worse. I only regret that it must involve all of them, and all of you who stay behind. If I might take that back, all of those months ago, and simply accept my fate, with him, instead of cowering and crying, and running from it, no one else need suffer now, and I would not need know that someday you will be gone too, that I will be the last again, before the rest of it comes."

And out there in the open, the entire thing sounds rather complicated, and a bit hard to puzzle out, but Enjolras has managed so far, to spill everything on his mind, and just what it means entirely, at least so far as he sees things.

"I do know that indeed. I would not think that you, or he, or any of the others would. You are too good for that, the group of you, but that you suffer now...if I could have ended that for anyone, I would, is all."

For now, he's trying to be calm as he might, fingers still moving through the wine, slow and protesting as they are.

"That would do well, I think. I do worry just now."

[philosophe]

"I do not know if I would have allowed myself." He shudders a little at the memory, and shakes his head. "That was -- you are stronger than I, in that respect."


A little softer, now, "I would not have let you do anything, with -- it." Never mind that they were separated, he would have tried something somehow. "I do not think he suffers, I hope not, from what I can recall --" He sighs.

"You need not trouble yourself so, my love."

[solo_patria]

Enjolras is not certain of that, and feels the least thing close to strong right now, but Combeferre's presence, certainly is something which is a little bit of comfort even now; the next words of what he says even more so.

"Mm, no, probably not. I could not see you letting that go somehow. I am lucky to have you in that." He would have done the same, of course, and not stopped until it had been done, which probably was clear, though he didn't say the words.

And then thoughts turned to Courfeyrac.

"I did not suffer, myself, before I came back here. I still know nothing of that time, but rather,all of this. The loss, the drama. That is what leads me to speak of suffering. I wish that I might somehow stop. I know that it cannot be good for anyone, like this."

[philosophe]

"Perhaps it is not," he agrees. "But it is a part of life even so, if one of the less pleasant ones." There was a sigh.

"I have not even drunk so very much, and yet I'm going on and on. I am sorry. Perhaps we should go home?"

[solo_patria]

"It is, at that. And I suppose if I am not used to it yet, I'd better wrap my mind around it soon." And Enjolras was sighing in return as well.

"I know that feeling." He is not about to add that somehow, he and Marius have managed to upset Eponine,and that's on perhaps half the glass of wine he'd spilled.

"Perhaps we ought. I am in no great shape for this myself. I'd thought to be here, for the others but, in a way, this is something that is different for you and I."

[philosophe]

"It is, yes." There's another pause, and he levers himself up with a slight groan, offering Enjolras an arm absently.

"Shall we go, then?"

[solo_patria]

"I believe so, yes." Enjolras is standing as well, careful to use the un-injured arm to take Combeferre's, and giving him an attempt, at least, at a smile.

"In all of this, I am at least glad you have stayed. I cannot think what I would do, were I without you both."

[philosophe]

"Of course I have stayed. I would not leave you, my dear." He truly does mean that, his tone is firm but tired; and he takes a moment to pat Enjolras' hand.

"Come, now, I must see to your arm."

[solo_patria]

If he did not sound so tired, Enjolras would have asked Combeferre what would happen if he could not prevent it, if Enjolras woke up someday to find himself not curled into Combeferre, but alone? Instead, because tonight was NOT the time, and Combeferre was not someone whom he could ever doubt, who would never purposefully do such a thing, he nodded, seeming tired himself.

He smiled a bit at that handpat, taking in the reassurance that it brought, and then looked a little sheepish.

"Ah yes. I'd rather forgotten most of that." It wasn't entirely a falsehood. He'd forgotten to bring it up, but, when he felt as if he could feel nothing, the pain had been something he had not liked, but had taken some kind of grim satisfaction in. As if, though he'd escaped his fate, some small bit of justice was being dealt to him. Fairly stupid, really.