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Chapter Text

Bahorel bounded along behind the rest of the group, delighted with the prospect of the upcoming rebellion. He’d fought in 1830, and before that in 1822. What was one more rebellion under his belt? He had worn his best waistcoat for the occasion, the rebellious crimson one he’d had specially tailored by a trusted friend. The rain soaked him to the bone as he ran along, having no hat to cover his head, nor tie around his neck. They had just come from Lamarque’s funeral, and Bahorel carried with him a carbine.

Looking over at Combeferre, he laughed. “Don’t you think you’re a little over prepared?” He asked, gesturing to the pistols in his belt.

“One can never be too prepared for revolution,” Combeferre replied stoutly, somehow balancing his musket while he wiped the water from his glasses. “Besides, I’m sure someone will have forgotten a firearm, or one will be too wet to properly work. You never know with these sorts of things.”

Bahorel rolled his eyes, chuckling as Enjolras appeared to grab the guide’s musket just before it toppled from its precarious position. “It most certainly will not work if you drop it in a puddle.” 

“Ah, you are right,” Combeferre smiled wryly, taking the gun back after he’d cleaned his glasses as best he could. Bahorel doubted he could see well through the rain, but he wouldn’t be lost if he stayed close enough to hear Enjolras’ words. “ Merci, Enjolras.”

“The reds are coming!” Bahorel grinned as the people took notice of his scandalous vest, amused at the prospect of being scared of a color.

“The reds!” Bahorel crowed. “What an odd thing to be frightened of, Monsieur. I fear no red poppy, or little red riding hood! Bah, the fear of red belongs to cattle, not citizens.”

His attention was quickly drawn to a poster on a wall they were passing, and he leaped over to investigate. It was the Archbishop giving permission to eat eggs over Lent. That annoyed him, he supposed that people should be able to eat whatever they wanted when they wanted. 

“Ha!” Bahorel grabbed the edge of the poster and pulled. The paper made a satisfying ripping noise as he tugged it off the wall. “A flock, polite way of saying geese in my opinion.” 

“Bahorel,” Enjolras scolded, brushing wet curls from his face. “That has nothing to do with us, you’re spending your energy foolishly.”

“Each to his own, Enjolras,” Bahorel exclaimed, crumpling the paper in his hand. “I’m not exhausting myself, I’m gaining energy! By Hercules, I’m only whetting my appetite!”

Suddenly, a small boy appeared at his feet. “Hercules? What does that mean?”

“Holy name of a dog in Latin,” Bahorel replied. Catching the gaze of a young man in a window as they passed, he called out to him. “ Para bellum , grab your cartridges and join us!” 

Continuing on through the rain, the group searched for a proper place to build their barricade. It needed to be somewhere they could defend easily, especially with the surplus of extra men the National Guard had brought in for the funeral processions. Soon, they arrived at the Corinth and stopped. Courfeyrac called something Bahorel couldn’t make out to Bossuet, who leaned out the upper window before declaring. 

“We’ll build the barricade here, spread the word!” A few men stationed themselves in the entry of the road to direct those who hadn’t been able to hear over the rain, or were too far back for Courfeyrac’s voice to carry to them, while the others started ripping iron bars off of windows, and tearing up the pavement.

Bahorel whooped and turned to see Gavroche, who had appeared beside him once more, after disappearing a while to see what the others were doing. Seeing he could get a little help moving larger items, he instructed. “Come with me.”

Gavroche nodded, eyes wide with excitement as he looked up at him. “I’m Gavroche.”

“Bahorel,” He grinned, ruffling the boy’s hair. “There’s a lime dray over there,” he nodded towards the cart. “Want to get that?” Gavroche’s smile was all the answer he needed. 

Together, the two captured the dray. Bahorel put the barrels on their side so Gavroche could roll them over to the others, who added them to the barricade. In this way, the structure began to rise, filled with rubbish, paving stones, and anything else the group of rebels could get their hands on. 

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Bahorel grinned out at the soldiers encroaching upon him, practically daring them to come closer. He had been at the Barricade about seven hours now, since it was first completed, and was having a fine time. His waistcoat was a muted shade of reddish gray in the low light of evening, and he held his carbine at the ready. He could see the swarm of soldiers as they advanced on the barricade, moving in unison. They were preparing to attack, and the insurgents were ready. 

“Conserve your powder!” Courfeyrac yelled, waving his sword in a wide arch to make his point. “We don’t have a lot, so don’t fire until you’re sure to hit your mark! 

Bahorel nodded, though he knew his friend couldn’t see the motion as he checked once again to be sure his carbine was loaded, wrinkling his nose at the sharp scent of the gunpowder. We’re ready, let them come, he thought as he aimed towards the soldiers, holding the firearm steady. 

“Steady now,” Courfeyrac raised his sword high, waiting for the enemy to get closer before giving a sharp cry. “Fire!” 

Bahorel fired with the rest of the men. The sharp crack of guns firing mixed with the shouts of the wounded as the line of soldiers disappeared in the smoke emitted from the firearms of both sides. A sulfuric scent filled the air with the coming of the smoke as the powder was thrown into the air. Bahorel turned as a sharp cry from Enjolras drew his attention. “Our flag!” 

The rebels’ flag had been shot down, and Enjolras stood too far away to catch it before it hit the cobblestones of the street, making it to the site just as the flag landed at his feet. “Who will replace our colors?!” The leader cried, his face streaked with gunpowder and sweat. No one volunteered, the men looking at one another in hesitation. To climb the barricade now was to put a seal on your fate, anyone who showed themselves as such an easy target would surely be shot. Bahorel was about to give his assistance when an old man appeared, seemingly out of nowhere.

“I’ll raise our flag once more!” He cried, grabbing the flag and clambering up the barricade before anyone could stop him. He used the broken pole to steady himself as he climbed the treacherous structure, for it was truly a giant booby trap to anyone not careful. When he reached the top, he jammed the pole firmly between two chairs until the flag waved freely, crying. “ Vive la Revolution !” several muskets were heard going off before the old man tumbled down, landing on the cobblestones with a soft thud. 

A soft cry went up from those who had seen, even as more men cried out, “Huzzah!” as the enemy retreated. Enjolras and Combeferre hurried to the elderly man’s aid and Bahorel saw Combeferre lay his fingers on the man’s neck for a moment before he turned to Enjolras, shaking his head. 

So he was dead. The first death on this barricade was one who had sacrificed himself so that their flag may fly. Bahorel bowed his head and slid off the barricade, following as the two took the corpse to the basement. 

Eight of the Amis stood at the table where Enjolras had laid the corpse of the brave old man, all were there but Grantaire, who was asleep at a table upstairs. Javert, the spy, glared at the small procession as he stood where he was tied, having long ago given up struggling. Feuilly, who was in the upper rooms, commanding the snipers when the death happened, was the last to arrive. He made it in time to see Enjolras lean down and kiss the old man’s cheek, whispering something to him that none of the others could make out, then turned to hug Combeferre, who had let a few tears fall freely as they stood in silence. The guide wrapped his arms around the shorter man, letting him bury his face in his chest.

 After a moment, Enjolras composed himself enough to speak. “This is now the room of the dead,” He glanced at Javert, who was pretending not to listen. “Let us hope we have no more casualties.” The others nodded in agreement, though even the most optimistic knew that it would be nothing less than a miracle if they should survive this battle. 

Once they had paid their respects, they dispersed back to their positions. Enjolras walked out holding Mabeuf's old, bloodstained coat, that was the name of the man who had been brave, or foolish enough to replace the flag. Courfeyrac had known him. Enjolras held it high in the air as he joined the men on the barricade. “Citizens, this is our flag now!”

  Soon after, a shout from Gavroche made them all tense. “They’re coming back! Ready your arms!”

Bahorel, who had been in the tavern with the others, sprang into action, exiting the door just a step behind Enjolras. The national guard was attempting to enter the barricade, climbing the structure and pushing their way through the opening to get to the rebels.

Right above where Bahorel was standing, an enemy soldier broke over the barricade, and he gave a sharp warning cry as he fired, killing the soldier just before he got within range of his bayonet. With the next, he wasn’t so lucky, and felt a searing pain as his upper thigh was ripped into with the long knife, quickly staining his trousers as red as his waistcoat. I’m going to die. The thought raced through his brain as he lost his balance, hearing a pop as he caught his ankle between a piano and a door someone had added to the barricade. Even as he fell, he managed to thrust the butt of his musket into the face of the man who wounded him, determined that if he was to go down, he would bring his opponent down with him. The bayonet sliced him again as he fell, this time in the shoulder.

 Though he fought valiantly, he couldn’t hold out against his attacker. Bahorel gasped sharply as the knife plunged deep into his stomach. As darkness overtook him, he heard Courfeyrac screaming for help.

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Bahorel groaned as he awoke, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He furrowed his brow in confusion, realizing he was no longer on the barricade. “Oh for fucks sake.” His trousers were ripped from the bayonet, and he ran his fingers along the newly scarred skin. That hadn’t been there before, why now? There hadn’t been enough time for his wounds to close since he’d gotten injured, he knew that much from experience. 

The man stood, looking around the corner he woke up in. It seemed deserted, as far as he could tell. Didn’t I die? He froze as the thought occurred to him. Naturally, he shrugged it off. He was alive now, unless you could have a heartbeat wherever one goes when they die. Bahorel doubted that. Why just confuse dead people? No, he was certainly alive.

Once he was sure none of his friends were there with him, he started walking, wanting to figure out exactly where he was. He covered his eyes as he stepped out of the shade, giving a low whistle at what first caught his vision. The buildings here were taller than he’d ever seen, and the streets wider.

 “Would you look at that?” He murmured to himself, turning left on the sidewalk. The people he saw gave him odd looks, but he ignored them, used to people staring when he wore red. They were dressed oddly to him as well, no coats or hats on most of the men he saw, and women wearing trousers? Maybe he was more lost than he previously thought…

Chapter Text

Prouvaire splashed through the standing water on the street as he hurried along with the rest of the group. His friends were in the number, as well as many other workers and students who joined up on the way.  Behind him, he heard Feuilly shout, “Poland forever!” as he waved his sabre through the air.

Jehan paused a minute to wait for him, smiling shyly as he came alongside. “We’re really doing it, aren’t we.”

Feuilly nodded as he wiped the rain from his eyes. “It’s time to finish what we started in ‘30.”

The poet grinned a little as he thought about it, nodding his head. “The time is growing very near.”

Feuilly nodded, chuckling as Courfeyrac left their ranks when they passed by his house. “Ah, Courfeyrac lost his hat again.” He said with a small smile. This was not an uncommon occurrence, but the fact that their centre had decided to go to his house and get another hat on the way to a battle greatly amused him. 

Prouvaire took a deep breath as he followed Bahorel into the door of the Corinth, where the rest of their friends were gathering. All but Enjolras anyhow, he had busied himself watching the lookouts, and would not be swayed, as well as Grantaire, who had gone to his sleep. 

“Prouvaire, recite your poem for us?” Courfeyrac proposed, and Jehan blushed. There were quite a few people that weren’t part of their group there, and he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to speak in front of all of them. Yet, he nodded and began to recite the poem he had memorized not long ago. 

“Vous rappelez-vous notre douce vie-” He murmured, face dimly illuminated in the low light of dusk. There were several verses to the poem, and the young man made his way through all of them. When he finished, the group stayed silent, reflecting on their lives thus far, and the fact that they may not live to see the morning. 

“Open up!” Prouvaire’s attention was caught by the sound of a man yelling, and banging a musket on the door of one of the houses lining the street. He went to investigate, slipping up beside Combeferre just in time to see a little window open on the fourth floor.

 “Messieurs, what do you want?”

“Open up!” The man at the door yelled up to him. 

“I cannot.”

“I’m warning you, open up!” 

“It is impossible!”

Jehan felt Combeferre’s hand on his arm as Le Cabuc picked his musket up, aiming at the man in the window. “Will you open? Yes or no?”

“No, monsieur.”

“You say no?” Le Cabuc said in reply, fixing his musket aim.

“I do, and-” The porter was cut off by a musket ball being driven through his neck, and Prouvaire gasped. Combeferre tightened his grip on his arm, and when the younger man looked up at him, he nodded towards Enjolras, who was already headed towards the man, a terrifying anger written over his features. 

“That’s it!” Le Cabuc let his musket down, just before Enjolras grabbed his shoulder.

“On your knees!” Though he wanted to, Jehan couldn’t pull his eyes away from the scene as Enjolras pushed the man onto his knees. He barely noticed as Combeferre wrapped his arm around him, pulling him close as Enjolras pulled his watch from his fob and said coolly.

“You have one minute, pray or think.”

The moment passed in silence, and Enjolras took his pistol, pressing it against the man’s head. Jehan pulled his gaze away, burying his face in Combeferre’s chest so he wouldn’t have to watch what happened next. Vaguely, he was aware of his friend doing the same. 

Enjolras fired, and when Prouvaure looked back, he was pushing Le Cabuc’s body away from himself with his foot. “Throw this outside.”

Several minutes of silence passed as three men complied with what he asked. Enjolras was the one who finally broke the silence, staring at the pool of blood soaking into the dirt. “Citizens, what that man did was horrible, but I have done no better. He killed an innocent bystander, that is why I killed him.”

“Even revolution must have discipline,” Enjolras raised his head to stare into the eyes of each of the men watching. “Assassination is a greater crime here than it is elsewhere, you will soon see what I have sentenced myself to.”

“We will share your fate,” Combeferre exclaimed firmly, and Prouvaire nodded in agreement. 

“So be it,” Enjolras gave a slight nod, continuing to speak a moment longer before falling silent, seeming to contemplate the scene at his feet.

Jehan slipped his hand into Combeferre’s and as their fingers intertwined, the guide gently squeezed them. As he leaned against his friend, Prouvaire knew they were both thinking of the same thing. How could Enjolras be so many things at once, some of them terrible, while still being the man they knew so well? 

A while later, Gavroche returned, singing his song, and the men quickly took their positions along the barricade. Prouvaire, on his knees between Joly, and a man he didn’t know, readied his shotgun to fire when Enjolras gave the command. 

Footsteps approached the barricade, all who were inside seemed to hold their breath as they grew nearer. Suddenly, a voice cried out from the darkness. “Who goes there?”

Enjolras replied brightly as they heard the sound of muskets being cocked. “The French Revolution!”

“Fire!” For a split second, the men at the barricade could see where their opponents were, the flash of flint sparks lighting them up before smoke covered them from view. Thus, the conflict had begun.

The flag fell. Enjolras scooped it up and looked around at the faces of the insurgents. “We must raise our flag again.” No one offered, and Enjolras asked again. “Does anyone volunteer?” 

This time, an old man stepped forward, taking the flag from the leader. As he started to climb the structure, a murmur arose from the people. Who was this old fool? Surely he could see that if he dared put his head above the barricade, he would be killed. Mabeuf ignored them as he replaced the flag.

“ Vive la republique! ” The old man cried, sticking it into the rubble so it would stay upright. He stood there only a few seconds before he was shot, and fell back onto the pavement, arms outstretched. 

Later, most of Les Amis were gathered in the tavern, waiting for the National Guard to attack. Jehan fiddled with the quill pen he had brought in with him, tapping it to his chin. Writing pens of that style had gone out of fashion a decade prior, but the poet liked the feel of them in his hand. 

“What are you working on this time?” Feuilly slipped into the chair beside him, watching his actions.

“I just have words in my head I wish to put on paper,” Jehan blushed, lowering his eyes. “It’s not coming as well as I hoped though.” 

Feuilly nodded in understanding. “That happens to me on occasion, I think of a picture I wish to put on a fan, but it won’t go the way I imagine it.”  

Prouvaire smiled, and was opening his mouth to respond when he was interrupted. “They’re coming back!”

As Gavroche shouted, the men in the room hastily got up, grabbing their firearms as they headed for the door. Enjolras leaped out first, followed closely by Bahorel. Jehan exited with just enough time to see Bahorel kill the first soldier that entered their barricade, then, as the second overpowered him, the man went down. 

It took a moment for the realization to sink in as he failed to rise. Bahorel was dead. Jehan rapidly blinked back his tears as he tried to push the image of his friend being bayonetted from his mind. It was in this way that he didn’t notice that there were soldiers behind him, at least not until he was grabbed from behind. The poet had no time to cry out before a hand was roughly slapped over his mouth, and his struggles went unnoticed in the chaos. 

“Retreat or I’ll blow this whole barricade to shreds!” Marius’ voice cried, out of Prouvaire’s vision. “Fall back I tell you!” 

The lead soldier hesitated a moment before shouting, “Retreat!” Unbeknownst to the Amis on the barricade, they took one of their own with them.

Jehan struggled against his captors as he tried to bite the hands that covered his mouth, when they grabbed him. He was a good distance away from his friends, having been separated in the fight. 

“Lmego,” he tried to speak, but his voice was muffled to incomprehensibility, and the enemy ignored his pleas. The man tried not to let the tears come to his eyes as he fought against them, he was terrified, but dared not show them. “LMEGO!” 

“Silence, Rebel!” One of the soldiers smacked the side of his head, shutting him up as he bit his tongue, trying to keep himself composed. 

The soldiers forced Jehan against the wall of a building, covering his eyes with a blindfold. “Any last words?”

“ Vive la France !” The poet cried, thrusting his chin defiantly to the air. His voice had deepened to its more masculine tone, though the slightest waver to it could be detected if one were to listen closely. “Long live the Republic!”

A sharp crack and Jehan cried out as several bullets found their mark, one in his right shoulder, and the other not far below, entering his abdomen. The young man fell, pain exploding across his body like firecrackers.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Light slowly filtered its way into Prouvaire’s eyes as he blinked rapidly, attempting to adjust to the sudden brightness. Was it morning already? It seemed too early, it had just been evening, the torch had flickered over the barricade, and he had been... Wait.

Jehan pulled himself into a sitting position, wincing at the soreness in his muscles. He’d been captured and executed, hadn’t he? Then why was he still alive, unless of course it was the afterlife.

 Prouvaire wrinkled his nose at the smell, he hadn’t expected the afterlife to smell like garbage. In fact, he hadn’t expected it to be like this at all. Was it just a dream? He wasn’t in his bed, but perhaps he had walked outside in his sleep. 

“Bahorel?” He shakily called, hoping he wasn’t the only one there. “Combeferre?” 

He took a moment to examine his clothes, noticing that they hadn’t changed from the outfit he had been wearing last he remembered. The only difference was that it was riddled with holes. Bullet holes, he realized as he stuck a finger through one, feeling scarring underneath. This was no dream, this was real. 

The poet pulled himself to his feet, deciding that the best course of action would be to figure out where he was. He slowly walked out of the alleyway, eyes widening as he took in the road ahead of him. Were those odd metal contraptions carriages? They didn’t seem like it, there were no horses pulling them, and they moved much too quickly. Where am I?

Chapter Text

Bossuet sniffed as he and Joly entered into the Corinth, passing under the door which Courfeyrac had once written ‘feast if you can and eat if you dare’ on the wall above. “I do believe I’m beginning to share your head cold.” He told his companion as they headed up the stairs to the second floor, claiming their usual table by the window. 

Recognizing the two, Gibelotte set a bottle of wine on the table and asked. “What will it be this morning, Messieurs ?”

“Oysters, cheese, and ham,” Bossuet replied decidedly. As Gibelotte went to the kitchen, the bald man turned to Joly with a smile. “How are you feeling today?”

“Positively awful,”  Joly said cheerfully, his voice congested. “Though not nearly as awful as yesterday.”

“That is well,” Bossuet nodded, placing a hand on his friend’s knee. “Perhaps you will be recovered by the time this whole affair is over.”

“I doubt it,” Joly sniffled, reaching for his handkerchief. 

Bossuet reached over to comfortingly pat his friend’s shoulder as they waited for their food. 

They had just started eating when a noise from the doorway drew Bossuet’s attention. “I smelled brie, and had to investigate.”

“Well come on in and join us!” Bossuet broke out in a grin upon recognizing Grantaire. “There’s plenty here for three.”

Grantaire joined the two, and seeing him, Gibelotte set two more bottles on the table. The bald man raised his eyebrow. “Are you going to drink both of those?”

“Two bottles never sank a man.” 

Bossuet shook his head and decided not to probe further, reaching for another oyster as Joly caught up with the cynic. Though, when Grantaire had drunk half his first bottle with such speed that worried him, he had to question. “Do you have a hole in your stomach?”

“No, but you have one in your elbow.” Grantaire grunted, gesturing to the large hole Lesgle sported in the elbow of his coat. “Your coat is old as hell.” 

“I should hope so. It has stayed with me through much trouble,” Bossuet replied, fondly picking at the hole. “Old coats are the same thing as old friends you know.”

“That’s true,” Joly piped in, slipping his mirror back in his pocket. “An old habit is an old ami. ”

Bossuet chuckled lightly as his friend’s pun, as Grantaire replied. “In the mouth of a man who had a cold, yes.”

“Have you just come from the boulevard, R?”

“No, I came from my home.”

“Joly and I saw the beginning of the funeral procession on the way here,” Bossuet stated, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. 

“A marvelous spectacle!” Joly exclaimed. “R, you should have seen it.”

“It’s quiet here,” The bald man reflected before the cynic could open his mouth to reply. “Sitting here, one would never suspect that all of Paris is topsy-turvy.”

The trio chatted to each other for quite some time, Grantaire taking the bulk of the conversation upon himself once he decided to really get going. They were discussing Marius’ love life when they were interrupted by a small boy, soaked to the skin and no older than ten years. 

To their surprise, as none of the three had seen the child before this, he walked straight up to Bossuet and asked. “Are you Monsieur Bossuet?”

“I am.” Bossuet nodded, looking the boy up and down. “Do you need something?”

“A big blond fellow told me to come find you,” The little one replied. “He gave me ten sous to tell you; ‘A-B-C.’”

Bossuet nodded, immediately understanding. He fished in his pocket, coming up empty. “Joly, R, lend me ten sous each.” The other two complied, and the bald man pressed twenty sous into the little boy’s hand.

“ Merci, monsieur!” The boy said brightly, pocketing the coins. 

“What is your name?”

“Navet, I’m Gavroche’s friend.” 

“Why don’t you stay with us?”

“Have breakfast with us,” Grantaire put in.

“I can’t,” Navet replied, bowing to the trio. “I’m in the procession, and I get to holler ‘Down with Polignac!” 

Bossuet chuckled a bit as the boy left, shaking his head. “A-B-C is Lamarque’s funeral I’m sure.” 

“Enjolras is sending for us,” Grantaire murmured in observation, absentmindedly swirling the liquid left in the bottom of the bottle.

“Are we going?”

“I swore to go through fire, not water,” Joly declared firmly. “It’s raining and I don’t wish to catch a cold. 

“I’m staying,” Grantaire replied, smirking as Joly promptly sneezed. “You already have a cold, Joly, besides, I want to finish my breakfast.”

“Then we’ll stay,” Bossuet decided. 

Sometime while they ate, Lesgle ended up sitting in the window, his back to the rain. He didn’t mind the wetness running down his back, it was cooling. Besides, he would dry eventually. He always did, no matter how much Joly worried he wouldn’t. At that moment, he heard a ruckus behind him, and turned to see the rest of their group joined with many others running down the street. “The insurrection has arrived.” He said to Grantaire and Joly, who couldn’t see out the window with him sitting there.

Bossuet slipped off his perch and turned, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Oi, Courfeyrac!”

“What do you want?” Courfeyrac called up to him, stepping into the street.

“Where are you headed?” 

“We’re going to build a barricade!”

“Build it here!” Bossuet yelled down to him, leaning further out the window as Joly grabbed the back of his coat. “This is as fine a place as any!”

“That’s true, Eagle,” Courfeyrac replied, making a vague sign to the others in the group. Then, the band rushed into the street.

When he saw them coming in, Bossuet slipped fully back inside, and turned to the others. “I’m heading down to meet them.”

Joly nodded, turning to take Bossuet’s spot at the window as the bald man went down to meet Courfeyrac. “What’s the plan, mon ami? ” 

“For now?” Courfeyrac grinned at him. “I say build the barricade, and we’ll go from there.” 

“Grand!” Bossuet turned to grasp hold of the iron bars on the front of the bistro, pulling at them until they came off. “How quickly do you think we can pull it off?”

The centre turned, a smile growing on his face as he looked behind him. “Why don’t you turn and see for yourself?”

Behind them, the structure was already as tall as a man. It seemed that the saying of many hands make light work was true, at least in regards to building barricades. “Well then.” Bossuet chuckled, walking over to add his contribution. “We’re making wonderful progress!” 

“That is true, friend!” Courfeyrac scrambled carefully over the structure, taking care not to let himself slip, that sort of thing could be dangerous on a barricade, even one still in the process of being built. 

Bossuet was getting ready to reply when his attention was diverted. Coming along the street was an omnibus, just the right size to fill in the gaping hole in the midsection of the structure. He smiled to himself. This would make an excellent addition to the barricade. He quickly stepped over the paving blocks in his way before taking off after it, nearly tripping over a kitten as he went. 

“Driver, driver, stop!” Bossuet called, grabbing onto the back of the bus, allowing himself to be dragged along until the driver listened. “Ah, we need this for our barricade, monsieur. ” 

“Come, everyone out,” Lesgle cheerfully offered his hand to the ladies and lifted the children down. He made sure everyone in the vehicle was out safely before turning to the conductor. “You are dismissed, I shall take the omnibus from here.” 

The conductor, perhaps a little stunned from what had just occurred, could only nod as Bossuet took the horses by their bridles and led them to where they needed the omnibus. “Ah, I need a bit of help here!” He called joyfully to the others as he began unhooking the horses. 

Quickly, he and a few others had the omnibus positioned where they wanted it, and the horses were free to go down the street. Bossuet stepped back, placing his hands on his hips with a wide smile. “Magnificent.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Bossuet raised his head as Enjolras walked over, looking up at him in confusion as he placed a hand on the top of his head. “Yes?”

“How’s he doing?” Enjolras asked, gesturing to Joly, who was fast asleep, snuggled into Bossuet’s side as the bald man carded his fingers through his hair.

“He took some laudanum and fell asleep.” Bossuet sighed softly, regarding his younger friend with worry. “I fear he may have overdone it- his fever is up again.” 

Enjolras pressed his lips together in thought. “I advised him to take a break, and had Combeferre do the same a while after when I saw he hadn’t done so yet.” 

Bossuet smiled wryly, used to Joly’s habits at this point. He had exactly two ways of working. He either sat in bed  trying not to panic, or did whatever he could, often exhausting himself in the process. Bossuet had found there was no in-between with him. “He does that, I’m not sure if to distract himself from the illness, or some other reason.” 

Enjolras frowned as Bossuet paused to cough. “You’re catching it too.”

“As usual,” Bossuet chuckled. “We’ll be alright.”

Enjolras nodded, leaving to check on the others. 

“They’ve got a cannon!” Courfeyrac cried, gathering the attention of every man in the barricade, Bossuet included. Enjolras’ face set, and he ordered them to make ready their guns. A moment later, he cried out.

“Fire!” 

The soldiers in the barricade fired, and for a moment, the cannon was hidden by the smoke. When it disappeared, Bossuet laughed. “Bravo!” He started to clap, and the rest of the insurgents joined in. “Bravo for the gunners!” 

“There it is!” Courfeyrac said, staring at the metal beast. “Be quick, we’re about to get all shaken up.” 

“Bronze eight pounder, a new model.” Combeferre observed admirably. “If there’s too much tin in it, it’ll explode.” He quickly dissolved into giving facts about the cannon, watching the artillery men set it up. “They have chambers in the vent to avoid this, but to completely avoid the danger, and still force out the ball, they could return to the fourteenth century.”

“In the sixteenth, they rifled the cannon,” Bossuet put in, as Joly came up beside him. 

All the insurgents wondered what effect this would have on their barricade. Had they built it strongly enough to withstand the heavy artillery? There was only one way to find out. 

The cannon fired, sending a mighty noise into the air. Joly covered his ears with a wince as both he and Bossuet dropped below the barricade, knowing that there may be debris spraying out from the point of contact. 

The whole barricade shook, but didn’t break. The cannon blast had done little to damage it, only getting absorbed into the rubble. The rebels grinned with this realization, and began to chuckle. 

Several hours later, they were not as lucky. The National guard was close to pushing over the top of the barricade, and there was little they could do to hold them back. The spray of bullets had gotten so dangerous that even Feuilly’s sharpshooters had come down from the upper rooms to try to preserve their lives a little longer. 

Lesgles cried out as he felt a ball brush against his head, and as another made its way into his chest, he collapsed. Through the haze of pain that consumed him, he saw Joly rush to his side, pulling out his handkerchief to dab at his head wound. “Combeferre! Combeferre, we need you!” He screamed, and Bossuet curled his fingers around his arm. 

“Joly. It’s alright,” Bossuet murmured, trying to calm his friend down. “Tell Musichetta I love her.” 

 Joly shook his head, then just as quickly nodded. “I’ll tell her.. I promise.” 

“Jol... I lov-” The bald man smiled at him, unable to finish his sentence, allowing himself to give in to death. The last thing he knew were Joly’s tears falling atop his head.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Bossuet grimaced in his sleep as he felt something warm and wet sweep across his head. “Joly,” He muttered, reaching up to swat at his friend. “Could you not wait until I was awake to wipe my head?” 

His hand caught hold of coarse hair. Oh. He finally opened his eyes, and gazed up into the face of a cow. “You’re not Joly.”

The cow stared at him with deep brown eyes as he sat up, checking to be sure he wasn’t lying in anything unpleasant. Fortunately, it seemed that his luck had held out on him, and he pulled himself to his feet. “And this isn’t Paris, is it.” 

  I thought I died on the barricade? He stroked the face of the cow who had woken him, deciding to try not to think about it too much.  Instead, he looked around, hoping there would be some sort of place nearby he could go to ask for help. Unfortunately for him, people are scarce in cow pastures.

Chapter Text

“Poland forever!” Feuilly shouted, waving his saber amidst the group of students and workingmen rushing down the street. He was with his friends, no, his family as they headed down, stopping only so Courfeyrac could speak with Bossuet. The bald man leaned out the upper room of the Corinth, and Feuilly just managed to catch a glimpse of Joly hovering behind him before Courfeyrac cried out.

“We’re building the barricade here!” 

 As the insurgents piled whatever they could find onto the structure, Feuilly filled in the cracks with smaller bits of rubble. He was always one for precision, and being used to painting fans for a living, wasn’t used to the manual labor that dragging the larger items over entailed. So he satisfied himself with what he could do. As he worked, he slipped a nail into his pocket, figuring it may come in handy later.

Several times, he saw Enjolras look over with an admiring gaze as he worked, and Feuilly chuckled to himself. Enjolras was nowhere near as discreet as he thought he was in his admiration of his friends.

 Less than an hour after they had begun the work, the structure was satisfactorily tall, and hopefully thick enough to withstand the attacks the guard may put on it. Enjolras rushed into the tavern for a moment, returning with a red cloth. He held it high over his head as he walked over to Feuilly, handing him a pole. “Help me raise our flag?”

Feuilly nodded and scrambled up onto the barricade, Enjolras just at his heels. The two walked over to the center of the larger barricade, and he firmly planted the pole in the rubble, being sure it would stay upright before holding it steady so Enjolras could tie the flag to it. “Our flag remains aloft, as it should,” Feuilly murmured to Enjolras as they slid down.

“And hopefully it will wave for a while yet,” Enjolras looked up at the flag a moment before turning away. “I’ll get the cartridges and return.”

While they had been on the structure, Courfeyrac had dragged a table out of the tavern and climbed upon it, crossing his arms as he smiled at the men below him. Enjolras brought him a box from inside and he started distributing the cartridges.

Enjolras returned to Feuilly while he was doing so and looked him over. “I want you up on the second floor.” 

“May I ask why?” Feuilly blinked at him in the fading light. Would he not be of better use down with the others?

“I need you to command the snipers, I’ve found six sharpshooters among our men.”

“I?”

“Yes, they’ll listen to you better than any of the rest of us.” Enjolras replied, putting his hand on Feuilly’s shoulder. “They’re all working men, they respect you, not I.”

“They respect you as well,” Feuilly argued. “I doubt there’s any man here who doesn’t.”

Enjolras shrugged, handing Feuilly his ammunition. “We will see.”

“Where are my snipers? I wish to get to know them before we must fight together.”

“I’ll point them out to you.” 

The next period of time passed in a blur of preparation. Feuilly chatted with the men he was to command as he worked alongside them. When he needed a break, he joined the others down in the front room. Prouvaire recited a poem as they settled in, all but Enjolras and Grantaire, the first of which would not be distracted, and the latter which was asleep, much to Feuilly’s chagrin. He couldn’t understand why Grantaire was the way he was. How could anyone just not care about anything at all? And more than that, he seemed to go out of his way to be lazy, something that bothered the fan maker. He had spent his life learning, he’d taught himself. And here was a man who was given a good education, yet spent his life doing nothing but drink.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Feuilly grimaced as he wrapped his arm around his stomach, trying to ignore the cramping as he settled in to sit on a crate. This was a terrible time for this to be acting up, on a barricade when he needed to have his wits about him. Combeferre noticed him bent over in pain and hurried over, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Feuilly?”

“Painter’s colic,” Feuilly said grimly, looking up at him. “At least, that’s what I assume it is.”

Combeferre nodded understandingly. Feuilly worked with paints every day, and though it wasn’t well known exactly why in the nineteenth century, the lead in those paints accumulated to cause problems. “What symptoms?”

“Headache, stomach pain, I haven’t had much of an appetite lately, pain in my muscles,” Feuilly hesitated a moment before realizing Combeferre likely would want to know all his symptoms. “I haven’t been able to shit the last few days, I think that’s related.” 

“It is,” Combeferre agreed, having seen enough patients with the same problem in his time interning at hospitals. “Are many of your coworkers having the same problems?” 

“The ones that have been there a while.” Feuilly replied, closing his eyes. “Oh, my hands have been trembling a bit recently also, it’s bad when I’m trying to paint the finer details on the fans.”

Combeferre pressed his lips together, taking one of Feuilly’s hands in his own. “How long have you been ill like this?”

Feuilly shrugged, not wanting to answer. He’d been hiding this from his friends for quite a while now, not wanting to bother them with his problems. He already knew what was ailing him, so why bother Combeferre or Joly with it? “About half a year,” He finally admitted, and Combeferre raised his eyebrows. 

“Feuilly, you could have said something,” The guide murmured. “There’s no reason for you to be in pain, Joly or I could have given you a clyster at the very least.” 

Feuilly grimaced and shook his head firmly at the suggestion. He knew his friend meant well, but he saw no reason to go through an enema unless it was terribly bad. He’d only been constipated a few days at a time, nothing he considered worthy of torturing himself for. “No, but thank you for offering.”

Combeferre placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and settled in beside him. Feuilly leaned into his side, knowing he wouldn’t pry any further if he didn’t initiate the conversation. “I will warn you, I may have to run to find somewhere more private.” He murmured as he shifted, trying to find a position that didn’t hurt as much.

“That’s alright,” Combeferre nodded, wrapping his arm around him. As they sat, the night deepened, though it wasn’t still. Nothing on a barricade was still, aside from the structure itself. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Feuilly looked around as he heard Enjolras order the group to rest for the next two hours. He had no plans of resting, not with a nail in his pocket and a perfectly good wall to deface. He hurried out along the side of the building until he saw the place he wanted, crouching to brush the debris off as he slipped the nail from  his pocket. This will last much longer than any of us, I need to choose my message wisely. Feuilly ran his finger along the brick as he pondered what he would say. Then, he started to scratch out his message. 

An hour and a half later, he had managed to carve out the whole note. Vievent les peuples. He smiled as he regarded his work, brushing his hands off on his trousers. “ Bon. ” 

He stood there a moment longer before turning away, carefully depositing his nail into the barricade. The fan-maker placed it so the point was facing upwards, all the better to go through a shoe. Feuilly walked to sit beside Combeferre, ready to wait out the next half hour Enjolras had allotted for rest. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Go down! Get down!” Feuilly cried to his snipers, only four of which were still alive. “It’s not safe up here any longer, you’ll have a better chance on the ground!” 

He dragged one of the men down to the ground as a bullet whistled past his ear, waving his saber towards the door to the stairwell. “Go, I’ll follow.” 

He waited for all four of the sharpshooters to leave the upper room before following, wincing as a bullet entered his shoulder. It was his duty to be sure the men he was commanding got in a safer position before he followed. Glancing at the two who hadn’t survived, he wished he could have seen all six walk out. 

There was no less chaos on the ground, the national guard was quickly approaching. This is where we fall. Feuilly realized, barely managing to parry a thrust from a bayonet from a soldier who had broken through the ranks as he stepped out the door. He glanced around to see the state of his friends. Combeferre tended to the wounded, rushing from man to man as he tried to bind wounds as hastily as possible while also making the most of his supplies.

Courfeyrac seemed to be doing fine in his corner, back to back with Marius, who looked as though he’d walked through a pool of blood. 

In another, Joly cradled the lifeless body of his eagle, sobbing as he clung to his best friend. Feuilly grimaced as his calf was sliced, he’d only just managed to redirect the bayonet away from somewhere more fatal. Fighting with a saber was not the ideal choice when your opponent had a musket with an eleven inch knife attached to the end. He braced himself for the end as he was pushed back against the wall of the Corinth, but it didn’t come. Feuilly looked over to see Courfeyrac give him a quick nod before pulling Marius down below the edge of the barricade as the cannon fired again. He quickly grabbed the fallen soldier’s musket and prepared to fire. 

He got only as far as ramming the cartridge down before he was killed. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Feuilly pulled himself to a sitting position, shielding his eyes against the sun, which was strangely bright for dawn. His head throbbed as he changed positions, and he groaned as he realized it was likely the start of a migraine. So be it.

 Things began to make more sense when he realized that it was also much too far up in the sky for it to be dawn, he must have slept for some time.

Slept. He was certain he had died, hadn’t he? The bullet had gone through his head, there was no surviving that. Besides, he’d been struggling to sleep recently, surely he wouldn’t have slept so easily. “Where is everyone?” Feuilly whispered to himself, scanning the area for any sign of anyone he knew.

Across from him was a tall, white obelisk at the other end of the field of green grass. To either side of him, there were buildings. He swallowed hard. While he had been orphaned once before, the second time losing his family seemed all that much harder.

When his parents had died, he’d been too young to truly understand what had happened. He was sure he had grieved for them, he just didn’t remember it now. With his friends, he had years of memory, from the good times they had spent together, to the feel of their touch. Those memories were fresh in his mind as he realized he was alone. 

Blinking back his tears, Feuilly headed for the closest building unsure what he might find, but knowing if he were to survive here, he would need to find work. As soon as he could. Besides, if he were distracted, he could better ignore the hole in his heart. Even if his friends were gone, wallowing in his grief would get him nowhere. He needed to keep pressing on.

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac raised his arms to cover his head as the soldier bore down on him with his bayonet, giving a sharp cry. “Help!” Before it touched him, the man fell, and he raised his head in surprise. 

Standing at the front of the barricade was Marius. Courfeyrac stood as the young man threw his pistols aside and turned away. Courfeyrac stifled a gasp as a musket was quickly aimed towards his friend as he walked towards the tavern, seeming to pay no mind to the fact that they were still in grave danger. He jumped forward, ready to block the shot, but the muzzle of the firearm was covered before he could get there, just as the soldier fired. 

The barricade seemed to spring back into action as they were fired upon once more. The boy fell, and Enjolras quickly shouted over the din, “don’t fire at random!” 

Courfeyrac could feel the heaviness in the air as he turned to face the opposing soldiers head on, waiting for Enjolras to give the command. Even in the darkness, the torch didn’t give much light outside the barricade, he could make out the faces of the men opposite them. We could speak to one another without shouting. Courfeyrac realized as he slipped his finger onto the trigger. 

A higher ranking officer, who, from his epaulettes and gorget, was likely the commander of the force in front of them, raised his sword. “Surrender now.”

“Fire!” Enjolras cried in response, and the next he knew, they were engulfed in the sulfurous smoke. Courfeyrac coughed as he lowered his musket to reload, only lifting his head when he heard what sounded like Marius’ voice. 

“Get back!” Marius walked to the front lines, looking the national guard dead in the eyes as he held both a torch and powder cask. “Or I’ll blow up the barricade.”

“Blow up the barricade,” a Sergeant sneered. “And yourself too.” 

“And myself too.” Marius replied, calmly lowering the torch towards the barrel of gunpowder. He held it there until the assailants scattered.

Courfeyrac instantly dropped his musket and tackled him with a joyous cry. It was all Enjolras could do to grab the torch from the young man’s hand before it actually set anything on fire. “There you are!” 

“What luck!” Combeferre placed a hand on Marius’ shoulder. “You came after all.” 

“Just in time too,” Bossuet grinned as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Without you, I would have been killed,” Courfeyrac murmured into his neck.

“And I would have been too!” Gavroche added, cocking his head as he placed his hands on his hips. “That old musket wasn’t loaded!”

“Where’s the leader?” Marius pulled away, looking to Enjolras for direction.

“You’re the leader.” 

As Marius headed with Enjolras, looking more than a little confused, Courfeyrac was about to follow when Combeferre beckoned to him. “Come, I need your help dressing the wounds of our injured comrades. Joly is ill, and I wish to keep him away from the open wounds, I have a new theory.” 

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes at him with a small smile. “And what is it this time, mon ami ?”

“I believe that perhaps there are small particles that float around when someone is ill, and I’ve noticed that men with open wounds catch ill much more easily than when they are not.” Combeferre hummed as he handed Courfeyrac a roll of bandages. “Even more so if an infection sets in. Though I need to observe it in more detail to be sure.”

“And you’re certain a barricade is the proper place to test it out?” Combeferre stubbornly ignored him as he headed towards the wounded men, extracting a sigh from his friend. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It seemed that the torch flickered nervously as the sky began to lighten with the first signs of the approaching dawn. It wasn’t yet light enough for anything to be seen beyond the reach of the torch, although the insurgents could hear the sounds of those on the other side stirring. The barricade had risen in the night, ever since the five men had taken their leave. The Mondétour alleyway had been barricaded, and they now had no way to escape, even if they wanted to, with three walls and no exit. “We’ve created a mousetrap of a fortress!” Courfeyrac laughed, turning around so he could see each wall. 

Enjolras stood by the entryway to the tavern, quietly observing as he ordered. “Return to your battle stations, we must be ready for the next attack.” As the men fumbled to get into their positions, he walked among them, moving someone to a better place every so often if he saw they could be used elsewhere. Courfeyrac settled into the nook he’d found, resting the muzzle of his firearm on the barricade. 

The whole structure fell into an ominous silence as Enjolras picked up his rifle and headed to the center of the largest barricade, where he’d reserved his position. The coming of dawn had brightened the sky enough that they could see the end of the street now, and they watched earnestly as they heard a new sound approach. The rattling of what would soon show itself to be a cannon.

Enjolras ordered the men to fire, and when the smoke cleared, they all could see no one had been killed. “Bravo, cannoneers!” Bossuet shouted, grinning as the barricade clapped. 

“Now the fun begins,” Courfeyrac stated as he watched the gunners prepare to load the artillery piece. “That’s a fine brute there, we’re about to be shaken up!” 

And shaken up they were, though the ball did little damage to the barricade, the gun having been improperly aimed. “Carry on!” Bossuet shouted as the smoke cleared. 

The cannon provided much amusement to Courfeyrac, who soon decided it was his duty to try to lighten the mood in the fortress, while he was still alive. “You’re doing little but exhausting yourself my friend!” He shouted to the cannon, cupping his hands around his mouth to make his voice carry further. 

“Hush.” Enjolras ordered him soon after, grabbing his firearm tightly. “They’re coming, prepare to fire.” 

A squad of men advanced upon them, and as Courfeyrac glanced at Enjolras he saw his jaw tighten in annoyance. They were going to have to use a volley of their precious ammunition to drive these rash attackers back, and he knew Enjolras was thinking about how much they needed to conserve it. 

They held back the attack, killing most of those who advanced, but Enjolras was still furious. He turned to Courfeyrac and muttered. “Those fools are getting their men killed whilst wasting our ammunition.” 

“We don't have much more, do we?” Courfeyrac asked in a low tone, pressing his lips together as Enjolras shook his head. 

“No, we’ll be out soon enough.” 

Courfeyrac nodded grimly, seating himself beside Enjolras. “Then I shall enjoy the time we still have left together.”

Only minutes later, Courfeyrac was back to taunting the cannon, as it continued to burst forth with new volleys of cannonball and grapeshot. “You’re wearing your voice out, old boy!” He yelled, propping himself up on his elbow as he watched the artillerymen move about. “That’s not thunder, it’s a cough! I feel quite sorry for you, shouting yourself hoarse like that!” 

“I admire Enjolras,” Bossuet quickly slipped up beside him, grinning just as widely. Both were in very good humor, even as the situation grew more dire. “Though, he astounds me. He lives alone, no one to keep him company. He paused, looking over to Enjolras as he shook his head. “The rest of us have mistresses to embolden us, Enjolras isn’t in love. Still, he manages to be fearless in a way I’ve never seen before. It’s extraordinary.” 

Through their chuckling, both men missed Enjolras’ reply under his breath, he didn’t seem to be listening, and they were paying him no mind. 

A moment later, Courfeyrac noticed a movement down the street and put a hand on Bossuet’s shoulder to calm him. “Something new here!” He cried, watching as the cannon came down the street, to be moved into position beside the other one. “My name is eight-pounder!” 

Enjolras frowned as the cannon fire increased twofold. “We need to reduce the rate they’re firing at. Fire on the artillerymen!” He ordered.

The barricade exploded with the order, and a cloud of smoke filled the air. Courfeyrac heard someone coughing, and Bossuet slipped away from his side unnoticed in the midst of the firing. It wasn’t until he heard him call out. “That’s better! We’ve had success!” That he realized his friend had left to tend to Joly, who’s cough had been irritated by the gun smoke. 

“Another quarter of an hour of this success and we won’t have a dozen cartridges in the whole barricade.” Enjolras replied grimly. 

Gavroche, hearing his remark, disappeared. After his death, a somber silence fell over the barricade, as though a cloak had been draped over it. Alas, the silence lasted only a few moments, before the next surge of the attack came. There was nothing that could be done once they’d run short of cartridges, save for hand to hand combat with the enemy, who surged over the wall of the barricade as the insurgents fought to keep them off. 

Courfeyrac was fighting close to the front of the barricade when he fell, in the center, where he naturally happened to stay. It took a moment for the full realization of what had happened to hit him, and he drew a slow breath as he pressed a hand to his chest, where the bullet had hit. This was the end, just as Enjolras had made sure everyone who stayed had known would happen. He turned his head, looking around to catch one last glimpse of his comrades before he expired. 

Courfeyrac beckoned for Marius to come over when he saw him looking in his direction, trying to pull himself to a sitting position, as his strength tapered out. “Marius-”

“Fey?” Marius paused what he was doing, ducking under another insurgents musket when he realized what was going on, dropping to his knees beside his best friend. “Fey, you’re bleeding.”

“I know,” Courfeyrac smiled at him, grasping for his hand, which Marius readily took. He knew he was dying, but he wanted to tell Marius something first. “When I go...” He paused to take a shaky breath, wincing as his chest expanding caused the pain to stab him with fresh vengeance. “I’ll say ‘hi’ to your father for you.” 

“You aren’t going to die.” Marius said firmly, shaking his head. “You can’t die, Fey.”

“Lean down?” 

Marius obliged, bending close enough that Courfeyrac could kiss his cheek. “Fey-”

“I love you, Mari,” Courfeyrac murmured, taking in one last shaky breath. “You stay safe... For Mademoiselle Lanoire.”

“Fey-” Marius tried again, a tear slipping down his cheek and mingling with the blood already there. “No, no,no.You can’t—“

Courfeyrac made no reply other than weakly squeezing his fingers. Eventually, his fingers went limp. Marius moved only to hold his body closer to his chest as he sobbed.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The first thing Courfeyrac registered as he came to was the fact that his hat was no longer on his head. He sighed as he reached up to feel his hair, knowing he’d have to walk home bare-headed. Unless he could find his hat, if he’d lost it at the barricade, it would have to be close by. 

It took him a few moments to realize he was no longer on the barricade, perhaps it was the sudden influx of pigeons, or the fact that a river was close by when he started walking. 

It didn’t appear to be the Seine, there were restaurants and tables laid out on the pavement, and boats full of people in the water. Courfeyrac blinked as he tried to take it all in, ignoring the bird pecking at his feet. Is this Paris? How could it have changed so much in only a few hours? He looked around once more, this time for any sign of his friends. If anyone would know what was going on here, it would be Combeferre.

He may have to suffer through an hour of rambling to get his answer, but he was sure Combeferre would know. The only problem? Courfeyrac could see nothing but strange faces in the crowd.

“Well, if this is heaven, I’d better find Monsieur Pontmercy,” He decided solemnly. He had to keep his promise to Marius to find his father, he knew that much. He started walking along the riverside, scanning the crowd for anyone who resembled his best friend. Hopefully, Marius resembled his father enough for him to tell who he was, it would make his mission that much easier.

Chapter Text

Joly sat silently for a moment after Bossuet rushed downstairs, looking at Grantaire for reassurance. He did of course want to participate in the insurrection, but now that the time was finally here, he couldn’t quell his nervousness. He rushed to the window, knowing Bossuet would appear below soon. “Courfeyrac, you ought to get an umbrella!” He called down to his friend when he saw he had no hat. “You may catch cold!”

Courfeyrac ignored him, and Joly frowned. It wouldn’t do for the center of their group to catch ill. It was one thing for him or Bossuet,  but Courfeyrac was the radiance that held them together. His thoughts were quickly interrupted by him noticing that Ma’am Hucheloup was screaming. Joly tugged at his hair in discomfort for a moment at the shrill noise, before heading over to meet her at the top of the stairs, deciding to do his best to comfort her. 

“It’s the end of the world,” the old woman whispered, pale and slightly out of it. Joly kissed her neck, taking one of her hands in both of his as he led her to the table in the corner, stopping only to murmur to Grantaire.

“A woman’s neck is a delicate thing.”

Grantaire ignored him, too busy with his own ramblings. In turn, Joly tried to ignore him as he comforted the tavern keeper. “Come sit, Mother Hucheloup, I’ll make you some tea.” 

Ma’am Hucheloup could do nothing but nod as he bustled about, making use of himself as best he could... All while staying out of the rain.

If there was anyone good at knowing what was comforting, Joly was an expert. He dragged a blanket from the corner, holey and weird smelling as it was, and draped it around her shoulders as he murmured soft reassurances to her. “It’ll be alright, Mother, mes amis know what they’re doing. We’ve done this before you know; not quite two years back.”

Ma’am Hucheloup didn’t often respond to him as he chattered, but that was alright. Courfeyrac came in eventually, and tried his hand at consoling her. Joly frowned a bit as it seemed he was doing no better, only seeming to agitate her worse. “Oh, oh! Are you going to put that table into your horror?”  

Courfeyrac nodded apologetically. “Well, we’re avenging you, Mother Hucheloup! Weren’t you just complaining the other day about how Gibelotte had shaken a rug out the window, so you got fined?”

Ma’am Hucheloup nodded, and Courfeyrac smiled, taking the table with him. “You will see, we shall avenge you!” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joly pressed himself into the corner, coughing miserably. Enjolras had insisted he rest, and Combeferre had come to check up on him not long after. Joly deeply suspected Enjolras himself had sent him to make sure he was following his orders. Wanting to avoid a lecture from Combeferre, he’d complied, but he just wanted to feel useful. Sitting about idly was no help in building the barricade.

Bossuet came over as soon as he realized he was resting and sat beside him, placing his hand on his forehead. “You’re feverish again, Jo.” 

Joly shrugged a little, not sure what to think. He felt like shit of course, worse than he’d felt that morning, but not nearly to the point he’d miss out on insurrection by going home. Not that that was an option. Anyone trying to leave wouldn’t make it out at this point. Besides, Musichetta was possibly still upset with him, and he really didn’t feel well enough to be fussed at again. “I know.”

Bossuet pressed his lips together, sighing as he pulled his friend into his arms. “Have you taken laudanum recently?”

“No.”

“Do you have any on you?”

“I don’t remember,” Joly murmured as he buried his face in Bossuet’s chest, sniffling. All at once, he felt exhaustion seep into his bones, and he allowed himself to go limp in his arms. “Tired.”

“Let me see,” Bossuet chuckled, rummaging through Joly’s pockets until he pulled out a small flask. “Ah, here we are.” 

Joly gratefully grabbed it and took a swig. He’d be sleepy once it kicked in, but there really wasn’t much to do except wait. Bossuet smiled at him and pulled him closer as he blinked sleepily, allowing him to curl up at his side. “Enjolras says rest for two hours, I say you’d better take advantage of that.”

Joly grumbled at him, softly swatting at his arm, but allowed the hand combing through his curls to lull him to sleep, positioning his head so he could hear Bossuet’s heartbeat. 

When he finally woke, the stars were peeking through the sky, which was just beginning to show the faintest streaks of color, and Bossuet was hauling him to his feet. “I wish I didn’t have to wake you, but Enjolras says we need everyone awake.”

Joly rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, realizing they all must have let him sleep much longer than two hours. He blinked, still half-asleep as he fumbled at his side for his firearm. “Kay, where’s my musket?” 

“Here,” Bossuet handed it to him, keeping a hand under one of his arms to steady him until the dizziness that came with getting up after sitting in one position for so long wore off. 

Joly nodded, coughing to try and clear his throat and lungs of the mucus that had accumulated over the few hours he rested, walking over to sit on a crate where he could see everyone milling about.  

He sat there a few moments before noticing a black kitten hanging around the waterspout, wondering if he could point it out to the rest of them. Now might not be the best time, since Enjolras and Combeferre had both just finished speaking so eloquently, but... Cat. After watching it a moment more, he decided to speak. “What is a cat?” He mused, staring at the feline in delight.  “It’s a correction. God made a mouse and said “I’ve made a blunder,” so he made the cat. The cat is the opposite of the mouse, when they exist together, it’s the corrected proof of creation.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

When the time came for what they all felt would be the final battle, Joly knelt beside Bossuet, surprised when Courfeyrac handed him fifteen more cartridges of the few Gavroche had managed to gather in his fatal expedition.  “This is all we have left, but it’s more than we had before.” 

Joly nodded a bit. “I’ll use them carefully,” He replied in determination. He gripped his musket tightly, more tightly than he should if he were being honest with himself. He didn’t really care, this wasn’t the first time they’d been fired upon, and though he knew what to expect, especially after the July Revolution, it didn’t really get any easier to bear the loud, unexpected noises. The barricade shook as it withstood the barrage of grapeshot, and Joly sank low to the ground to avoid any of the spray. 

And then, Bossuet fell. Joly gasped in horror, dropping his musket to rush to his friend’s aid. “Eagle!” 

Bossuet smiled up at him as he dragged him into his lap, holding him tightly. “I’m alright, Jo- I’m alright.” 

Joly shook his head as his reassurances, pulling out his handkerchief to dab at the wounds. “You’re not.”

“I will be,” Bossuet assured him, gripping his hand weakly. “Tell ‘Chetta I love her, ‘kay?”

Joly nodded, not even trying to stop his tears falling on the bald head of his friend. “I promise I will.” 

“I-” Bossuet paused to take a last shaky breath. “I love-”

Joly panicked internally as he didn’t finish, gently smacking the side of his cheek, though he knew it wasn’t much use. “Bossuet,” He sobbed, clinging to his shirtsleeve. “ Mon aigle , wake up! Wake up! ” 

Bossuet did not wake, and Joly buried his face in his waistcoat, his chest heaving with heavy sobs as he clung to the lifeless body. The commotion around him was forgotten until he felt arms slip around his shoulders and give him a comforting squeeze.

Without glancing up, he knew it couldn’t be anyone but one of his friends, and quickly turned to bury his face in the waistcoat of the man hugging him. By the smell, it was Enjolras, and the voice that reached his ears confirmed his suspicions. “Joly, shhhhh....”

“He’s gone...” Joly managed to choke out, clinging helplessly to Enjolras as he held him. How he’d gotten the time to stop in the middle of a raging battle, one would never know. But with Enjolras, perhaps it was better not to question it.

Enjolras gave no answer, simply holding Joly more tightly as he sobbed, allowing him to cling onto him like a lifeline. Eventually, he broke the silence. “We must keep fighting.”

Joly shook his head. “I can’t... Not without Bossuet.”

“You can,” Enjolras gently lifted his chin, and Joly had to avert his eyes from the strength of his gaze. “You’re stronger than you think.”

Joly tried to protest once more, but Enjolras was already helping him to his feet, handing him a musket. He stared at it in disgust. How could I possibly take someone’s life now that I know what it feels like to be left behind by one so dear?  

Tossing the firearm to the side- he didn’t care where it ended up,  he just wanted it out of his hands, he went to find Combeferre. “I want to help you.” 

Combeferre gave him a look over from where he sat, binding the wounds of a brave rebel and immediately replied. “No.” 

Joly froze, Combeferre rarely declined his medical assistance, and with all the wounded here, he wasn’t sure what was going on. “Why not?”

“You’re ill,” Combeferre said simply, gathering his things as he stood up. “I have a theory that illness is spread from one person to another, not by miasmas.”

“And?”

“I do not wish for men already in a weakened state to grow ill.” Joly pressed his lips together, deciding not to argue as he slipped away, trying not to feel hurt. As he pushed past, Combeferre gently squeezed his shoulder, looking guilty. “I’m sorry, truly.”

Joly shrugged a little, not trusting himself to answer without breaking into tears again. He didn’t want Combeferre to feel any worse than he clearly already did. He walked over to a mirror on the wall and tugged it down, opening his mouth to examine his tongue. Am I more ill than I realized? He stared at it for a moment, until he gagged from the feeling of pushing his tongue out just a little too far for too long, and quickly stopped. 

Joly pressed his back up against the wall, terror in his eyes as the soldier approached him, bayonet aimed for his stomach, closing his eyes so he didn’t have to see it hit him. When he opened them, a sharp pain in his abdomen announced the presence of the fatal wound. He gasped as he reached a hand to where he’d been hit, quickly pulling it away when he felt the wetness. He looked at his hand, which came back warm and wet with blood. He stared for a moment, shakily walking over to the wall and slumping to the ground as his vision blurred. The blood of others was one thing, but seeing his own, and so much of it made him feel sick to his stomach. Why doesn’t it hurt? It should hurt more, shouldn’t it? His eyes slowly closed as he mused to himself, slipping into darkness. Just before he fully lost consciousness, he felt a warm weight settle in his lap and allowed his hand to drop down so he could feel the kitten purring. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joly winced as the pain in his body came back all at once, whimpering softly before he could stop himself. The ground he was sitting on was hard, and his joints ached. He opened his eyes, and they quickly widened at the realization that he was no longer on a barricade. Barricades don’t have trees, at least not the one he was on. “Bossuet?” He called timidly, pushing himself up into a sitting posture. “ Mon aigle ?”

He was returned no human answer, but a small meow sounded beside him. There was a kitten beside him, it was black, the spitting image of the kitten at the barricade. Joly extended his fingers for it to sniff. “Here little one.” 

The kitten scooted closer, climbing into his lap. Joly, though he was close to tears, couldn’t help but smile. “ Salut, ” he murmured, petting the feline. His fingers caught on matted hair and he frowned, gently picking at it until he realized it was dried blood. “Are you hurt?”

The kitten bumped its head on his cheek as he leaned down to examine it for any wounds. He found nothing at all, not even a scar, and he felt ill as the realization struck him. “You were on the barricade too, weren’t you. That isn’t your blood.”

The feline purred in agreement, and Joly smiled at the feel of its head rubbing his cheek. At least he wasn’t alone. If he was correct, both he and the cat had been on the barricade. “You stayed with me? How?”

He received no answer, and pulled himself to his feet. “I suppose I’ll never know.” He tried to place himself as he looked around, narrating his thoughts to the kitten all the while. “I hear water, and it’s loud, so we must be close to a river, or perhaps something bigger.” 

Joly shakily took a step forward, clinging to a low hanging branch to keep his balance as he continued. “Here’s the plan, petit chat. ” He looked down as the kitten wove between his legs. “I think I need to pee, and then we’re finding the water, d’accord ?” The kitten looked up at him with wide eyes and meowed at him in responce. 

“After that, and I don’t care if Grantaire says it’s odd, I already know it is,” Joly grimaced as he took another step on the uneven terrain, wishing he had his cane with him. “But after that, I wish to bathe.”

Chapter Text

“Jehan’s missing!” Courfeyrac’s cry snapped Combeferre to attention. He was in the Corinth’s basement with Enjolras and the spy, Javert. He quickly turned to Enjolras, understanding their dear friend had been captured. 

“How much do you value the spy?” 

“Not as much as Prouvaire’s life.” Enjolras said firmly, and Combeferre grabbed his cane and handkerchief, beginning to tie it together. 

“We’ll trade them under a flag of truce,” Before he could finish, Enjolras put his hand on his shoulder as they heard the voice of Jean Prouvaire cry out. 

“ Vive la France! Long live the Republic!” 

The sound of muskets going off filled the previous silence of the night, and Combeferre turned to Enjolras, eyes full of grief as he whispered. “They’ve killed him.” 

“Your friends have just killed you.” Enjolras growled at Javert as he wrapped his arms around his friend, trying to comfort him. 

Combeferre stood shakily, using the edge of a table to balance himself as his mind raced. Why am I here? Why am I partaking in this bloodshed? I’m a doctor, I’m supposed to save lives, not take them. He shook his head to clear it. No. I’m here because it’s the only way. If we want to see a better world, we have to fight for it.

He took the hand Enjolras offered him and ascended the stairs to the ground floor, casting a glance to Grantaire, who appeared to be asleep at one of the tables. Combeferre swallowed hard and looked away. They’d lost Bahorel and Jehan already, how many more of their friends would be dead before this was over? 

When they joined the rest of the group outside, the sight was grim, but spirits were joyful that they had beaten back the enemy, even if they were sure to attack again. Joly was tending to a wounded Bossuet, who was trying to convince him that there were others more in need of his assistance. Feuilly and his band of snipers had come down from the upper rooms and were lending their help where they could, none having been wounded yet since it was much harder to properly aim upwards from a distance. Courfeyrac’s shirt was ripped, and he’d lost his hat in the midst of the battle, although aside from being dirty and sweaty, seemed unharmed. Combeferre sighed softly, and rushed to attend to the wounded. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

By midnight, the rebels were fixing their barricade, and preparing for the assault that was sure to come in the morning. Joly and Combeferre enlisted a small group of men to help them convert the tavern kitchen into a hospital and move the wounded inside. Another group moved the dead to the Mondétour alley, while yet another prepared more bullet cartridges and bandages. The warmth of the night was doing nothing to help with the smell, and even Combeferre wrinkled his nose. He was used to the rank smell of the streets, but with the recent battle, the mix of powder and bodily fluids combined with the normal stench of the streets was nearly overpowering. Fortunately, the bodies would have no time to rot before the battle was over, saving them from one more stench. They were stuck in the barricade, and though they tried not to think about it, the lack of food and water, along with no way to get more ammunition in would likely cause their downfall sooner rather than later.

“I suggest two hours of rest.” Enjolras ordered, though few listened. 

Out of the corner of his eyes, Combeferre saw Feuilly disappear around a corner and debated following him to ask if he was alright, eventually deciding against it. His friend was probably only trying to find a private place to relieve himself, so he wouldn’t interfere unless he heard something that suggested otherwise.

A few hours later, some men found wine bottles in the cellar, and Combeferre examined them. “This wine is old, likely some of Father Hucheloup’s.” 

“It’s sure to be good wine,” Bossuet observed. “If Grantaire were here, we’d have a hard time saving it.” 

“And save it we shall,” Enjolras proclaimed, vetoing the wine. “No one is to drink this while on the barricade.” He put the fifteen bottles under Father Mabeuf’s table, so everyone would remember they were not to be touched.

As the sky began to lighten, the men perked up a bit. Their torch was extinguished, as they wouldn’t need it once dawn broke. The birds were beginning to wake, their songs sounding out of place on the somber barricade. The men turned to their guide for guidance, and Combeferre soon found himself at the center of attention, surrounded by friends, as well as the students and workmen of the barricade.

During the night, the structure had grown two feet, and the defenses had been upgraded. Combeferre took a deep breath as he felt the eyes turn to him. He wasn’t a fan of speaking to large crowds, but sometimes it was necessary. ”I know we have lost men these past few hours we’ve been here,” he started, glancing around at the faces of his audience. 

The group somberly listened as he spoke to them about the men who had died, and when he was done, he bowed his head, shakily sitting down. Joly laid a hand on his shoulder. “You did well, our men were encouraged by your speech.”

Indeed, the men were in high spirits, they had already repelled one attack, and waited for the next, some with the rashness of youth, blissfully unaware of their own mortality, others with  the knowledge of a veteran who had seen war in all it’s gruesomeness before, knowing they would be lucky to make it out alive. Enjolras, who had disappeared to scout, pulled Combeferre aside to whisper in his ear. ”Aside from the one at Saint-Merry, we’re the only barricade still standing. We’re facing a third of the entire army, Ferre.”

“We must convince those who have dependents to go home.” Combeferre said solemnly. “I fear it will be no easy task. Do you have the uniforms?”

“I do,” Enjolras replied, knowing he was speaking of the coats from the four enemy soldiers who had fallen within their outpost, when the men had dragged them to the alley with the rest of the dead, they had taken their coats, in the instance they may need them. That time had now come.

The two walked side by side back to the center of their barracks, gathering the attention of all the men there as Enjolras made his grim announcement. “Citizens, a third of the army is waiting for us out there, let any who wish to go leave now. We’re the only barricade left, and have little chance of surviving this. ”

“ Vive la mort! ” A man called out. “Let us all stay to the end!” 

Enjolras scowled, knowing they had more than enough men to defend the barricade, and not wanting to sacrifice more. “We need only thirty men to defend our position, let us not waste lives.”

A murmur of discontent went up from the crowd, the men pulling apart his order by telling him they couldn’t leave because they would be arrested. Enjolras, knowing that they were right, tapped Combeferre’s shoulder, and they both disappeared into the basement while Courfeyrac addressed the numerous questions. 

“What shall we do?” Combeferre asked. “They aren’t listening to you.”

“You, mon ami ,” Enjolras gathered up the uniforms as he spoke. “Will convince them. You have a way with words that I do not, and a gentleness I cannot possess.”

Combeferre swallowed hard and nodded. “If it is my duty.”

The two left, bringing with them the uniforms, which Enjolras threw to the bare ground in front of the crowd, the cobblestones having been dug up and added to the barricade throughout the night. “Here is a way you may sneak through the ranks without suspicion!” He cried, receiving no answer. “I have four coats, four men may leave and be home as though they were never here!”

When no one in the crowd stepped forward, Combeferre stood up, his voice ringing out tenderly as he spoke of the families of those there. “Gentlemen, I know that some of you have families dependent on your provisions, would you truly stay here to die knowing that if you do, your wives and young children may be turned out upon the streets to die also? Think not of yourselves, but of your elderly mothers, who sit by their bed praying for your safe return, will you let those prayers go unanswered? And of the little ones who gather around their mother’s skirts, wide-eyed with the fear they may never see their Papa ever again? You sir,” He pointed to a man at the edge of the crowd. “Your wife is with child, and you have three others to think of. Would you die here, never to see the sweet face of your youngest child? Or to watch once again as they smile, laugh, or speak for the first time? To see the joy in your older children’s faces as their father comes in the door from a long day at work, ready with a kiss and story for them? Would you allow that?”

“And you,” He turned to a younger man, barely out of his teens. “Your mother is old, and has no other children to care for her. I am sure at this moment she is saying a prayer for your safety! Would you be killed today, allowing her to wither away in her grief, knowing she will be alone at the end of her days? I’ve seen it happen before, I worked at the Necker hospital as an intern, I’ve seen death of all kinds. Did you know that over half of all abandoned children perish? One day they brought in a young boy to die, he had been eating dirt, the poor little bird was so hungry, there was mud in his belly when we opened him up.”

Combeferre shook his head sadly as he remembered. “Now, my friends, we must not be selfish, please examine your hearts, as I am sure many of you have family under your care. I know that you are brave, all of you here. But do you know what the bravest thing would be? To remember your wives, mothers, and children, and to return to them safely.” 

Combeferre finished, and silence fell upon the barricade.

Marius stood up a minute later, breaking the silence with his voice. “I agree with Enjolras and Combeferre.”

With Marius’ voice added to the leader and guide’s they managed to convince five of the men to leave their ranks. Unfortunately, they had only four uniforms, leading to a debate for who would be the one to stay. As Marius was about to make the near impossible decision on who would stay to meet his death, a fifth uniform fluttered down from above them, and if one would have looked up, they would have seen Jean Valjean enter the barricade. The man joined them quickly, adding the rest of the uniform to the pile. The men muttered amongst themselves, wondering who this new recruit was. Combeferre’s voice finally lifted through the others, declaring, “This is a man who saves others.”

While they had time, the men repaired the barricade, no one noticing when a small boy slipped in through the cracks. Then, the artillery arrived, and soon the barricade was under heavy fire. Combeferre tended to the wounded as he could, and as the day dragged on, he heard Courfeyrac yelling. “Gavroche, don’t you dare!” 

Combeferre turned just in time to see the Gamin disappear over the side of the barricade, into no man’s land. The whole structure seemed to hold its breath as he waltzed around outside, singing his merry little song as he dodged bullets. Unfortunately, his bravery was met with demise. A bullet found its mark and the little lad fell to the ground. Marius and Combeferre jumped to action, the former picking up the child, and the latter his basket of cartridges. 

Joly hurried to the scene to examine the gamin with Combeferre, stopping short when Combeferre shook his head, telling him all he needed to know. The boy was dead. 

“Lay him on the table with Mabeuf,” He whispered to Marius, just as another shout drew his attention, sending him vaulting over some rubbish in the street to attend to a fallen student, leaving the young Baron with Gavroche’s body. Tending to the wounded gave him time to ponder the words he’d held fast for so long now. The good must be innocent. What was he now? Certainly not innocent, he’d participated in this bloodshed just as much as the man beside him. Yet so had Enjolras. While he was willing to condem himself for not being good, he was reluctant to do the same for Enjolras, who he’d stood beside since they were both children. Enjolras, though he was certainly not innocent, was still good in Combeferre’s eyes, as were many of his other companions. It was, perhaps, only himself he held to the highest standard of the good must be innocent.

Around two in the afternoon, the enemy broke into the rebels ranks once more, and this time, they would not be beaten back. Combeferre cried out as Bossuet was shot down, his friend falling off the barricade, hitting his head on the way down. Courfeyrac, who happened to be standing nearby grabbed him under the arms and dragged his body out of the way as Joly rushed to the scene, though he himself was a mess, bleeding from several wounds. 

One by one, Combeferre watched his friends fall, only Enjolras seemed to be standing unharmed, and wondered how long his friend would make it as he disappeared into the tavern. Alas, he never would get to see.

He was tending to a wounded soldier, paying little attention to the battle raging about him as he tried to save the life of the fallen man. He didn’t notice the soldiers approaching him until he felt a sharp pain in his breast, the points of three bayonets piercing his flesh and sinking into his heart and lungs. He looked to the sky, catching just the slightest glimpse of the blue expanse before he saw no more.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

As it was, the sky was the first thing the guide saw upon waking once more, and he quickly pulled himself up, pressing a hand to the wall to steady himself as the world spun on its axis. 

He’d gotten up too quickly, and he knew it. But how else was he to see where he was? This was new to him, and he wanted to figure it out.

“ Ah, barricades are not good for the back, it appears.” Combeferre muttered to himself as he rubbed the offending body part, catching a glimpse of a shoe near a dumpster. Hm. I’ve never seen one like that before. He mused, picking it up to examine. 

Setting it aside, he calmly decided he must find a newspaper. Those carried the date of the day, something that would be helpful to know. He strongly suspected that the year was no longer 1832. Stepping out onto a parking lot nearly confirmed his suspicions, and it delighted him. Those are certainly not carriages.

Chapter Text

Brie. That smells like Brie. Grantaire sniffed the air as he passed the Corinth, deciding to group and investigate for himself what was happening. Enjolras would of course want him at the funeral with the others, but he didn’t really care. Or at least, he told himself he didn’t care. Enjolras despised him of course, as did most of the others. Joly and Bossuet didn’t, but they were among the few who actually sought him out rather than waiting for him to come to them.

Pushing his annoyances aside, he climbed the steps of the bistro, the smell of cheese growing all that much stronger as he neared the upper room. When he poked his head through the door, he couldn’t help but smile. There at the table in the corner were Joly and Bossuet, and it appeared that they had just gotten their food. “ Mes amis! ” Grantaire cried out, and both heads turned to him. “I smelled brie and couldn’t help myself investigating, and look who I find!” 

“Come join us!” Bossuet invited, patting the chair beside him. “We haven’t truly started yet.” 

Joly nodded in agreement, coughing into his handkerchief. Seeing Grantaire sit down at the table, the waitress brought in two more bottles of wine to set down. 

“Are you going to drink both of those yourself?” Bossuet wondered, raising an eyebrow.

“Of course,” Grantaire grunted, picking up the first. “Two bottles never sank a fellow.” 

“You must have a hole in your stomach.” 

“And you one in your elbow.” Grantaire gestured to his coat, which did have a hole in the elbow. “You ought to mend that, it’s unseemly.”

“When did you start caring about being unseemly?” Bossuet teased, rubbing at the hole. “Besides, an old coat is like an old friend, we’ve been together nearly as long as I’ve known you and Joly.” 

“That’s quite some time.” Grantaire agreed, quickly being interrupted by Joly. 

“That’s true Eagle!” He chirped, wiping his nose. “An old habit is as good as an old ami!” 

Both the others had to chuckle at his well thought out pun, though it wouldn’t have worked quite so well if it wasn’t for his cold stuffing him up. “Ah, it is in the mouth of a man with a cold in his head.” Grantaire replied, reaching for one of the oysters. 

“Have you come from the boulevard, R?” Bossuet asked, reaching for another oyster. “Joly and I saw the head of the procession go by.” 

“It was a spectacle!” Joly eagerly put in, looking at him with wide eyes as he fumbled for his handkerchief. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a funeral so large.”

“I did not,” Grantaire murmured. “I came in by the way of my house, which is in the opposite direction.”

“Paris is all topsy-turvy,” Bossuet told him. “It’s quiet here, you wouldn’t know. There used to be monasteries here, you know.”

“Don’t talk about monks,” Grantaire complained, scratching himself. “It makes me itch.” 

Joly stared at him, saying simply. “You always itch, R, I worry for you.”

“Ach, I’ve just swallowed a bad oyster now,” Grantaire continued, ignoring the both of them. “Here’s the hypochondria claiming me again. The oysters are bad, the servants here are ugly, I hate everyone.” 

Joly stared at his oyster a moment in worry before handing it to Bossuet and grabbing some ham off the other side of the platter as Grantaire continued his speech. “I don’t see a need for books, waste of ink and paper in my opinion. Ah, I met a pretty girl the other day, Florial was her name, or so it should have been. A hideous old banker fancied her, now she’s a bankeress.” Grantaire shuddered, holding his glass out to Joly to fill again. He paused to take a drink.

“Ah, I can hardly believe that I’m the same age as Laigle de Meax, that old bald knee,” Bossuet just rolled his eyes good naturedly and patted Grantaire’s knee. “I wasn’t made to be Parisian, I was made to be a Turk, a Venetian gentleman, or a German prince! That is the destiny I was born for, not this.” 

He reached for the second bottle of wine. “I need another drink, it’s a pain to swallow both oysters and revolution wrong.”  He broke off into a couching fit and Bossuet reached over to smack his back.

“Speaking of revolution, Marius is amorous.” Joly announced

“Does anyone know who it is?” Bossuet asked. “Or is he still hiding the name?”

“No, he won’t even tell Courfeyrac.” Joly sighed.

“Marius’ amours!” Grantaire exclaimed. “He’s of the poet’s race, a fool in love. He probably hasn’t even kissed her.”

Grantaire was interrupted by a small boy entering the room, looking around until he spotted them. He hurried over to Bossuet and said. “Are you Monsieur Bossuet?”

“I am,” Bossuet nodded, looking at the boy in confusion. It was clear to all three that he didn’t know who any of them were, yet he’d come searching for them. “What do you need, lad?”

“A big blond fellow told me to tell you, A, B, C.”

“Joly, lend me ten sous, R, you too.” Bossuet quickly said. Grantaire pulled several coins from his pocket and placed them in his hand. Bossuet gave the money to the child, who grinned. 

”Thank you, messieurs! ”

“What’s your name?” Bossuet asked him.

“Navet, I’m a friend of Gavroche.”

“Stay with us.”

“Join us for breakfast!” Grantaire offered, patting the empty chair between him and Joly.

“I can’t,” Navet replied. “I’m in the procession! I get to yell ‘down with Polignac!” 

Grantaire watched him bow and leave, staying silent only a few seconds before murmuring. “That’s the pure gamin. There’s many different types, the notary gamin, the cook gamin, the baker gamin, the lackey gamin, the sailor gamin, the soldier gamin, the painter gamin, the trader gamin, the courtier gamin, the king gamin, and the god gamin.” 

“A-B-C means Lamarque’s funeral.” Bossuet mused, interrupting his thoughts.

“And the big blond fellow is Enjolras, he’s sent for you.”

“Shall we go then?”

“It’s raining,” Joly murmured, looking out the window. “I swore to go through fire, not water. I’m staying in.” 

“I’m staying too.” Grantaire said decisively. “I prefer breakfast to funerals.”

“Then we stay.” Bossuet announced. “We can miss the funeral and still go to the uprising.”

“Oh, I’m in for the uprising!” Joly cried. 

“They’re going to finish what we started in 1830.” Bossuet rubbed his hands together like a scheming fly. “This revolution is getting tight in the armholes.” 

“Bah, I don’t care about your revolution,” Grantaire scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I have no strong feelings on the government, it’s moderated by a nightcap. It’s a scepter with an umbrella on the end of it- with this weather, Louis-Philippe could use his royalty in two ways, wielding his scepter against the people, while holding the umbrella against the skies.” 

“Is it noon or midnight?!” Bossuet stared out the window, ignoring Grantaire as he watched the rain fall. The clouds had blocked out the sun effectively enough that there was little light to see by, even at midday. “Gibelotte, won’t you bring us some light?”

“Enjolras despises me,” Grantaire muttered under his breath as he mournfully took a swig of his wine. “He said, Joly is ill, Grantaire is drunk- he sent Navet to Bossuet. If he’d come for me, I’d have followed him! Too bad for Enjolras, I won’t go to his funeral.”

Once they had decided they would stay until it was time for the insurrection to begin, Bossuet settled back into his chair beside Joly, arranging the two candles that Gibelotte brought them on the table where they would be least likely to be turned over by an astray elbow. 

As for himself, Grantaire grabbed a glass from the table and added brandy, stout, and absinthe to it, before offering it to his friends. By two in the afternoon, they had covered the table with empty bottles, and all three were merry. Sometime in the past hour or so, Grantaire had untied his cravat, and settled himself in a most dignified fashion. “Matelote, let the doors of the palace be thrown open!” He said solemnly. “Let everyone have the chance to embrace Madame Hucheloup, and be a member of the French academy. Let us drink!”

He took a long drink from his glass before he turned to Madame Hucheloup. “Ancient woman, come here so that I may gaze upon you!” 

“Matelote, Gibelotte, don’t give Grantaire anything more to drink! He’s spending his money foolishly, two francs and ninety-five centimes since this morning!” Joly cried, pausing to wipe his nose with his handkerchief. “He’s spending his money like water- Oh, Eagle, your back is wet-” 

Bossuet chuckled, reaching over to pat his hand, without moving from his spot on the windowsill. “It’s fine, Jolllly, a little rain won’t hurt me.” 

“You could catch cold!”

“Bah, he’s already got your cold.” Grantaire butted in, sweeping his hand vaguely over the table. “Who’s been unhooking the stars without my permission, and putting them on the table in guise of candles?”

“Hush,  Grand R, I hear something.” Bossuet turned, leaning out the window as Joly jumped up behind him, grabbing the back of his coat as he leaned over the edge far enough to make him anxious. “Ahoy,  Courfeyrac!”

“What are you doing?” Courfeyrac’s voice filtered in through the window. 

“Eating breakfast! Where are you going?” 

“To build a barricade!” 

“This is a good spot, build it here!” 

“You’re right Eagle.”

“The insurrection is starting!” Bossuet whooped and pulled himself fully back into the room, grabbing Joly’s shoulder and pulling him close, pressing a kiss to his nose before running out of the room. The younger man took his place at the window quickly, wishing to see what was going on without wetting himself from the rain. 

He said something to Grantaire a few moments later, but in his giddiness, Grantaire chose not to focus on his voice, rather taking Matelote by the waist and crowing, “Matelote is the perfection of ugliness!” He continued his caterwauling for several minutes, barely pausing to take a breath. “Matelote, kiss me!”

“Shut up, wine-cask!” Courfeyrac scolded, pulling him away by the arm. He did have a bit of a quick temper, and Grantaire had reached the line of it, as he often did. Still, he retorted petulantly. 

“I'm the official magistrate and master of poetry!” 

“Grantaire, go wallow in your drunkenness elsewhere!” Grantaire turned to see where the voice had come from, leaning out the window only to see Enjolras standing on the crest of the barricade, musket in hand as he shot Grantaire a deadly glare. “A barricade is a place for intoxication, not drunkenness, you’re a disgrace!”

Grantaire, leaning on his elbows on the windowsill, gazed back at him softly. “I believe in you, you know.” 

“Go away!”

“Let me sleep here!” 

“Go and sleep somewhere else!”

Grantaire sighed deeply, feeling himself being pushed into a state of exhaustion by Enjolras’ words. “Let me sleep here! –Until I die” 

“You haven’t the will to do anything, not even die!”

“You’ll see.” Grantaire muttered, laying his head on his arms none too gently, and quickly slipping into a deep sleep. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Silence. The barricade had fallen into silence. Grantaire groggily raised his head, the events of the past day little but a dream to him as he stared at the bodies littering the floor. The noise of the battles hadn’t woken him, that was no surprise- Bossuet often joked that he could sleep through one of those trains Combeferre was so fond of travelling right through his house. But silence- now there was a startling noise, or lack of it to be more correct. 

Then, he heard the noises of soldiers readying their muskets for discharge, and looked up to see Enjolras standing against the wall, weaponless. The barricade had fallen. He stood, yawned, and rubbed at his eyes before walking towards him, resolute in his decision. Just as the artillery Sergeant opened his mouth to order his men to take aim once more, he interrupted. “Long live the Republic! I am one of them!” 

His eyes fixed on Enjolras’ face, he was able to see the look of shock pass it as he crossed over the room to stand beside him. “Two at one shot,” He looked Enjolras in the eyes before asking in a tone so soft he was sure he was the only one who could hear it. “ Permits-tu? ” 

Enjolras took his hand with a smile, a real smile, and Grantaire basked in its warmth. He only vaguely heard the click of the muskets, nor felt the pain of the bullet that ended his life as he fell at the feet of the man he had so long venerated. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Grantaire groaned as he woke once more, face pressed into rough concrete, in what seemed to be a chamber of sorts. Blearily he looked around, noting several tunnels arching off from where he lay, before his eyes landed on Enjolras, face angelically peaceful as he slept, half propped up on a concrete ledge. Grantaire smiled, for once not saying the thoughts that came to his head as he turned over, making himself more comfortable as he allowed himself to slip back into sleep. He could deal with the strange place this seemed to be later. For now, he was content to sleep again. 

Chapter Text

Enjolras watched the lookouts for a while, before thinking of something else. Giving one last glance to the men keeping watch, he turned and hurried back inside the tavern, searching for the boy he had seen with Bahorel earlier. He was small, and could easily slip through the ranks without notice. 

He found the gamin in the lower room, making cartridges by candlelight. Instead of going to him, he settled himself in a chair, staring at the wall, thinking deeply. He hardly noticed when Gavroche got up and came to watch him, though he suddenly murmured. “You’re small.”

“Yes.” The boy cocked his head. “I am.”

“No one will see you in the darkness, go out and scout for me.” Enjolras straightened, looking at the child. “Go down the street, take a look, and come right back.”

“Little people are good for something then!” Gavroche said brightly. “Trust the little folk, don’t trust the big.” 

Enjolras raised an eyebrow as the gamin continued, pointing to a man he’d seen join them that afternoon. “You see that man over there?”

“Yes.”

“He’s an informer.”

“Are you certain?”

“Mhm, he pulled me off the cornice of the Pont-Royal not even two weeks back.” Gavroche replied with utmost sincerity. 

“Make sure he doesn’t leave.” Enjolras hastily turned on his heel to walk out, headed to find a few of the men he knew were dock hands. “Come with me, I need your assistance.”

The men followed readily and stationed themselves behind the man’s table, trying not to cause any suspicion. Placing his hands on the table and glared at him, speaking firmly. “Who are you?”

The man startled, staring a moment at the young man in front of him before smiling. “I see how it is.”

“Who are you?” Enjolras repeated. 

“Who do you think I am?” Javert asked. “I tell you yes.”

“You are an informer?”

“I am a government officer.”

“What is your name?” Enjolras demanded. 

“Javert.”

Enjolras frowned and raised his hand, gesturing to the men behind the table, who immediately seized Javert. “Search him.”

The men happily complied, and Javert was quickly bound and searched. They found on the spy his card, with his information on it, and Enjolras quickly read it over. Much to his surprise, he was who he said he was. “Tie him to the post.”

Seeing this, Gavroche bounced forward from where he was watching and declared. “The mouse has caught the cat.”

“Enjolras, who is this?” Combeferre, who had come in with Joly, Bossuet, Courfeyrac and several others who had noticed what was going on from outside.

“He is a spy.” Enjolras stared hard at Javert. “You will be shot ten minutes before they take the barricade.”

“Why not now?”

“We’re saving our powder.” Enjolras replied coolly.

“Kill me with the knife.”

“We are not assassins.” Enjolras turned to Gavroche, who he had just noticed. “Go and do what I instructed of you.”

“I’m going!” The gamin replied, though as he reached the door, he turned back. “I want his musket though.”

Enjolras nodded a little, unable to keep a small smile from gracing his lips as the little boy saluted him before darting out towards the opening of the barricade. He would be back, Enjolras hoped, with Information.

After the little boy left, Enjolras sighed, slipping out of the tavern again. He left one of the men to guard the spy, but there were other things that the leader needed to do. 

While he was inside, the rest of the men had accumulated around one of the buildings outside, and the commotion drew Enjolras’ attention. The blond haired man arrived at the scene just in time to see Le Cabuc raise his musket towards the open window on the fourth floor of the house. “Will you open your door, yes or no.”

“ Non, monsieur , it is impossible!”

“You say no?”

“I say no, good-” Le Cabuc fired, and Enjolras frowned. This was a murderer, and he would have no murderers on his barricade. 

Just as the man set the butt of his musket on the ground, Enjolras grabbed his shoulder, demanding. “On your knees!”

Le Cabuc turned to look at him, and Enjolras gave his most stony look. He was furious, and he cared not how much he was terrifying the man in front of him. “On your knees.”

Rather than wait for the man to do as he asked, Enjolras firmly forced him to his knees, his calm demeanor more terrifying that if he had exploded in anger. He felt the murderer shake under his hand, and was vaguely aware that the men of the barricade were coming to circle around the scene.

“Collect your thoughts.” Enjolras murmured, taking out his pocket watch. “You have one minute to pray or think, no more.”

“Pardon!” Le Cabuc begged softly, the rebel leader ignoring him. Instead, he watched the seconds tick by on his watch. One, two, all the way to sixty, where he clicked his watch shut, returning it to his fob. 

He took the murderer by the hair and pressed his pistol to his ear, pulling the trigger before he had time to think about what he was doing. He let the body fall, pushing it away with his foot. “Throw it outside.”

Three men came forward to do as he asked, and Enjolras stood motionless, contemplating his actions. It is of utmost importance that they know what I have just done was wrong. ”Citizens, this man did something horrible, but I have done no better.” He started, lifting his head to look at the people he was addressing. His friends, men of all ages whom he did not know, all of whom were looking to him. “He killed a man, so I was forced to kill him. Alas, rebellion must still have its discipline. Yet assassination is still a great crime, I judged and condemned this man to death. I abhorred it, though I did it. In such a way have I judged myself, you will soon see what I have been sentenced to.”

“We will share your fate!” Enjolras looked up to meet Combeferre’s eyes as he cried out, giving a slight nod. While he would prefer to see his friends alive at the end of this, it was not his decision to make. If they wished to stay, they would stay, and if death came for them all, that was not under his control. 

“So be it.” The blond headed man returned his gaze to the rest of the crowd. “But allow me one word more.”  He spoke about death, and the rebels listened. When he was finished, he fell silent, staring at the blood at his feet. He had just taken the life of a man. Of course, he had done such while fighting in 1830, but that had been different.

Later, Enjolras sat atop the barricade, watching the artillery. He had looked away for no more than a moment when he heard the sound of the cannon being loaded, with grapeshot no doubt. The cartridges, lumpy and packed tightly enough that the inner contents could be seen under the taut fabric were full of small balls, which would form a deadly spray once shot. “Get down against the barricade!” Enjolras called the minute he saw the torch being lowered to the flare out of the corner of his eye. 

The men hurried back to their position, but some weren’t quick enough. When he was sure there was no danger of being hit by any shell, Enjolras stood just enough that he could see the commander of the artillery. Resolutely pressing his lips together, he took his aim. 

“What a horrible thing war is,” Combeferre murmured from beside him, and he listened to his friend speak, though his aim never wavered. “You’re not looking at him, Enj, he could be your brother.”

“He is,” Enjolras said softly, preparing to shoot.

“And mine as well. Don’t kill him, please.”

“I must do what I must do.” As he pulled the trigger, Enjolras felt a single tear slip down his cheek, running a trail through the powder that blackened the right side of his face. Beside him, Combeferre bowed his head.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── 

Enjolras barred the tavern door, pushing what little he could find to barricade it. There were a handful of survivors inside, and he wished to buy them a little time. Once the insurgents had done all they could, they prepared themselves for the siege. Enjolras headed towards the stairs, pausing to kiss old Mabeuf’s hand as he passed by. He fought valiantly. Enjolras reflected as he tucked the wrinkled hand under the shroud. Then, he joined the rest of the men on the second floor, nodding to them. This would be the end, he could see that much.

It took little time for the National Guard to break through the barricaded door and swarm the lower floor of the tavern.  The valiant men in the upper room waited until they were close at hand before firing, knowing it was their last volley. After, they set their firearms down and Enjolras distributed the wine bottles to use as clubs. They wouldn’t last long, but they could inflict serious injury. 

By the time the soldiers had made it to the second floor, Enjolras was the only one standing. He had watched each of the others fall, even as his carbine had shattered as he used it against the soldiers coming up. 

He had no weapon but the barrel of that carbine as he stood against the wall, yet they left a large space between themselves and him. They were scared, and Enjolras could see it. 

“This is the leader!” One of the soldiers cried, as another put in.

“He’s the one who killed the sergeant, let’s shoot him on the spot!” 

“Shoot me.” Enjolras agreed, tossing his weapon away and crossing his arms.

The soldiers went silent as he agreed with him, until one laid his gun down, declaring. “It feels as though I am about to shoot a flower.” 

Enjolras waited as they chose twelve men to form a firing squad, assembling themselves in the corner opposite him. “Take aim!”

“Wait.” One of the officers stopped the sergeant, turning to Enjolras. “Do you wish your eyes covered?”

“No.”

“Were you the one who killed the artillery sergeant?

“It was I.”

Before the soldiers could reform to execute him, a voice from the doorway interrupted. “Long live the republic! I am one of them!”

Enjolras looked up, thinking all who had fought with them were dead, or too wounded to continue. Much to his surprise, in the doorway stood Grantaire, with a more serious expression than Enjolras had ever seen on his face. 

“Long live the republic!” Grantaire cried again, walking over to join Enjolras. “Two at one shot,” declared he. 

Enjolras stared at him for a moment, stunned.

“ Permits-tu ?” Grantaire asked quietly.

Enjolras nodded, taking his hand. Just before the report of the muskets rang out, a soft smile found its way to his face. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── 

Enjolras gasped as he came to, looking around. Grantaire, where is Grantaire. His mind raced with the knowledge that the cynic had chosen to die with him. For him to have still been alive meant he likely could have survived, he must have been somewhere the soldiers hadn’t noticed him. 

He was so focused on trying to find the man that he hardly realized that he was no longer in the upper room of a tavern, much less in any building it seemed. 

The walls here were stone of some sort, rough to the touch, and Enjolras deduced he was in a cavern of some sort.. He whipped around as he heard a noise, trying to find what made it. 

Not seeing anyone or anything nearby, he decided to walk. He couldn’t get too lost in a cavern if he paid attention to his turns, could he?

Just as he was about to leave the chamber he was in, he tripped. Enjolras gave a little gasp and dropped to his knees, flipping the body he’d tripped on over to see his face. “Grantaire!”

Chapter Text

Bahorel bounded along the sidewalk, watching the people as he hurried by. This was odd. The metal beasts that roamed the streets went quite a bit faster than carriages, and no horses could be found to pull them. Somehow, they still moved without horsepower. 

“If this is Paris, then I’m a Bonapartist.” He muttered to himself as he stood at the corner of one of the streets, wondering if he dared cross with the metal carriages moving so quickly. Usually, he wouldn’t be so hesitant, but after the barricades, there seemed to be a feeling of unease with him, very different from his usual confidence. 

Suddenly, all the motion on the street he wanted to cross stopped. In shock, Bahorel looked to the sky to see if there was something that they had seen to make them stop. Carriages in his time never did that in such a uniform fashion. There was only a strange box with a glaring red light that served nothing to confirm Bahorel’s suspicions. Perhaps they had stopped just for him to cross, which he did quickly,  still wary enough not to test his luck with these horseless carriages. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── 

Prouvaire browsed the rows of books in the library, searching for titles that looked familiar, anything to let him know he wasn’t completely alone here. Most of the titles were unfamiliar, and the bindings of the books were much more colorful than he was used to. “Do you need any help?” The voice startled him, and he blushed, looking over at an older woman standing beside him. 

“I- I’m not sure.” He admitted, pressing his lips together. In all honesty, he had found the library only by chance. The green windows had caught his attention and he’d gone to investigate. “I’m not sure exactly what I want to find.” 

The librarian nodded. “Is there anything in particular you like?”

“Poetry,” Jehan immediately replied, looking down at his feet shyly. “I like poetry.” 

“Poetry will be on the fourth floor, I can show you where it is.” 

Prouvaire nodded and followed her, stopping when he saw that the staircases were moving on their own. “Are they supposed to do that?”

“Yes, they’re escalators.” She gave him an odd look, and he nodded quickly. This was apparently something he should have known about, but how? He’d never seen anything like it before, even in Combeferre’s drawings, which were at times quite hard to imagine actually existing. 

The escalator was an odd feeling, he rose up to the next floor of the building, while his feet stayed firmly planted on the stair he’d stepped onto. That was the easiest part- stepping on and off of a moving staircase was much harder than it appeared to be when the librarian did it, Prouvaire found that he had to move somewhat quicker than he anticipated, lest his feet grow too far apart for his balance to remain steady. The second time was easier. 

“Here’s the poetry, you’re welcome to browse, and if you need help finding anything in particular, someone at the desk over there will be happy to provide assistance.” The librarian who had shown him to the correct floor gestured to the desk, smaller than the one of the first floor, but there were still two people sitting behind it. 

“ Merci beaucoup ,” Jehan hurried over to the rows of bookshelves, soon finding himself lost in searching through the titles. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

As he walked the streets, Bahorel set up a cheerful whistle, which stopped abruptly when he came upon a sign bearing the inscription; ‘University of South Carolina. Joseph F. Rice School of Law’. He sighed deeply, shaking his head at the sign as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and hurried past the building. “It seems that even in this place I can’t escape the horrors of law.” He muttered to himself, crossing the street again for good measure. 

Since he had no place to be, and wasn’t even sure where he ought to be going, he wandered aimlessly, taking first one street, then another, carefully noting where he was so he wouldn’t get lost. It was perhaps, only a few hours later when he came upon a building that drew his attention, the green tinted windows reminding him of the glasses he’d seen on one of the members of another group he’d visited once, testing the waters to see if they would be interested in joining the insurrection when the time came. This street was busier than some of the others he had passed, the bustle of the horseless carriages almost constantly rushing by. Metal book boxes stood outside the door, and people sat on the benches outside, some reading, others just resting. 

Bahorel lingered a few minutes before moving on, paying little enough attention to where he was going that he collided with a person exiting the building, knocking them to the ground. “Ah! My apologies-” He said quickly, stooping to offer a hand before freezing. 

“Bahorel?” Prouvaire blinked up at him from the ground, pulling himself into a sitting position and wrapping his arms around his knees. “Is it you, or am I dreaming?” 

“You’re not dreaming, cher ami .” Bahorel took him by the wrist and pulled him to his feet before wrapping the younger man in a tight embrace. “What are the odds?”

“I don’t think it’s eighteen thirty-two any more,” Jehan responded, voice muffled from being pressed into Bahorel’s chest. “The books are different.”

“The carriages too.”

“Inside the library there, they have moving staircases.” 

“There’s a law school down the way- I wonder if Blondeau still teaches.” 

“Joly has a theory he’s immortal, could be possible.” Prouvaire wiggled out of Bahorel’s grasp, looking him over carefully. His clothing was just as dirty as his own, and ripped in a few places from getting caught on rubble whilst building the barricade. The most noticeable was the gash torn through both waistcoat and shirt, right where his stomach met his ribs. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“Far from it, my friend,” Bahorel grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Now that we’re both here, what say you we find some food, and then a place to rest?”  Jehan nodded, taking the arm offered to him as Bahorel looked around. “I’m sure there’s somewhere around here.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Where are we headed now?” Prouvaire asked, taking a quick bite of the apple Bahorel had tossed them moments before. It seemed they had been constantly on the move since they’d left the library, but he didn’t mind, he knew how Bahorel was.

“I don’t know yet,” Bahorel responded, stopping to pop his head into a space between two buildings, just wide enough that a man could slip through. No one there. “I want to learn the layout of the city.” And see if there’s anyone else here, he thought as he pulled away, continuing on. 

“Can we see the river walk?” Prouvaire asked suddenly, stopping in his tracks about fifteen minutes later and gesturing to a sign in the middle of the sidewalk while the other inspected what seemed to be an old, abandoned schoolhouse. “See if it's the Seine?”

“We’re not in Paris,” Bahorel grunted, crawling out from under the building. He brushed sand off himself as he walked over to join him, looking down the pathway the sign announced. “I see no river, but I suppose we can check it out, we’ll have to find a place to spend the night soon enough anyway.” 

Prouvaire grinned and started down the path, lined on both sides with trees, small plaques at the roots placed in memory of people who had passed away. It wasn’t long before they got to the edge of a canal, with a bridge spanning the width of it a few feet down. He walked out to the edge of the wooden structure and leaned over the railing, scanning the banks for anything. 

A turtle sat on a half submerged branch near the edge of the water, and Jehan studied it intensely. The sun was beginning to set, but there was still plenty of light to see by. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a turtle like that one, Baz.” 

“It looks like every other turtle I’ve seen,” Bahorel shrugged.

“No, look at how yellow the bottom of its shell is,” Prouvaire pointed to where he could see a sliver of the turtle's shell. “They aren’t like that in France.” 

“Are you sure?” Bahorel squinted at the turtle. Of course, he didn’t often make a habit of stopping to look at turtles, not since he was a small boy running feral in the woods outside his home. 

“I’m certain,” Jehan replied confidently, pulling away from the railing and heading towards the other end of the bridge. “Come, I want to see the river.” 

“Is this not the river?” Bahorel followed behind, half teasing him. 

“The sign at the other end said there was a canal here, as well as a river, and I think this is the canal,” Prouvaire headed down the steps of an amphitheater, looking around. At one end stood a rickety old building, long since unused, the door wide open for anyone to just walk in. At the other was a wall, and in front of both was the river. “This looks like it was built right up against the water.” 

“Let’s go in and have a look,” Bahorel murmured, deciding that it might be a good place to sleep for the night if it really was as abandoned as it seemed. There were hardly any people about at the moment, likely on account of the late hour. 

Inside the building were many pipes, a walkway going from one end to the other, and railings to keep people away from the mechanics. A sign on the front rail, in between a red, circular turbine, and one of the largest pipes in the building announced it as a hydraulic turbine house. 

Bahorel paused as he saw a familiar figure standing on the pipes, nearly at the other end of the long pump house building, and he hurried to the edge of the railing, squinting to be sure the boy was who he thought before calling out to him. “Gavroche?” 

The boy turned, his face lighting up as he recognized him. “Bahorel!” 

“And Prouvaire too, what are you doing over there, lad?” Bahorel grinned, leaning over the railing. 

“My foot is stuck,” Gavroche replied sheepishly, leaning back on the edge of the turbine. “I can’t get it out.” 

Immediately, Bahorel hoisted himself over the railing, and onto the platform crossing the pump house, carefully making his way towards the boy, watching where he stepped to be sure he didn’t find himself in the same predicament. “Hang on, I’ve got you.”  When he got to where Gavroche stood, he knelt to examine his foot, bracing himself on the pipe with one hand. “Show me how much you can move.” 

“Just this much,” Gavroche pushed his leg lower down into the crevasse between the turbine, and pipe, then pulled it back to where it was before, wincing a little. “My ankle hurts, I think I turned it.” 

Bahorel nodded as he reached down to grab his ankle, feeling to see how much space he had between skin and metal. “I’m going to try to pull it out, tell me if it hurts too much, okay?” 

“Okay.” 

The man began to gently work the boy’s foot out of the crack, wincing at the way it seemed to stick fast. He didn’t want to pull too hard and risk hurting him worse, but it needed to come out. If Gavroche had shoes, he could have tried taking the shoe off, then working the bare foot out, but it wasn’t possible, the boy had no shoes on. “Let me see if I can widen the opening,” Bahorel let go of his foot and slid his hands on either side of the crack. “When I tell you, pull up.” 

“Okay.” 

“Pull!” Bahorel pushed against either side with his full strength, and much to his relief, the old, worn down pipes gave just enough for Gavroche to pull his foot out. He pulled away quickly, and helped the boy jump onto the main platform, worriedly looking him over. “Are you alright?” 

Gavroche shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes, which worried Bahorel more than anything. The gamin wasn’t one to cry at all, much less in front of someone he admired so deeply. He put his hands on the boy’s shoulder and asked softly. “What’s wrong, lad?” 

“You died.”  The boy whispered, a tear slipping down his face just before he launched himself into Bahorel’s arms. Used to being tackled by young members of his family, he caught him instinctively, pulling him into a tight embrace. 

“I’m alright,” Bahorel stroked Gavroche’s hair as he sobbed into his chest, sending a worried look back to Prouvaire, who’d abandoned his explorations when he’d noticed the commotion. “You’re with us now, I’m not dead anymore, I promise.” 

Gavroche pulled away from him, keeping hold of his shirt with one hand while wiping his nose on his other sleeve,  looking at Bahorel as if he were still hesitant to believe he was really there. “You sure?”

“More certain than I’ve ever been in my life.”

Chapter Text

 Bossuet ran his hand over the top of his head, shaking it a bit to rid it of the sweat that had accumulated over the course of the past few hours. It was much hotter here than he was used to, and there was hardly any cover. A tree here and there, but other than that, nothing at all. For the first time in his memory, he cursed his luck. Who else would be left out in the middle of a scorching hot plain, with nothing to speak of but cows? He knew the animals had to be getting water from somewhere, but he had seen nothing at all- no ponds or buildings that could house a trough.

Eventually, he turned to the nearest cow with a tight smile. "So, is it just me, or is this place endless?” 

The cow, of course, gave him no reply. At least I haven't stepped in any shit. As if fate wished to prove him wrong, his next step had him sinking into a cow pie, still warm. Bossuet groaned, shaking his foot off as best he could before covering his face with his hands. "Is there any way this day could get any worse?" He paused, pointing a finger at the cow. “Don't answer that, please."

The cow gave a low mooing noise in response, lowering her head to take another mouthful of grass. Lesgle sighed again and continued on. He'd need to find water before too much more time passed, and preferably a road or at least some sort of sign he wasn't stranded in the middle of a deserted island. Though, that would be just his luck, wouldn't it? Maybe if he found water it would be as salty as the ocean his parents had taken him to see once when he was very small. He almost laughed at the thought. 

"Well, if I keep walking I'll get somewhere, right?" He muttered, more to himself than to anyone else. 

It was another hour before he stumbled- almost literally tripped over to be honest- upon a split rail fence. “Ah! Now here we are,” Bossuet said to nobody, quickly gathering his balance. “Here I was paying no attention to anything, and I find a fence. At least that’s something that’s not a cow- or the excrement of a cow.” 

He ran his hand over his head again, wincing at the oiliness. Bossuet perched on the fence, taking a moment to rest while he observed his surroundings. On the other side was a dirt road, trailing off as far as he could see in the distance. Other than that... Just cows. But at least he had a road now, and with luck, he would be able to find a house or some sign of human life whichever way he chose to go. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Courfeyrac scanned the area carefully, looking for any person that looked like Marius. He didn’t know what his father looked like, but since he was related, he’d just hope he resembled his friend enough that he could tell who he was with little trouble. He’d walked along the river for about half an hour now, pausing now and then to step into one of the restaurants lining either side of the bustling sidewalk. So far, he’d had no luck in anything.

“Are you looking for someone, sir?” Courfeyrac immediately snapped back into the present, giving a charming smile to the older woman who had approached him.

“Yes, actually,” He sighed, tugging at his cravat. This damned heat was beginning to get to him. “Have you by any chance met a man with the surname of Pontmercy, madame ?”

“No, but I wish you luck in finding him!” The woman smiled at him before heading on her own way. 

Courfeyrac sat down on a stone wall, feeling somewhat defeated. A whole hour in this place, and no one he asked seemed to have any idea who he was looking for. Not that he was much help himself, he had only a surname, and the fact that he knew Marius’ father fought at Waterloo on his side. That wasn’t much at all when you were looking for someone. But, he supposed it was better than nothing. 

Craining his head back, he closed his eyes. It was sweltering here, even in the shade, and with the added humidity, he felt sticky. Of course, stripping off his waistcoat would probably help, but then he wouldn’t be decent. Not that he was decent at the moment, with no hat, coat, nor cravat. But if he stripped to his shirtsleeves, he would be practically naked. There was absolutely no way he’d allow himself to go out in public in such a state, not even when he saw so many people dressed far more scantily than himself. 

The soft cooing of a pigeon pecking at his feet brought him back to full consciousness, and he smiled. “ Bonjour ,” He moved his foot a little, surprised when the bird didn’t fly away as expected. “I fear I’m nothing worth eating, little bird.” 

The pigeon cooed, cocking its head at him. Courfeyrac smiled as the gesture reminded him of the half confused, half amused looks Marius would often give him when they spoke to each other. “It’s true. I’ve never eaten a shoe before, but I think I can safely assume they wouldn’t taste pleasant.” 

He leaned forward, resting his chin in his hands as he watched the bird waddle around the area, picking up bits of food that it found. He didn’t recognize much of what he saw it eating, and wondered what it tasted like. After watching the bird hop around for a while, Courfeyrac pushed himself to his feet. He had a mission to complete, and sitting around wasn’t going to help him. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

It seemed to Bossuet an eternity passed before he finally caught sight of a house, still decently far off in the distance. Even though he felt he was on the verge of passing out from exhaustion, he whooped, striding forward with a sudden burst of energy. He no longer counted himself lost, and estimated that it would be no more than an hour longer before he would be seeing people again if his luck held out. 

His luck did not hold out. It was twice that long before he reached the turn off to the road he assumed the house was on. Although now he was close enough to see the detail of it all, rather than just being able to see it was a house. Fortunately the road wasn’t long, only a few hundred feet of gravel encrusted road that ended at a small off building. Playing in the yard were three young children, who looked up as he approached. Bossuet smiled at them, raising his hand in greeting. “ Bonsoir , could you perhaps direct me towards the nearest town?” 

The children whispered amongst themselves for a moment, and Bossuet tried not to eavesdrop on them, though he was curious. Then, the eldest took off running towards the house. He waited patiently for their return, seating himself on the ground a short distance away from the other two, who kept curiously watching him. He supposed he must look quite a sight to them- a strange man covered in blood, most of it his own. Still, they looked just as strange to him as he assumed he did to them. “So, you all live here?” He tried to make small talk with them, but received no answers. 

The silence felt awkward to Bossuet, and he was greatly relieved when the eldest child came back out of the house, followed closely by a man who was perhaps only ten years older than Bahorel. He quickly pulled himself to his feet and went to greet him. “ Bonsoir, monsieur.”

”What brings you to these parts?” The man asked immediately, looking Lesgle over with a small frown. “We don’t often get visitors hereabouts.” 

“I fear I’m as lost as a fish in the desert,” Bossuet rubbed his head sheepishly, wincing at the suddenly painful sensation. “I would be most grateful if you could direct me towards the nearest town.” 

“You intend to walk there?” The man snorted, shaking his head, deciding to take pity on this poor lost stranger. “You’d never get there before sundown, it’s best you stay here for tonight, and I can drive you over to San Antonio in the morning.” 

“Really?” Bossuet smiled a little, taking the man’s offered hand. “My name is Lesgle.” 

“Sam,” he shook firmly, then nodded at the children. “Those are my kids, my wife’s inside- she’ll probably have something for your sunburn.” 

Bossuet nodded, glad to be off his feet. A place to wash the blood off his hands, and rest for the night would be amazing, and with luck, he could figure out how to get home, or at least find his friends from there. 

Sam led him into the house, and straight back to the bathroom, grabbing a clean towel from the closet and handing it to him. “Why don’t you shower before dinner? I suppose you don’t have a change of clothes?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Bossuet looked down at himself, noting the rip down the leg of his trousers. He’d caught it on a fence while he was walking, and between the rips and the blood, he wasn’t sure his outfit could be saved. Musichetta would surely say no, though he’d sewn rips longer than this one before.

“I’ll bring you some of mine to borrow.” Sam replied, leaving him alone in the room. Bossuet took that as his chance to observe his surroundings, realizing he had little clue on what anything here was used for. The washbasin in the corner, and the toilet were straightforward enough, though the washbasin was empty, and the toilet full of clean looking water, but he had little clue about anything else in the room. Oh well, experimentation never hurt anybody- that was a lie. He’d gotten into several scrapes with Joly testing out his ideas, and knew well that his luck didn’t go well with experimenting. 

Sam returned a few moments later, setting a neatly folded shirt and sweatpants on the counter before leaving again, instructing Bossuet to just leave his clothes in the laundry hamper as he shut the door behind him. 

Left alone again, Bossuet sighed. He wasn’t exactly sure how he was supposed to clean himself, there was no tub in the room, and the washbasin was empty. He wasn’t fond of the idea of having to turn any of the knobs in the room, but he supposed he’d have to if he wanted to find out what they did.

Finding it odd that a portion of the room was partitioned off with a glass door, he stepped inside the shower, touching the knobs tentatively. “Well, I don’t have much to lose, do I?” He murmured under his breath as he turned the one closest to him. 

Above him, he heard a gurgling noise, and looked up just in time to be struck full in the face with a spray of icy water. He gasped sharply and stumbled back, wiping his face as he tumbled out of the shower, staring at the spray in a mixture of awestruck terror. Rain? Inside? How could this be...? 

At least his problem of how to wash himself was solved, the water was cold, but it would get the blood and grime off his skin. He stared at the spray for another moment before stripping out of his bloody, powder covered, and now wet clothing and stepped back into the shower, bracing himself against the cold. To his surprise, in the moments he’d stood outside, the water had grown warm. Perhaps this wouldn’t be so terrible after all. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

After wandering about the river walk for several hours and finding nothing, Courfeyrac decided to climb up the stairs of one of the bridges and take to the streets above to continue his search. It had, perhaps, been chance when he stumbled upon the old building, in an area much more crowded than even the riverwalk had been. There were lines to go inside, and Courfeyrac wondered what all the fuss was about. It looked no different than an old, run down, sandstone building. Nothing exciting- well, he supposed Combeferre could probably get excited about it, though considering he had the ability to get excited about anything, that wasn’t saying too much.

He stood at one end of the small, grassy square separating the street from the mission, a cannon beside a wall to his left, and to his right stood a palisade. Directly in front of him were three stone plaques laying on the ground. Seeing the writing carved into them, Courfeyrac stepped closer to see if he could figure out where he was. Letter from the Alamo. He read the plaques carefully, noting the date. 1836. It can’t be 1836, that’s four years in the future! He stepped back from the plaque, feeling more lost than he’d ever felt in his life.

Chapter Text

Feuilly paused his mopping to look up towards the skeleton, who’s extended neck arched out above his head before ending in a skull almost over the bench several feet away, marvelling that such a large creature had once walked the earth. Before, he never would have thought such a thing, but he’d learned many things in the past two weeks, which had seemed to pass in a blur. He’d managed to find a job as a janitor at one of the museums on the national mall, and though he wasn’t making enough yet to rent anywhere to stay, he was no stranger to sleeping on the streets, and counted himself lucky to be able to eat honestly. It had been quite some time since he had to of course- three francs a day were very decent wages, and he’d been able to support himself well once he’d gotten good at painting fans. 

At least mopping didn’t require the fine detail he’d have needed if he’d been able to find work as a fan-maker again- his hands had been shaking enough lately that he found it difficult to draw efficiently, much to his frustration. Usually, he worked after the museum closed as well, and he liked the quiet. He wasn’t as good with people as Bahorel or Courfeyrac, and preferred one on one conversation to large crowds, which he’d found many here. Today he’d been asked to come in earlier though, and had managed to keep himself out of the way until he’d been called to come clean up a puddle of- well, he didn’t know what exactly, and he wasn’t about to think too much on it. 

“Mister?” His concentration was suddenly broken by a little girl tugging on his trousers, and Feuilly looked down with a smile. He adored children- when he was free, he often accompanied Combeferre on his rounds in the poorer neighborhoods of Paris, sitting with the children and teaching them their letters while Combeferre tended to whoever in the family was ill. And of course, his door was always open to the gamins, should they want a place to rest for the night if the weather was bad. 

“ Bonjour ,” He greeted, watching the child put his hands behind her back. “Are you lost?” Normally, he wouldn’t have thought to ask such a thing- the little one seemed perfectly content where she was- but he’d noticed quickly that there were no young children running about the streets here. They all had some adult watching over them, even the larger groups who passed through the museum. 

“No, I came to see the dinosaurs.” The girl announced, glancing up at the skeleton. “Do you know what that one is?” 

“No,” Feuilly shook his head with a small smile. He’d made it a point to try to go through the museum, one gallery at a time in his spare time, but he hadn’t hit this one yet. Some took him several days to get through, as he’d stopped to read every sign or plaque with any information. “Do you?”

“Mhm!” She nodded excitedly. “It’s a diplodocus!” 

“Tell me about it?” Feuilly asked, grinning when she immediately lit up. 

“It was one of the longest dinosaurs, and it’s got eighty vertebraes just in its tail!” She pointed at the skeleton. “Those are the ones that sorta round.” 

Feuilly nodded, examining the creature as she continued, twirling around as she spoke. “It lived a long, long time ago, a hundred and fifty million years! That’s before my grandma was born, and she’s really old.”

Feuilly chuckled softly. “I think that’s before I was born as well.” 

“It liked to eat plants, even though its teeth are pointy. That’s because it ate leaves probably.” She paused for a moment to catch her breath. “Do you wanna know what its name means?” 

“Of course,” Feuilly nodded amiably, impressed with her knowledge. 

“Double-beam! It’s Greek, but I don’t remember why they named it that.” She rocked on her heels, then scampered over to the bone standing in front of the exhibit. It was much taller than she was, almost as tall as Feuilly himself, and put her hand on it. “This is an arm bone,” she told him solemnly. “You can touch it if you want, the sign says you can.” 

Feuilly walked over and put his hand on the bone, feeling the smooth fossil under his palm. “How do you know so much about this diplodocus?” 

“I read about it in my dinosaur book!” She grinned widely, showing off her missing front teeth. “It has a lot of dinosaurs in it, but not all of them. I don’t have a book with all of them in it yet.” 

“Are there a lot?” 

“Mhm! Maybe more than hundreds!” 

“That is a lot,” Feuilly agreed, sticking his hand in his pocket to try to find his sketchbook. He’d bought one, and a set of pencils when he saw it in a store he was in, and had been sketching out some of the things he’d seen so far. The animals in the galleries were a common subject of his sketching, as were the buildings he passed while walking. Some of his lines were more shaky than he would like, but it was fine. “I think I drew this one, if you want to see.” 

“I do!” Feuilly smiled and pulled out his sketchbook- he’d almost filled it already, and he’d had it a week and half so far. He carefully flipped past most of the drawings, until he found the one he was looking for.  

“Here it is." The drawing of the skeleton covered the full page, with not a bone out of place. Feuilly had carefully shaded it with pencil- it had taken him a few days to get it to a point that satisfied him. The little girl gasped in delight and gingerly touched the corner of the page.

“It looks just like him!” 

“Amélie!” An out of breath, middle-aged woman hurried up to the two, quickly grabbing the girl by the hand as she looked at Feuilly apologetically. “I’m so sorry, sir, she starts talking and can go for hours.” 

“Oh, it’s quite alright,” Feuilly assured her, slipping his sketchbook back into his pocket, and picking up the mop again. “I don’t mind.” 

“Bye!” Amélie waved at him as her mother hurried her away, turning to look over her shoulder as she walked. Feuilly smiled a little and raised his own hand to give a tentative wave back. 

He had just finished making sure everything was cleaned to his satisfaction when he was once again startled out of his thoughts by a new voice- this time one of a young woman with chestnut hair and twinkling blue eyes. “May I ask a favor of you? I know I don’t know you yet, but I saw how good you were with Amélie and I just thought-”

“What do you need help with?” Feuilly asked, gripping his mop a little tighter as he tried to calm his racing heart. He needed to start paying more attention to his surroundings when he was working during opening hours. Two scares in one afternoon were wearing on him. “I can try.” 

“I’m doing a program on butterflies tomorrow afternoon, and my assistant called in sick this morning, and doesn’t think she’ll be able to make it. Usually I wouldn’t be so concerned, but we’re making coffee filter butterflies, and I think I’ll need an extra set of hands.” She smiled apologetically, watching Feuilly’s face. “Oh, how silly of me- you don’t even know my name,” she offered her hand to him, which he quickly shook. “I’m Cosette.” 

“Feuilly.” Feuilly replied, trying to avoid her gaze, which seemed all too familiar to him, though he was certain he’d never met her before. “I’d be happy to help, but I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean by coffee filter butterflies.” 

“When do you get off?” Cosette asked quickly. “I can show you whenever you’re free, I have everything set out in the classroom already.” 

“Three more hours,” Feuilly glanced at the clock, quickly doing the math in his head. “Where should I meet you? I don’t think I know where the classroom is.”

“How does under the whale sound? That’s easy enough to find.” 

“Sounds good.” Feuilly nodded. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

At precisely five o'clock, Feuilly met Cosette under the whale in the ocean hall. There weren't nearly as many people milling about now, since it was only half an hour until closing, so she was easy to spot. Cosette smiled as she saw him approaching, and hurried to meet him. "Come with me, I'll show you where we're going to be doing the program."

Feuilly nodded and followed her to the classroom, and over to one of the tables, where she'd set out coffee filters, clothespins, markers, and spray bottles full of water. Cosette handed him two coffee filters, and motioned for him to sit down. "First, put the filters inside each other, and flatten them so you can color on the top one," she explained, showing him how she wanted him to do it. "Then, you'll use the markers and color the top one, just however you want to, you can do a design or whatever."

"How are we going to make it look like a butterfly?" Feuilly took a few markers from the bin, surprised at how bright the color was coming from what looked like a thick pencil. "It's very colorful."

"Good," Cosette smiled as she drew a design of circles and zigzags in blue and yellow on her own coffee filters. "When we're done coloring them, we'll spray them with the water until they're damp- that's the part I really need help with, I'm not going to let the kids do that part since it'll take forever to dry. Of course, there's going to be parents there, but some of them don't help as much as they talk with each other while the kids work."

"How damp do we need to get them?"

"Wet, but not soaking wet." Cosette picked up a spray bottle and spritzed the coffee filters a few times. "Just until the colors start to bleed."

"Alright." Feuilly nodded and did the same with his, watching in fascination as the colors spread out and began to bleed into each other.

"After we get all of them wet, we'll take them outside to dry in the sun while I talk about butterflies," Cosette moved both sets of coffee filters to another table, and grabbed two clothespins. "They'll dry faster in the sun than they will up here, so we'll have to finish in the morning but I'll tell you what I'm planning. I've already drawn faces on the clothespins with permanent markers, and we'll have the kids write their names on the back before putting everything together.”

"The filters have to dry completely?"

"Yeah, but I put them in the sun last night and it only took about half an hour, so I should be able to fill enough time with talking, and then a tour of the butterfly pavilion." Cosette set the clothespins aside. "Then we'll pinch the center of the filters, put the clothespins on, and carefully separate them so that the butterfly has four wing sections, two on each side. That's why they have to be dry, they rip easily otherwise."

"You explain it well," Feuilly commented, gently touching the edge of the wet filter. "I think I see what you mean." 

Cosette giggled softly. "My husband let me teach him how to make them so I could practice teaching. I've never actually done a program with the kids on my own before, so I was nervous that I wouldn't be able to teach them well.”

“Well, I think you’ll do just fine,” Feuilly assured her, standing up. “Is there anything more we need to go over?”

“No, that’s it!” Cosette shook her head with a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow then?”

“What time?”

“The program is at eleven, so maybe be up here a quarter ‘till? If you’re here earlier than that, we can finish the butterflies we started today, they’ll be dry enough by then.” 

“I’ll be there.”

Chapter Text

Joly scrunched up his face in concentration as he sat cross-legged in the river, scrubbing firmly at his shirt, trying to rid it of the blood that clung to the fabric. It was more red than white at this point- well, brownish now- the blood had mostly dried since he’d been killed. The sun warmed his back as he worked, and his kitten sat on the bank, watching him in concern. His trousers and waistcoat lay discarded beside him, as he’d decided to start by cleaning his shirt since even if he hadn’t the time to get to the other things, at least the garment closest to his skin would be fresh. Musichetta had once told him that cold water would wash out a bloodstain, but it didn’t seem to be working. Perhaps he wasn’t doing it right. He sighed and fidgeted in the cool water, feeling the gravel shift under his weight. The coolness of the water felt good, and once he’d found a quiet enough spot, where the current was moving slowly enough that he felt safe getting in, he’d scrubbed himself until any traces of the previous few days were surely gone. 

The kitten mewed at him from the bank, he’d taken a nap in the sun, curled in Joly’s clothing while he’d washed, but upon being disturbed by the man deciding to wash his shirt, he’d decided to sit as close to the water as he could without touching it, though he kept inching closer. Joly turned at the soft noise and managed the barest hint of a smile, wiggling his fingers in the direction of the cat. “I’m fine, you don’t need to worry.”  

Hearing him speak, and the small wave seemed to be enough to convince the feline to brave the water, and he promptly scrambled into the river. The water was only a few inches deep where he sat, and the kitten howled as though it was entirely Joly's fault he was soaked as he scrambled into his lap. 

The young man yelped sharply, and quickly scooped him up, holding him out of the water. “Claws!” He gasped as he adjusted the cat in the crook of his arm, reaching down to rub his leg with one hand. “You, my dear little friend, cannot be doing that when I haven’t any trousers on!” He paused, softening at the sight of the drenched creature, settling him back in his lap carefully. “You need a name. Ambroise, how does that sound? For Ambroise Paré.”

Ambroise looked up at him and meowed pitifully, pressing himself against Joly’s stomach to try to avoid touching the water again. The man smiled and scratched behind the kitten’s ears before sighing and looking at his shirt. It was still stained, and ripped where the bayonet had gone through, but he didn’t think he could get it any cleaner. Besides, he was both cold and exhausted now, the sun had gone behind a cloud, taking its warmth with it, and the exertion of bathing had used up most of what little energy he had left. He pushed himself to his feet with a groan, scooping up Ambroise and making his way to the bank. He was certain he could finish washing his clothing after he rested for a while. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“How does it work?” Combeferre looked up from examining the camera in his hands with a delighted expression. It wasn’t every day one discovered that in the two hundred-ish years since you were born that people had figured out how to fix images. “And it truly holds the picture on the screen? For how long?”

The couple who had asked him to take their photo stared at him blankly. “Why would I know how a camera works?” The man asked, taking the camera from his hands. 

“Well, you are from this time, yes?” Combeferre followed after him as he walked away, hands behind his back. He’d managed to get his hands on a newspaper quite quickly, and had been delighted to find the date was well in the future. “I must admit that I myself am not, ergo, I wish to learn.” 

The man and his wife started walking faster, and Combeferre stopped, frowning as he got the message that they didn’t wish for a conversation. He watched sadly as they walked away- everyone that he had met this far had seemed to be frightened of him. Perhaps it was the fact that in his excitement over being in such a different time, it had completely slipped his mind that he must look a sight with his tattered, bloody clothing, broken spectacles, and expression of unbridled delight.

Still, how could one not be delighted when he was in the twenty-first century, not far from Niagara falls? In the little town he'd woken up in, he had seen the signs advertising the park, and had managed to catch a bus there. Now, he could hear the roar of the falls as he headed closer to the railing. That was how he'd learned of the camera. A couple standing by the railing had asked them to take their picture with the falls in the background, and he'd happily obliged, only to end up like this.

Combeferre sighed deeply, and walked back over to the railing, resting his elbows on it as he leaned forward, gazing at the waterfalls in wonder. Until now, he'd only read about it, and to see it with his own two eyes was amazing. Even if it were a tad blurry- He'd always had trouble seeing at a distance, but the fact that his glasses had been broken on the barricade was nothing but terrible luck. He wasn't sure where he could find someone to replace them, so he supposed that he would have to manage. Perhaps he should start looking for his friends...

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Joly tugged up his trousers, trying not to step on Ambroise, who sat at his feet. He’d slept for much longer than he had planned, and had awoken to sunburnt skin and the deepening shadows telling him that it was no earlier than three in the afternoon- if he were guessing right. He coughed, grabbing his waistcoat- well really it was Lesgle’s waistcoat, that he’d stolen from him a few days prior- from the bush he’d slung it over to dry earlier. He felt congested, and disliked that he still felt ill, but he tried to make himself as presentable as he could anyway. “I wish I had a sewing kit,” he commented to the kitten as he tried to adjust the layers of fabric so there wasn’t a visible hole through all of them. The bayonet had gone through every layer he was wearing- waistcoat, shirt, and just under the waistband of his trousers. He sighed and took the waistcoat back off, turning it inside out before putting it back on, struggling a little to button it up. It looked odd that way, but at least it covered the holes in the other two garments that way. “That shall have to do.” He murmured softly, squatting down to look at Ambroise. “Well, what say you, we go try to find if there’s any signs of life anywhere?” 

Ambroise mewed at him, so he took that as a yes and scooped up the kitten, heading back the way he had come. If he followed the river, he’d have to stumble upon some sort of town eventually. 

He did not, in fact, stumble upon a town. Rather, he found a trail in the woods, which he set to follow, hoping he was heading in the right direction. It was much easier to traverse the clear cut path than walk through the woods, as he had been doing before, so he took his chances with letting Ambroise walk beside him. He shouldn’t have worried though, the kitten was content to follow after him with no wandering, occasionally scrambling over the dirt ahead of him when he deemed Joly was walking too slowly, but never going far. 

Half an hour after stepping foot onto the trail, he stopped stock still as he reached the clearing at the end. It wasn’t the roar of falling water that stopped him in his tracks, though that did explain why he’d had to walk so far to find a safe place to bathe. No, standing by the railing was an unmistakable form.

 “Combeferre!” Joly rushed forward, stumbling as his knee threatened to give out on him as he put his full weight on it much too quickly. “Combeferre, is it truly you?” 

The man in question turned, squinting at Joly for a moment before breaking out in a wide smile and running to meet him, pulling him into a tight embrace, then pushing him back with his hands on his shoulder to examine him, frowning in concern. “You're limping."

“My knee is sore, I’m fine,” Joly mumbled, pressing his face into Combeferre’s chest, trying to ignore the texture of the fabric, crusty with dried blood against the burnt skin on his nose and cheeks as he fought back tears. “I thought I was alone."

"You're not anymore,” Combeferre ran his fingers through Joly's hair, pulling him closer once again. "The others are probably here too- did you know they've figured out how to fix images? Not like how the camera obscura does it, this time it’s truly fixed, and in color too!"

Joly stayed silent as he tried to calm himself- he didn’t want to make a scene in such a public place, but the relief he felt at finding Combeferre was overbearing, and a few tears escaped as he clung to him. Ambroise batted at his ankle, mewling pitifully at him until he leaned down to scoop him up. Once in his arms, the kitten clawed himself up to snuggle just under his chin and started purring, forcing him to adjust his hold so he could properly support him. 

“Who is this?” Combeferre raised an eyebrow, trying to figure out where and how Joly could have managed to pick up a kitten. 

“His name is Ambroise,” Joly murmured, pushing a few fingers between the furry body and his skin- the vibration of the tiny animal felt weird against his throat. “He was with me when I woke up- I think he came from the barricade.” 

“Fascinating!” Combeferre leaned down to see the kitten better, his face hovering about three inches from the feline in Joly’s arms. “Is his fur all black?”

“As if he fell in an inkpot,” Joly replied, burying his face in Ambroise’s fur. “He’s been following me all day.”

“I see,” Combeferre nodded, pulling back and offering Joly his arm. “Shall we go into the museum here? I wish to show you a few things.” 

Joly gratefully took his arm, leaning heavily on it to take as much weight off his knee as he could, and let Combeferre lead him to the building several feet away. Though he wasn’t feeling well, he was perfectly willing to follow Combeferre anywhere, especially if it meant he could keep him in his sight. He still couldn’t fully believe that he’d found him, though the proof was right beside him. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Ferre, you’ve been in there for fifteen minutes.” Joly leaned on the stall door, sighing as he heard the toilet flush for the... Well, at this point, he’d lost count. “Surely you’re finished by now?”

“Let me pull the lever one more time,” Combeferre replied, clearly delighted. “Joly, this is a magnificent invention! Whatever you drop in it disappears when you push the lever down!”

“Combeferre, what have you been putting in the strange modern privy?” Joly demanded, eyes widening in horror as he grasped what his friend was doing. 

“Just this paper in here.” Combeferre explained, unlatching the stall door as he mused to himself. “I wonder if one of my trouser buttons would go down, there’s one loose enough I could pry it off...”

“You keep all the buttons on your trousers where they are,” Joly scolded as he stepped aside to allow Combeferre to wash his hands, following the instructions on the paper taped on the mirror, which stated that now, proper etiquette after one relieved themselves was to wash their hands. “Besides, the roar it makes when you pull the lever is much too loud.”

In all honesty, Joly had been just as much interested in the contraption when they had first entered the bathroom, but after several loud flushes, it had soon grown tiring. That, combined with the constant coming and going of all the people, especially the ones using the electric air dryer, had quickly worn down his sensory tolerance. “Can we please go?” 

Combeferre froze at the tone of Joly’s voice- it was almost a whine, something he’d never before heard from his usually cheery friend. He hadn’t realized he was so distressed, and immediately felt guilty for not paying more attention. “Are you alright? What’s wrong?” He put his hands on Joly’s shoulders, quickly pulling back when he flinched. “Joly?” 

Joly shook his head, biting his lip as he shrugged, stepping backwards away from Combeferre. The air around him seemed to be crushing him as he felt the overwhelming urge to find the smallest spot he could and press himself into it. There was nowhere here to hide though- not like at home where he could push himself into the furthest corner of the closet, or crawl under the bed until Bossuet returned home to coax him out and sit with him until he felt like he could function again. “Joly, I need you to breathe.” Combeferre’s voice seemed as though it was coming from underwater, and Joly shook his head, trembling as he sank to the floor. 

“Joly-” Worried, Combeferre took a step forward, sighing as Joly scooted under the sink and pressed himself into the corner of the room. He squatted down and pushed his glasses up on his nose as he gazed at the younger man. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong.” 

Joly opened his mouth to reply, then just as quickly closed it once he realized he didn’t think he could speak. Out of habit, he pressed his fingers to the side of his neck to feel his pulse. Too fast. He didn’t know why this happened to him sometimes- thankfully rarely- but he didn’t like it at all. Even if he could talk, he wasn’t sure he could explain how he was feeling to Combeferre, because he didn’t know. 

“I’ll be right back,stay here.” Combeferre stood back up and left the room. Joly inhaled shakily, suddenly feeling very alone. It felt like ages until his friend finally returned, though it was probably less than two minutes. He was holding something, but Joly didn’t look close enough to register what it was. 

Combeferre silently squatted back down a few feet away, and set what he was carrying on the floor, giving it a gentle shove towards Joly. “Go to him please.” 

Seconds later, Joly felt the small, warm weight of Ambroise push his way into his lap and press himself close to his chest, nudging his nose under his chin as he shifted to cradle him.

Joly glanced up at Combeferre and immediately burst into tears.

Chapter Text

Grantaire woke with a start to find Enjolras crouched beside him, staring at him with an icy blue gaze. Well, perhaps not icy so much as concerned, but his point still stood. It was a startling sight to wake up to anyhow.

“You’re alive.” The first words Enjolras spoke to him had no tact to them, and Grantaire sighed. Yep, this was definitely Enjolras, and not some imposter who looked exactly like him.

Grantaire stared at him groggily for a moment, then smiled. “Well, like Orpheus, it seems we have descended into Hades and returned unscathed. Unlike Orpheus, two have returned rather than one.” He took a deep inhale, opening his mouth to continue his speech when he was promptly cut off by Enjolras slapping his hand over his mouth. 

"Not now, please.” Enjolras murmured, furrowing his brow in surprise when Grantaire actually stopped talking for once. “We need to find out where we are.”

“A cavern,” Grantaire replied helpfully, pushing himself to a sitting position on the hard floor. “Of some sort.”

“I can see that,” Enjolras replied dryly, standing and extending a hand to help Grantaire up, which the older man took easily, intertwining their fingers the way they had been before they were shot. “We ought to find our way out of here.”

“Bah, can’t be that hard.” Grantaire walked to the nearest tunnel and turned left, confidently striding to the end and turning right. 

Enjolras followed, somewhat more hesitant than the other, but allowing him to lead for once. He felt strangely shaken up from the events of the day- or was it only a few hours? before. To have died and then seemingly woken unscathed like this- it was the strangest of feelings, and the normally confident man was in no way sure he liked it. And they were certainly not in the Corinthe anymore, this wasn’t the top floor of a cafe. In fact, it was anything but. 

It only took a few minutes for the two to emerge into a larger space, clearly a room in a building and not a cave as they had thought. No, this was a man-made structure. Concrete monsters lay on the floor near some of the crevasses, and in the dark, they were eerily still. Wherever they were, there were no signs of human life. 

It was still, dark, and utterly silent aside from the clicking of their shoes against the tile floor as they walked further away from where they had started. As Grantaire observed the surroundings, he decided he couldn’t tell if this place was a museum- or something else entirely. “Where the hell are we.”

Enjolras turned around in wonder, staring at the metal spirals, wide enough for a person to climb through that extended out over the room, ending in what looked like giant birdcages, hanging in the middle of the ceiling. “Damned if I know.” 

He took a few steps towards one of the spirals, poking his head into it. It was a bit of a tighter fit for him than he’d like, but he could get in. Not that he’d try climbing up through it, he didn’t want to risk getting stuck where Grantaire couldn’t reach him. “I think these are for climbing? Or so it appears?”

“I’d say so.” Grantaire walked in the opposite direction, stopping in a room with a giant pencil on the floor, and ropes suspended from the ceiling over a skate park half tube. “It looks as though everything in here is made to be climbed on.”

Enjolras made a confused noise in the back of his throat as he walked over to stand beside him, wishing everything was clearer. “It’s dark in here.”

“I doubt we’re supposed to be in here when it’s dark,” Grantaire shrugged dismissively. “Alas, we’re stuck unless we can find our way out.”

“We’d better start looking then.”

“Lead the way.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Grantaire where are you-” Enjolras turned on his heels, trying not to panic as he realized the older man was no longer behind him. “Grantaire.”

The man in question stood in front of a display case proudly proclaiming that it held the largest collection of items found in an outhouse in the world. He stroked his chin as he examined the items in the case. “I wonder if Bossuet’s pocket clock has made it in here.” 

“What?”

“He dropped his pocket clock in the privy a few months back,” Grantaire explained, grinning madly. “Joly says he doesn’t know how he managed it, that old baldy.” 

Enjolras sighed heavily. There were some adventures of his friends that he didn’t mind not knowing about, and this was one of them. “Can we please keep moving?” He asked tensely, rocking on his heels as he glanced up at the ceiling again. 

“I don’t like being in here- I can see the lights coming in through the windows, and yet it’s still so dark.”

“Have you seen any doors?” Grantaire asked, reluctantly pulling himself away from the display case. “Any way we could get out?” 

“I saw some fish in tanks.”

“That’s not helpful, ‘o dear leader.” 

Enjolras glared at him, “says the man who was stopped by a case of items found in an outhouse.”

“Bah.” Grantaire shook his head, sauntering down the stairs. 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

The pair blinked against the bright sunlight as Grantaire pushed open the fire escape door, Enjolras shielding his ears against the shrill alarm and giving the other man a look that could freeze water. “Grantaire.”

“I didn’t know it would do that!” Grantaire put his arms up in defeat, grinning sheepishly as he pulled the door shut behind him. “We had better get out of here.” 

“Agreed.”

With that, the two darted down the street, hoping there was no one around to recognize them for whatever the alarm they’d just set off meant. They didn’t stop until they reached the library, almost a half mile away. 

“Never doing that again,” Grantaire panted, holding his sides as he looked up at the library building. “Think we’re good now?” 

“Not far enough away,” Enjolras huffed, his face reddened from the exercise. He’d run further distances before, but never with nearly that much adrenaline coursing through his veins. “But let’s walk now.”

“If I have to run again today I think I’ll just let myself be caught.” Grantaire groaned, starting off after Enjolras as the blond headed down the street. “Do you know where we’re going?”

“There.” Enjolras stopped and pointed to an arched building in the distance. “That is a landmark. I haven’t seen anything like it in my life, I’m sure if we go there, we will find answers.”

“If you say so.” 

Enjolras led the two down several streets, trying to make it to the arch without knowing the layout of the city. Combeferre was a better guide than he, but he could make do.

Five minutes, and three turns later, Grantaire decided he’d recovered enough breath to start talking in earnest again, and it was all Enjolras could do to block out his ramblings. He wasn’t at all interested in listening to the older man yammer on for hours on end, he wanted to know where they were, and what happened. 

“Would you look at those metal beasts, Enjolras?” Grantaire grabbed him by the arm as he made to walk out into the street without looking, pulling him back up onto the sidewalk. “They would trample you to the ground should you not pay attention!”

“Ah.” Enjolras colored slightly, raising his gaze to look out at how the cars in the street were whirring past. He truly hadn’t noticed them before, too absorbed in his own thoughts to care. It was almost as bad as the time he’d managed to miss Combeferre’s excitement over the nest of birds in the window having chicks one spring, if not more dangerous. He still felt bad for missing Combeferre’s excitement for so long, and had resolved to do better, even if he didn’t understand why one would take interest in such trivial things. 

“Yeah, you’re going to get yourself killed.” Grantaire groaned, running his hand down his face. “I think I should lead for a while- my feet are capable of that.”

Properly chastised, Enjolras nodded, falling into step behind him as soon as the cars stopped to let them cross the street. He was starting to suspect that this was no longer the nineteenth century, and his excitement grew as he realized he would soon get to see what had become of the world. The twentieth century would be a happy one, he was sure of it.

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Half an hour had barely passed before Grantaire got them to the arch. He had an excellent sense of direction when he chose to use it, and pleasing Enjolras was something he was willing to choose to do when he was allowed the opportunity. The last time, he’d ended up playing dominoes instead of what he was supposed to, and yet, he’d still been given another chance. It confused him greatly- had he not already proven himself to be untrustworthy in such things? Maybe this time he could do better. He had to do better. 

Enjolras is an enigma. He decided as he walked through the clearing behind him, the younger man having taken the lead again once their destination was in sight. “How does it stand on its own?” 

Grantaire almost walked into Enjolras’ back as he stopped suddenly, placing his hands on his hips as he stared at the arms. “Combeferre would know.”

“I’m sure he would,” Grantaire replied evenly, walking around him so he could keep going. 

“Have you any parchment? I wish to draw it for him, so he can see when we find him.”

“No,” Grantaire sighed, then spotted a piece of paper fluttering under a bench. He walked forward and grabbed it, holding it up to show Enjolras. “Does this work?”

“Wonderfully.” Enjolras took the paper and sat down in the middle of the sidewalk, spreading it out over his lap as he gazed out over the scene, running his finger in an arch over the paper. 

“Have you anything to draw with?”

“No.”

Grantaire sighed looking around again to see if he could find anything. To his delight, a pencil was found about twenty feet away, and he dropped it in Enjolras’ lap. “Will this do?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire watched in amusement as Enjolras put the tip of the pencil to the paper ever so solemnly, drawing an arch in the way a young child might draw a rainbow. He was no artist, but it was endearing how seriously he set himself to the task of making an image to show his dearest friend when they found him again with the knowledge that it would be something he would enjoy seeing. He seemed confident that they would find the others- Grantaire could only wish he was able to have so much hope inside him. 

He stood silently until Enjolras finished, folding up the paper and tucking it into the pocket of his waistcoat, along with the pencil. “Let us go inside then.”

Grantaire nodded, following him inside the museum building. He stopped short as Enjolras walked up to the front desk, and asked politely, but very bluntly, “Would you be so kind as to tell us where we are, madame? I fear we’ve gotten a bit turned around.”

“You’re at the Gateway Arch, in St. Louis, Missouri.” The woman at the desk replied in a tone that said she’d heard weirder questions in her time working here as she pushed her glasses up on her face. 

“Is it past the year 1832?” Enjolras asked again, and Grantaire could almost see the wheels turning in his brain. 

“Not even close.”

“What is today’s date?”

“June 6 th , 2025.”

Enjolras’ eyes went wide, and he turned to look at Grantaire with a deer caught in the headlights expression. The older man was certain his expression looked much the same as they stared at each other, and for once, Grantaire didn’t dare to be the one to break the silence.

Chapter Text

“One day, he will lie beneath my conquering knee and feel my name in his ear, and my knife at his heart.” Bahorel growled, hand on the scabbard that he’d fashioned from vines, ready to draw the stick he’d designated a sword. 

“Then what is that man’s name?” Jehan asked, staring deeply into his friend’s eyes, never letting his penetrating gaze falter as he reached to grab his own stick sword. 

“What can it mean to you? En guarde ! Defend yourself!” Bahorel drew his sword and lunged forward, aiming for Prouvaire’s heart..

The other drew his own sword just as quickly, leaping to meet him in a well practiced manner. Sitting on a stone with his foot in the river, Gavroche watched wide-eyed as the men fenced, bare feet dancing over the sand and stones with the agility of mountain goats. He’d seen Hernani many times in the theater, as had Bahorel and Prouvaire, but this was certainly the closest he’d ever come to Hernani and Don Carlos’ sword fight. 

It took only a moment for Bahorel to gain control of Jehan’s sword, panting as he held it up triumphantly. The two had drawn straws to decide who was to be Hernani, and he had won. He held the stick in his hand for a moment while the duo caught their breath, before tossing it back to Prouvaire, and quickly starting up the fight again. 

“Someone is at the door!” Gavroche shouted gleefully as soon as he saw Bahorel gesture to him, a preordained sign that it was his turn to say the lines of Dona Sol. 

“Who is knocking there?” Bahorel panted, dropping his sword arm to his side as he looked at Prouvaire. Both knew this would be the end of their little scene, as they had only three people, and though they could take on more than one part each, it was cumbersome trying to say ones lines, while also trying to catch his breath from an action scene. 

“The Duke’s come to tell you to get out of my rooms!” Gavroche laughed at the expressions of mock horror on both of their faces. 

“Now, that’s not the line there,” Bahorel teased, walking over to ruffle the boy’s hair. “I’m sure you’ve seen Hernani, haven’t you?” 

“Oh yes, I was there opening night!” Gavroche puffed out his chest proudly. “And many times since. I took my sister one time.” 

“Grand!” 

“I can’t feel my foot anymore, how long do I gotta keep it in the water?” 

“Hmm, let me see it.” Bahorel squatted down in the water, ignoring that the seat of his trousers was getting soaked as he did so. He gently took hold of Gavroche’s foot, carefully examining the ankle before stating his prognosis. “Well, the swelling has gone down, just let me wrap it up and we’ll be good to go.”

“Good, I’m tired of sitting.” 

“It’s getting dark too,” Prouvaire put in, settling himself on one of the larger rocks as he glanced up into the sky. It was dusk now, and where only a few hours ago there had been people walking between the river and canal, there were few left in sight. “We should find a place to stop for the night soon, it looks like it may rain.” 

Bahorel quickly looked up at the gathering clouds, grabbing the strip of fabric he’d ripped off the hem of his shirt earlier and reaching to take the boy’s foot again. “Damn it, we’ll want to be away from the river before it starts storming.” 

“Where are we going to go?” Gavroche asked, standing as soon as the older man let him, bracing himself on his shoulder as he carefully tested his weight on his foot.

Bahorel smiled. “I know just the place.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“I’m cold.” Gavroche’s teeth chattered as he pressed himself into Bahorel’s side, sitting on the porch of the red schoolhouse by the entrance to the river walk. It had stormed hard over the night, and despite Bahorel’s best intentions in huddling underneath the small building, which was raised several feet above the ground, the trio had gotten soaked. Prouvaire still slept underneath the schoolhouse, ignoring that the water had run in from the outside, but Gavroche hadn’t slept well at all, which meant that Bahorel didn’t either. 

“The sun will come up soon, and you’ll warm quickly,” Bahorel wrapped his arm around the boy, rubbing his arm to generate a little heat while they waited. The very first streaks of dawn were already beginning to show on the horizon, and at least the rain had stopped long ago. 

“Where are we going after this?” 

“Haven’t decided yet.”

Gavroche yawned and kicked his feet a little, wrinkling his nose a little at the idea of staying there much longer. “I miss my elephant.” 

“We’ll find somewhere dryer to sleep tonight.” Bahorel promised, standing up and stretching until his back popped. “There’s got to be somewhere the rain won’t catch us.” 

“I’m gonna go get some water before Prouvaire wakes up,” the boy announced, slipping off his perch. “Don’t you leave me.” 

“We would never,” Bahorel smiled a little. “Don’t go far.” 

“I won’t!” 

Bahorel sighed as he watched the gamin scamper off down the dimly lit path, ducking under the schoolhouse to wake his other companion. He wanted to start out as early as possible, and Prouvaire often got up to watch the sunrise back home, so he was certain he wouldn’t mind the intrusion, especially since everyone else was awake. “Jean.” 

Prouvaire stirred, starting to sit up before Bahorel quickly slipped his hand between his head and the bottom of the floor supports of the schoolhouse. “Hm?”

“Almost sunrise, I want to get moving as soon as Gavroche is back.” 

“Where’d he go?” Jehan ducked under Bahorel’s hand, which hovered over his head a moment longer, until the other was certain that he’d gotten his bearings, and knew how low the roof was. 

“He’s gone to get a drink, he’ll be back shortly.” Bahorel scooted out from under the building, offering his hand to his friend. “I have an idea, but it might be mad.” 

“Mad ideas are my favorite ideas,” Prouvaire replied, his eyes twinkling in the soft lighting. “It can’t be madder than the time we ran down the Rue des Filles-du-Calvaire in the nude two years back.” 

Bahorel threw his head back and laughed heartily. “No, I don’t think we’ll ever top that one, the faces of the Bourgeoisie were priceless.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Modern carriages are riveting!” Gavroche’s face was pressed to the window of the bus as it travelled the highway. Bahorel’s plan had involved catching one to see where it went— the trio had been lucky enough to fall in with what looked like a tourists group, even though it was so early, and had been on the road for nearly half an hour now. Gavroche had been glued to the window the whole time, watching the trees whiz by as they passed them. He’d never gotten in any vehicle that could reach speeds high enough to turn landscapes into blurry masses, and he was overjoyed at this new knowledge. 

Bahorel grinned a little at the boy’s enthusiasm, he was utterly delighted that his plan had worked so well. No one had questioned them as they got on the bus, whether it be from them being still half asleep, or the state of their bloodied clothing scaring them off. Anyhow, it had worked, and they were now on their way to... Well, none of them knew where this bus was heading. That would be a surprise. “Much more comfortable than a carriage, hm?”

“Yep!” Gavroche nodded, pulling away from the window to rub at his eyes. His clothing had finally dried out once they were up and moving, and now that he was stuck sitting, sleepiness threatened to take over. Bahorel huffed a laugh and lifted his arm so the boy could curl up under it. 

“Might as well rest a bit, it doesn’t look like we’ll be stopping anywhere soon.” 

“I don’t want to sleep though,” the boy replied stubbornly, the youthful fear of missing out no match for his exhaustion. “I don’t want to dream again either.” 

“I know, lad, I know.” Bahorel sighed softly as he snuggled into his side, gently rubbing the child’s back as he shifted into a position that was significantly more comfortable for the both of them. “You don’t have to sleep, just rest.” 

“How long are we going to be driving?” 

“Not a clue,” Bahorel shrugged cheerfully. “We’ll just have to wait and see.” 

Gavroche sighed heavily, and Bahorel craned his head back to see how Prouvaire was doing in the seat behind him. There were only two seats to a row in the bus, and the younger man had decided to sit directly behind them, rather than across the aisle, where it would have been easier to have a conversation. “How’re you holding up?” 

“Decently enough.” Jehan shrugged, leaning into the corner between the back of the seat and the window. He’d decided on the very last row of the bus, and the seat in the corner, where he had no one behind him, and could see what everyone was doing. “You?”

“Bored,” Bahorel continued rubbing Gavroche’s shoulder as the boy went quiet, too sleepy to carry on a conversation any longer. “There isn’t much to do but wait, it’s stifling.” 

“I hope that you’re correct-” Bahorel trailed off as he glanced back at Gavroche, realizing that in the few minutes he’d been talking with his friend, the boy had fallen asleep, curled up into his side. “Perhaps not… I can suffer through a longer wait if it means the lad gets to sleep a little more. He needs the rest.” 

Jehan leaned forward, resting his arms on the back of the seat as he peered over the edge, smiling softly at the two. “Did he not sleep last night?” 

“Barely.” Bahorel ran his fingers through Gavroche’s hair, glancing out the window. “Did you sleep well?” 

“Well enough,” Prouvaire rested his chin on his arm. “You should rest too.” 

“I’m alright, I’ve survived on less sleep.” 

“And?”

Bahorel stared at him for a moment, meeting his gaze for as long as he could before sighing. “Alright, I’ll rest.” 

Jehan gave a pleased noise as he settled back into his seat, folding his arms as he settled back into his corner. “I’ll wake you if it looks like we’re stopping.” 

“I didn’t say I was going to sleep—“

An hour and a half later, Bahorel snorted awake as the bus turned a corner, blinking groggily as he glanced around. Gavroche was still asleep at his side, and a quick look back told him that Prouvaire too had fallen asleep on the ride. The scenery too had changed in the time he had slept, rather than the pine trees and oaks on the side of the road where they had started, there were live oaks decked out with Spanish moss, and the occasional palmetto. They were driving more slowly now- a white fence on the left as the bus turned off the main road onto a sandy gravel road. As they slowed to a stop, Bahorel looked around for any sign of where they might be. 

Finally, his question was answered in the form of a sign bearing the inscription: Charles Pinckney National Historic Site.

Chapter Text

“I can’t thank you enough for all the help you’ve given me, monsieur .” Bossuet shook Sam’s hand as he stepped out of the truck, running his hand over his head. San Antonio, that’s what the other man had called this city. It was… different than Paris, that much was certain. “I think I’ll be fine now, I hope.”

Bossuet gave the other man a cheerful wave as he walked down the street, paying no mind to where he was going. There was no reason to- he didn’t know the layout of the city, so he may as well just walk and see where it took him. Perhaps fortune would be in his luck for once, and direct him to the rest of his friends. 

He set up a half-hearted whistle as he shoved his hands in his pockets, glancing up at the buildings as he walked. Perhaps not the brightest idea he’d ever had though, as he soon found himself stumbling over a pipe left over from some recent construction work. “Ah, good morning to you too, Lady Jinx.”

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Courfeyrac grimaced as he rubbed his neck, trying to work out the kink that had made its home there overnight. He’d slept tucked away in some alcove he’d found, and he had to admit- sleeping on the streets was not in his forte. 

“Good heavens, how did Bossuet ever manage this.” He groaned and stood up, stretching his arms over his head. Well, nothing better to do than to go have another look around , he thought as he started off again, heading back towards the Alamo. If there was anywhere he was bound to find more answers, perhaps it would be the place where he’d found the date of 1836, only four years after his death. Or, well, what he assumed was his death. 

Courfeyrac still wasn’t quite sure if he was alive, or just hanging around in some sort of limbo, waiting for death to take him to Hades. Surely he couldn’t be in heaven, as he assumed that one wouldn’t gather a kink in the neck in such a place as that. 

“Well, up and at ‘em, Courfeyrac,” He muttered to himself. “You won’t find any answers here.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

Bossuet trotted along the street, craning his head to see if he could see anyone, or anything familiar. There was nothing. He wondered if he’d even recognize his friends, if he saw them. What if they all had been able to change out of their surely ragged clothing from the barricade, and into things more fitting for the 21st century? He wasn’t sure he’d be able to recognize them if such happened. 

He would pray otherwise. If anything, he’d certainly recognize Joly, if his friend was anywhere nearby. He couldn’t dream of not knowing who he was. The two were drawn together as though the red strings of fate had woven their lives into such strong intertwining that they couldn’t be separated, no matter the distance. If any of them were alive, Bossuet was certain his friend was, at least. Besides, it would be much too cruel of fate to leave him on his own in such a different world that he was used to, though he’d already found friends. 

Sam and his family had taken him in without question, even if he in their place would have been wondering where he’d come from, and why he was ragged and bloody. And yet, not a single question about where he’d come from had been uttered. They had fed him- though the food was strange-, allowed him to bathe, and given him a place to sleep for the night. It was much more comfortable than sleeping out in the open with the cows for sure. And then, Sam had driven him to the city that morning.

Bossuet, though thankful for the help, almost couldn’t comprehend it. He, who lived under a roof of falling tiles, of all the people in the world? He would almost have expected to fall into a den of murderers. 

Just at that moment, a familiar face in the crowd caught his attention- blue waistcoat stained with the reddish brown of dried blood slipping just out of view. “Courfeyrac! Courfeyrac, ahoy!” 

“Eagle!” Courfeyrac turned, taking the other man in an eager embrace as he rushed to him, before holding him out at arms length. “What in the absolute hell are you wearing, mon ami ?”

“Ah, I had forgotten about that,” Bossuet chuckled, looking down at himself. Sam had gifted him a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt before they had left the house that morning, as his wife deemed his previous wear unsalvageable. The pants were several inches too short on him, but otherwise fit well. “I fell in with a couple of kind folks, they gave me this to wear since my own things were in rags.”

“The fashion of this time does not become you, Bossuet,” Courfeyrac crossed his arms, raising his eyebrows as he studied him. “As soon as we figure out where we are to go, we’ll have to fix this.” 

Bossuet laughed brightly, clasping his friend on the shoulder. “Come now, it isn’t as bad as you make it out to be.” 

“I shudder to think of falling to the fashions of these times,” Courfeyrac moaned, shaking his head dramatically. “They haven’t even a cravat!” 

“Well, we can worry about that later,” Bossuet replied, patting him on the back comfortingly. “For now though, let’s try to figure out where the hell we are.” 

“Oh, I know,” Courfeyrac shrugged, grabbing Bossuet by the wrist as he began walking. “To some extent. Come, I must show you something.”

“What is that?” Bossuet asked, lengthening his steps to keep up with the younger man’s quick pace. 

“You shall see.” 

Several moments later, Courfeyrac came to a halt, looking out over the front courtyard of the Alamo. “They all died here.”

“Who?” Bossuet freed his wrist from Courfeyrac’s death grip, rubbing it as he gazed at the building. “Courfeyrac, what’s going on?”

“They keep asking me- the people here- what it was like to fight here, but I do not know,” Courfeyrac went on, almost breathless as he tried to explain. “There must be something about this place, no one seems to question what I’m wearing, so perhaps this is where we’ll find the rest of our friends.” 

“I’m not sure of that,” Bossuet rubbed the back of his neck as he read the plaque in the grass, wincing as he aggravated his sunburn. “This says that it’s from 1836, we were… already gone then.” 

“ Oui , but-” Courfeyrac shook his head, sighing. “Oh, never mind.” 

“We could look around, if it makes you feel better,” Bossuet proposed, glancing around the area. “It seems to have a nice garden at the very least.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“Bossuet, look!” Courfeyrac grabbed Bossuet by the arm, stopping him in his tracks. 

“Yes?” 

“I am absolutely certain that’s Enjolras,” Courfeyrac gestured to a blond headed figure at the end of the street. “And that shall make three of us.” 

“That’s a third of our group now, with only six left to find!” Bossuet hummed cheerfully as the two made their way forward. “Ah! Enjolras, it’s good to see you again, mon ami .”

The man wrapped his arm around his shoulders, not expecting when seconds later the figure turned, smacking him right in the eye. “Get your hands off me!” 

Bossuet stumbled backwards, hand flying to cover his eye as he apologized. “Ah, my apologies, madame, I thought you were someone else entirely.” 

The woman turned, looking the two over warily, her body tensed as though ready to fight if things came to that. Courfeyrac grabbed Bossuet by the shoulders, steadying him as he studied the young woman in front of them. She was about average height, with blonde hair and blue eyes, and the way she gazed at the two so intensely was reminiscent of the way Enjolras had looked at them once or twice when he was annoyed with something they had done. Her eyes lingered on Courfeyrac a tad longer than Bossuet, and she pressed her lips together a moment before addressing the younger man, almost tentatively. “Are you also from the year of 1823, or merely dressed as such, monsieur ?”

Courfeyrac grinned widely, gripping Bossuet’s arm a little tighter in his excitement. “ Oui ! Well, somewhat.” 

“1823 was nine years ago,” Bossuet put in, gently prying his friend’s fingers loose. “Are you to say that you too have found yourself here with no clue how it happened?”

“Yes, I have.”

“We both- despite my dear fellow here having lost his sense for the fashion of the times rather quickly-” Courfeyrac gave Bossuet a pointed look, and he shrugged sheepishly, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Come from the year of 1832.” 

The woman nodded, relaxing a little. “What are your names?” 

“Lesgle de Meaux, and this rascal is Courfeyrac.” Bossuet gently shoved the younger man. “And you, madame ?”

“Fantine, my name is Fantine.” She looked at them, still wary, but stepped forward, leveling Courfeyrac with a steady gaze. “You, monsieur , remind me of a man I once knew.” 

───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ─────

“So, madame , how did you come to find yourself in such a place as this?” Bossuet asked cheerily as the trio walked along the river walk, Courfeyrac several feet ahead of the other two, attempting to scout out an inn where they might spend the night. “You say the last you remember was the year 1823?”

“Somewhat,” Fantine replied, gazing off into the distance as she walked, arm hooked into Bossuet’s. He, despite their rude introduction, had managed to earn her trust rather quickly, though Courfeyrac she still watched warily. “I have been here some time now- though I am unable to find work.” 

Bossuet pressed his lips together, nodding sympathetically. “Alas, I haven’t the time yet to think about such matters, as I’ve been here only a day now.”

“It seems only yesterday that I was going to law class, giving old Blondeau a run for his money.” He chattered on, occasionally glancing up to be sure Courfeyrac remained in sight. As he had just found his friend, he didn’t want to lose him so quickly. “Although, I will admit I most often only stayed long enough to be marked present on the roll, before slipping out. I fear I’ve taken up my friend’s motto of never be a lawyer, to some extent.” 

“I knew a young lad once with such a motto,” Fantine laughed a little. “He often came ‘round to see me and my children- said he missed his siblings back home.” 

“How can there be two men in Paris with the exact same motto?” Bossuet laughed at that, shaking his head fondly. “Bahorel would-”

“You know Bahorel?!” Fantine interrupted, gripping his arm tightly. “Is he well?”

“Well, about as dead as I am, but last I saw him alive, he was having the time of his life.” Bossuet replied, flabbergasted. “Are you telling me you know Bahorel?”

“Know him? I was quite close with him before I…” Fantine sighed a little, shaking her head. “When I moved out of Paris, I lost contact with him, but he was like a younger brother to me.” 

“Well, I suppose then that you must stick with Courfeyrac and I,” Bossuet decided quickly. “If you’ll put up with us that is.” 

“Are you looking for Bahorel?”

“And the rest of our friends.” 

“If I stay… might I add a few to that list?” Fantine questioned. 

“Of course, madame , who might they be?” Bossuet replied cheerfully. 

“My children-” Fantine replied breathlessly. “If we all are from the same time, perhaps they too are here somewhere.” 

“What can you tell me about them?” Bossuet asked, glancing up once more to be sure Courfeyrac hadn’t strayed too far ahead. “I suppose we must catch Courfeyrac up on this later.” 

“I have two, Sébastien and Euphrasie, though I call her Cosette.” Fantine explained. “I suppose they would be about eight or nine now- I do hope I’ll be able to recognize them, it’s been so long since I last laid eyes on them.” 

“I’m certain you will, madame ,” Bossuet assured her, and though he didn’t know what they looked like, stated quietly. “And I’ll keep an eye out for them as well.”