Here It Was They Lit The Flame (Amis et amis xD)

[EPONINE THENARDIER]

He had promised he would be here tonight. That's what he had said as they had parted on the street. "Meet me at the Musain tonight." And then she had to run, follow after her father's gang on one of their jobs. She knew the price of not complying and for a brief moment contemplated leaving with Marius. How much easier it would be to just slip away with him, to leave the thugs to watch their own backs. She could follow him, hear more of his voice, his laugh. She could pull another laugh, another smile or joke out of him. She did like to tease him, find a reason to mess with his hair or take his books from him, hiding them behind her back. Anything to spend just a few more moments with him.

And that was why she found herself lurking in the shadows outside the cafe that evening. Eponine had arrived much earlier, settling against the wall of a nearby building, keeping her eye on the entrance to the Musain. She'd never been inside, people who ran businesses didn't take too much to people like her hanging around. She'd been run off from enough shop fronts to get that through even her stubborn head. But for Marius, she'd risk it. For Marius, there wasn't much she wouldn't do. So there she stood, watching the people come and go from the door. A tall young man with blonde hair and glasses. Another blonde with a red jacket. She even saw a poorer worker and Marius's friend Courfeyrac enter. But Marius had yet to show up. Had he forgotten and simply gone home? She could have checked, but something told her if she left, that would be the moment he would arrive and she would miss him. Her feet were firmly planted in the street as she tried to figure out what was keeping him. He didn't know the streets like she did, perhaps he had gotten lost. But that didn't make sense either. He knew where the Musain was, he'd been here before. Surely he could find his way here again. Maybe he was already inside, arriving before she had. His friends were already in there, maybe he had beat them all there and was sharing a drink and a laugh. Even if he wasn't maybe Courfeyrac knew where he was.

Steeling herself, Eponine started for the door, expecting to get thrown out the moment she set foot inside. But the downstairs was practically deserted, save for a few bustling people either on their way out the door or up the stairs, from where she heard the sounds of laughter and conversation. Slowly, she ascended the steps, peeking around the switchback to find herself looking in on a scene of brotherhood. The young men she had seen entering all evening were gathered around a table, joking and laughing, a general air of ease settled among them. She smiled and looked from face to face as she took the last few steps into the room, gripping the banister. Oh, to be a student, to have the money and leisure these young men had. She envied them more than she cared to admit, wishing she could fill her head with their knowledge, pour through books and dazzle people with just a few words.

As she searched she couldn't help but notice that Marius was not among them. But his friend Courfeyrac was. Eponine had met him a couple times, usually out with Marius herself. He was a flirt, incorrigible. But honorable in his own way. His flirting was harmless, unlike some of the men Eponine associated herself with through Patron-Minette. Quietly as she could, trying not to attract the attention of the owner of the Musain, wherever they might be, Eponine ducked her head and moved over by Courfeyrac. Touching his sleeve lightly, she tried to get his attention. "Pardon. Is Monsieur Marius not joining you tonight?"

[MYLÈNE LACOQUINE]

She had to give him that, when Enjolras wanted his wit could be as stinging as her own, especially when it came as dry as it had just now. Mylène still felt tempted to prove him wrong though, or at least add to his claim. If Courfeyrac could make the hardest of seamen blush with his language, that didn’t mean he would make her blush, too! And anyway… “show me the seaman that understands yer latin an then I’ll believe he’ll blush!” she pointed out cheekily, actually almost only to have the last say in this matter – hopefully. It didn’t faze her at all that Courfeyrac called her out on not being ‘nice’, since she just had thought roughly the same thing, though her emphasize had rather laid on ‘lady’. Courfeyrac probably knew that as well, and that made his teasing so challenging. He knew her mind, not all of it of course, but enough so he could already anticipate some of her comebacks and disable them. She liked that… it raised the stakes, and that was a guarantee for not getting bored all too soon. There was nothing worse in life than boredom – despite poverty and inequality perhaps.

Combeferre’s reaction was priceless and she joined in the merry laughter that ensued. Really, as if she had the plague! Or as if she just had sprouted a second head, like one of those abominations that were forced to live with jugglers sometimes because otherwise they would not survive long. Turning to Feuilly with a wink, she then extended it on Enjolras, adopting a fake sickly-sweet tone. “Dawww, ye dunno wha’ yer missin’ out on, cheri!” It was nothing but innocent flirting, playing on the role she had just been given by them, and fuelled by her knowledge that they didn’t view her as such for real. She liked the boys for that, she really felt at home in these short hours they were at the café. “An’ is tha’ jealousy I hear, Monsieur Le Comte? Cause le poète would win where ye dun?” she threw at Courf with a coquettish flipping of her hair.

Laughter was still on her lips as she descended the stairs, amusing herself over what had just come to pass. But she still was thorough in acting on her duty as barmaid and prepared the drinks and told the Madame of the orders concerning the food. Because Jehan had ordered quite some amount however, she would probably go down again later to fetch it and serve the drinks first. Looking up when the door opened, she was so surprised by the unexpected person that entered that she poured some of the precious Pernod over her fingers, but before she had licked the liquid completely off her fingers and opened her mouth, Eponine had already slipped up the stairs. What in the whole wide world was she doing here?! Did she know one of the boys? But which of them? Courfeyrac perhaps? He knew a lot of girls after all, but then she wouldn’t have thought he was her type… ah, there was an easy way to find out! Licking the rest of the spilled brandy off, she then took hold of the wooden tray and balanced it up the stairs, gladly having no difficulty with it. This was nothing compared to juggling on a tightrope! “Call me when the food’s ready, Madame!” she called over her shoulder, then lissomly ascended the last few steps.

“Yer drinks, lads! An’… salut, Ponine! How nice te see yer here!” The question was unposed for the moment, but clearly visible in her eyes. What would her friend of old times, the daughter of Paris’ most feared gang leader be doing with a band of rascal students and their friends?

[Deleted]

Combeferre’s face flushed even more when his friends began laughing at his reaction to Mylene’s kiss. It required recovery because he had never been kissed, even on the cheek or the head as she had done, by anyone aside from his mother—a fact that he kept to himself because of the current situation. “I know, it just caught me off guard is all.” he answered Feuilly embarrassedly. He shot Enjolras a grateful expression as he patted his hand. “It’s not so much that…I’m sure both of us could find decent ladies if we wished, I just don’t see the point of it. I mean, I for one could never find the time.” he stated honestly.

It was true—he simply did not have the need or desire to waste his time on grisettes as Courfeyrac did or even courtship in hopes of his finding a wife as his mother wished. His chief aspiration was not to find love and build a home or family, but rather to make a positive mark upon the world as a doctor and a professor of philosophy. He wanted to spread universal education not only to the people of France, but the world. He wanted to see and contribute to the height of human progress. He wanted to create a better future.

There was no room whatsoever for romance or even dalliances, in his agenda. How could he even think of changing the world with a silly, ditzy marquis’s daughter on his arm and their spoiled children trailing behind them? No, love would only hold him back from realizing his greatest ambitions. He did not disapprove of those who chose a different path. His brother had married fairly young and lived with his wife and children in London. As far as he knew, he was happy. That was the life that his father wanted for him as well, but he was not Jacques, and he did not want to be Jacques. He had to be Blaise, and Blaise did not want that sort of life. He couldn’t see himself stuck behind a desk all day or sitting on the couch in the living room of a manor house with a child on his knee.

He internally shuddered at the thought and tried to remember what he had been talking about before being interrupted. “Then you must come over to my flat for tea, sometime, Feuilly. We can have scones and teacake—our family’s cook makes the most wonderful scones…but I can give you my best attempt.” He made it his business to be as knowledgeable as he could in as many subjects as he possibly could, and cooking was no exception. He used to sneak down to the kitchen for sweets and a glimpse at the family cook’s cookbooks when he was a child. He still owned a couple, and was not too bad at it if he did say so himself. He did not keep a maid or a cook and certainly not a valet, because he’d had enough of that at home, and so had taken it upon himself to do most of his own cooking.

He was so thrilled at the prospect of practicing his skills that he almost missed Mylene bringing their drinks. "Thank you, mademoiselle." He sipped his tea and went back to his book, only looking up when Mylene mentioned an unfamiliar name. A dark-haired girl was speaking to Courfeyrac, and he would have rolled his eyes, assuming she was another one of his friend's conquests, if it were not for the way the barmaid had addressed her. He blinked, realizing it was just as rude to stare as it was to roll one's eyes, and then smiled at Feuilly again. "So, what do you say to that?"

[Deleted]

Courf merely chuckled fondly at Combeferre's response to the kiss, then clapped Feuilly on the back, a mark of his approval of Feuilly's good-natured rejoinder. “Ah don't discriminate,” he replied with a wink, when Mylene questioned whether he gave Latin lessons to Enjolras as well. He grinned unabashedly. Though Enjolras said he hadn't meant it as a compliment, he would take it as one, so he retorted proudly, “Of the two of us, mon ami, you're not the one who knows 'ow to make a convent girl blush, an' ye can't compare 'em to sailors either.”

He scoffed at Enjolras' next comment – “Assailed from all sides, Ah am” – and sat back in his chair once more, leaving the plait alone. This freed his hand to place it to his chest dramatically when Mylene claimed he was jealous. “Ye wound me, Comtesse!” he cried, inclining his head to her as if in defeat. “If Jehan 'ere does end up sharin' 'is poem an' yer affections for me wane, Ah'll have to console myself with a grisette or two or three.”

Naturally, he had little competition for Mylene's attention, aside from her getting drinks for the others, so it hardly mattered whether Enjolras or Combferre had any inclination for women – only whether the women had an inclination for them. “Can't expect a woman to walk up to anyone but me when Ah'm in the room, no matter how capable or incapable ye were,” he replied tartly. This was what he believed, anyway, and not necessarily true.

In any case, it was proven soon enough with the arrival of Eponine, who moved straight to him and tugged his sleeve. Granted, it wasn't for him that she had come, it was for Marius. No surprise. Exhaling, Courfeyrac pushed his drink aside, in Feuilly's direction. Hopefully the girl would learn of Marius' ignorance son enough and could move on. “Ah dunno,” he said honestly, giving a shrug. Even though Marius lived with him, he didn't know where the young man was half the time; Monsieur l'Abbe seemed to have a habit of wandering the city alone, perhaps philosophizing or praying, only God knew. His brown eyes searched hers for a moment. “But if ye stay, ye can 'ave a drink with us at least, 'ow's that sound?”

[CHRISTOPHE FEUILLY]

Feuilly could not much blame Combeferre or Enjolras; his own love life was certainly less than thrilling; there was little time for that kind of thing, between long working hours and this more intellectual life he had come to so enjoy. There had been girls, of course, but mostly before he had come to Paris—then his life had been simpler, but less complete. Rarely had there been a real sense of romance, even then. Such things weren't meant for men like him, not in the current order of the world. Love could exist, but it had to be so colored by practicality that he doubted many felt the things people like Jehan so freely cast into verse.

Another part doubted that he could ever completely understand how to raise a child, nor afford to do it the right way. He would want his sons to have the opportunities his friends enjoyed, access to all the books the university could give them—not the life such a child would far more likely inherit from him. Despite this more serious turn of his thoughts, Courfeyrac's almost cocksure banter brought a quiet laugh from Feuilly.

“When the world is changed, there will be more time.” He allowed himself a smile. It was true for all of them, he thought—even if it did not affect the behavior of some as strongly as others. “And a better world for any children that may come of it.” There was hope in his voice.

To Combeferre's invitation, Feuilly's feelings were split. He paused for a moment, feeling awkward. He desperately wanted to accept—to taste, for once, the tea and sweets he could never afford. And that was just the problem; it was difficult for him to feel like he would not be an imposition, even though he knew the offer was out of friendship more than pity. Similarly, although he noticed Courfeyrac push his drink toward him, he made no move to accept it yet. He found himself fidgeting. Eventually, he was sure he would drink it—though he did not want to appear overeager. He was glad that Courfeyrac was subtle in that, unlike his flirtations with Mylene.

He looked back to Combeferre when he reminded him of the invitation. He smiled, politely. “That... yes, that would be nice.” He felt nervous at accepting it still, but reminded himself that Combeferre would not have offered if he did not really want to share his tea and his food.

[Deleted]

It had been another long day at the bookshop. Marius’s job consisted of translating anything and everything from English to French. He was good at his job, seeing as he had learned to read and write English when he was a child, but the work was so tedious and repetitive. He longed for the day when he could finally practice, arguing his clients’ cases and defending the weak from the heavy hand of the unwavering and often oppressive law. He was certain that he would make a fairly good lawyer—a far better lawyer than he was a translator at least. He had passion and drive for the law, but the work he did now was so unexciting.

Still, at least he had work, and someplace to stay. That was more than many of the people of Paris could say. It was more than he could have said about a year before. When he was in his grandfather’s care he had been so spoiled, and never once thought about those who didn’t have what he had. He thought himself to be selfish then, but he hoped at least there had been a change once he had started living independently.

He didn’t miss the luxury or his grandfather’s company one bit. As far as he was concerned, the man was dead to him. He still couldn’t believe that he had kept his father’s desire to see him a secret all this time. If he had only told him the truth, perhaps he would have been able to at least speak with the man. Perhaps he would have been there when he died. But no, because of politics Georges Pontmercy had died alone thinking his own son hated him.

He endeavored to live his life in repentance, hoping to do his father proud. That was one of the reasons why he had moved out and decided to make a name for himself apart from his grandfather. He was the Baron Pontmercy, son of Colonel Pontmercy, not ‘Gillenormand’s boy.’ Of course, he still wasn’t sure what this new life would entail—he wanted to be a lawyer, that much was certain, but working his father’s politics into his daily life had been difficult at first. After meeting Courfeyrac and the other Amis, he now felt as if he had found his place, his purpose—he was going to help unfetter the people of France who were enslaved by the king. And then, they would restore the Republic, and the nation would become a great empire again.

His friends did not agree with the empire part at all, but most of the time he was able to look past that. They may not always agree on every single thing, but they had become like his family, since he was estranged from his living blood relative. He was exhausted from the day’s work, but the prospect of seeing his brothers, his Amis, kept the smile on his face as he pushed open the door to the Musain.

He had told Eponine, another friend of his that he had met when he first started living in the Gorbeau House, to meet him here so that he could introduce her to his friends. “Bonsoir, mes amis!” he exclaimed, taking off his battered top hat as he stepped inside, closing the door behind him. He had been the last to arrive—which embarrassed him because he tried to be punctual, really—but he had a valid excuse, he had been working late. “There’s someone I’d like you all to—ah, there you are, ‘Ponine!” He grinned when he saw her standing next to Courfeyrac. “I’m sorry I was late, work held me up.” he apologized with a sheepish nod as he took off his bag and set it on an empty table with his hat. “I’m glad you decided to come.”

[FREDERIC ALGERNON JOLY]

Joly shuffled along the streets of Paris, he had spent the last few days holed up in his one roomed apartment, looking over volumes of medical texts. His hands were stained from the ink pots and his eyes tired as he navigated himself to the Musain, the general meeting place for his friends. He could usually find one or two of them lurking in the rooms there. The pressure of his choice of study was building, and as a result he was more on edge than usual. Upon his studies he had come across a rather interesting article that suggested the human body was magnetized just like the needle of a compass. Subsequently, he had spent a good half of the morning rearranging his room, so the head was facing south and the head north. This would mean while he was sleeping his blood flow would not be impeded by the two poles.

Dishevelled and his room in complete disarray, Musichetta had found him and convinced him to take the short journey from his room to the Musain. Only her words of confidence had given him the courage he needed to step out of the rather stale bedroom and venture out onto the disease plagued streets. He pulled his cravat up around his mouth, hoping it would block any floating harmful germs, as his right hand clung to the mirror shard he kept in his pocket.

It was only a short walk, but it seemed like hours before he reached the building that housed much laughter from the young students that graced its doors. The building was slightly crooked, and in an older part of the city, but there was a welcoming air to it. Covering his hand up with his sleeve he carefully opened the door and stepped inside. He was immediately hit with the smell of tobacco, ale and the haughty laugher of his friends. He shuffled over to where Feuilly and Combeferre were, quietly taking a seat on one of the benches; he produced his mirror from his pocket. He regularly checked the condition of his tongue, certain that it would signal any symptoms of an infectious deadly disease.

[JEAN ALEXIS PROUVAIRE]

[style=font-family: times; font-size: 12px; letter-spacing: 1px; text-transform: lowercase; color: #989898; font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;]537 WORDS FOR mes amis No notes at present. Amis [/style]

[atrb=border,0,true][atrb=width,450,true][atrb=cellSpacing,0,true][atrb=cellPadding,0,true][atrb=style, background-color: #6d6d6d;] [style=padding: 10px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 10px; height: 475px; overflow: auto; color: #1e1e1e;] Jean Prouvaire was quiet for a long time after being asked to share his newest work. It wasn't that he minded being asked. After all, he was a poet at heart and that's what poets did - pour their souls into their writing. At least it was certainly what he did. He spent nearly as much time focusing on his writing as he did on his literature studies at the university which, a time or two, had nearly gotten him into trouble - times when he'd been so focused on his poetry and writing that he'd nearly missed exams or important lectures at the university and had to rush out in a big hurry to catch up and not miss it. He could become so engrossed in his work of writing that it seemed nothing else even mattered - not food nor drink nor clothes nor even politics really - though he was a little ashamed to admit the latter being a man - those should come top, really, given that he was set to inherit quite a sum one day when his father was gone - not that he was anxious for such an event - but that he knew he needed to act more responsibly at times - but oh it was so very difficult when he was being tempted by words swirling around in his head and feeling a need to get them down on paper. Words were sometimes his greatest friend and most formidable foe all in one. It was a while being lost in thought and listening amicably to his friends' bantering chatter in peace and feeling that this really perhaps was one of the best evenings he'd had in a long time before he realized that he'd been called upon to read the poem he had finished. He loved quiet evenings at the Musain with his friends and found a part of him hoping that that would never change. Realistically he knew it would. Someday all of them would go their separate ways, be apart.. have their own lives and families.. but he hoped it would not be too soon. For right now this was perfect. Mylene being teased by Courf and so on... "Okay. But you musn't laugh if you think it's too sentimental. I've been rather fond of sentimentality lately." He paused and looked at his messy writing on the paper folded in his pocket. He hadn't even had time to rewrite a fresh copy. "Change is inevitable and it is not my friend. But as the years pass us by as we grow old and maybe apart. If distance shall pass between me and thee, I hope you each know that I will carry a part of you in my heart. Each of thee have helped me with trials and celebration A smile marked on my face when I saw your matching grin. I'll never find other amis such as you, we are tried and true...." He finished his poem as it continued in this vein talking about the benefits of friendship and how much he appreciated his friends before ending the poem and calling for a toast and then sitting down, his cheeks a bit red flushed. [/style]

TABLE BY CALIFORNIA DREAMING @ CAUTION 2.0