watching a production of les mis and this is in the program

Enjolras seeing the note and being all confused for a moment because, of course, he would be WILLING to provide cheer for his friends, but he definitely didn’t think to offer that, until he recognizes one of Bahorel’s many handwritings and figures out that’s why his name is missing

but he decides he’ll get them the first round anyway since apparently that is Good To Do! and Bahorel can do the second

but they never drink together again.

it got better

and by better i mean more heartbreaking

“My friends,” cried Enjolras.  His eyes blazed; the revolutionary joy shone forth from him; those around him watched arrested, their faces turned to him like sunflowers in a field.  He might have been a portrayal of an angel in stained glass, save that he breathed, and save that the devils he had set himself against were those named Poverty and Oppression and Inequality.  "My friends, tomorrow is a day of reckoning.  The cracks have spread to the base of the dam which holds back the gathered force of the people’s anger.  Tomorrow, the flood.  It will sweep through the streets of Paris; it will wash clean all of France.  Have faith.  Gather the ammunition of your hearts.  There is no bullet which strikes harder, no powder-keg more explosive.  You are all the greatest strength of France, you and the other true hearts which will join with us.  We know what we risk.  More, we know why.  Liberty — equality — fraternity for all!  An end to the old world in which the few oppress the many, in which truth is a rare currency traded in secret, in which misery flourishes and liberty withers.  If all goes as I hope, my friends, after tomorrow we will live in the bright dawn of a new world.  We will celebrate together in that world.  Hope will breathe free.  The work at hand will be the joyful striving of free men standing together in the light.  Possibility realized, the newly planted garden to safeguard, the labor no longer to tear down but to build up, upon a foundation built of the solid stone of mankind’s birthright.  That is, the social contact of free citizens.  If we die, it will be in the building of that foundation.“

Bahorel, at a nearby table, was bent over a sheet of paper.  The words on it, curious to say, were written in a near match for Enjolras’s cramped handwriting, though it was Bahorel’s pen which moved.  He could be heard muttering: “Drinks — are — on — me.  There!”  He straightened, regarding his handiwork with pride.  To Jean Prouvaire, he added, “I have reduced his dozens of words to four.  Combeferre never does half so well.  Enjolras ought to congratulate me, I think.  I will tell him so tomorrow.”

I am reblogging this solely because I had 100% forgotten I ever wrote it.  (I found it when looking through my “my fic” tag for the original posting of another fic, and scrolled down this post with a dawning recollection that I had maybe written something to the prompt and zero memory what that might have been.  But I’m still proud of the combination of rhetoric and, er, Bahorel.)


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