#abcevent

I.

Name: Grantaire.

Biggest Dream: I’m thinking about this. A lot of possible existential answers, but let’s keep it simple. I want to create something beautiful enough to hang on the wall of a gallery. I want to be able to do this without fear.

Greatest Fear: To forget. I don’t want to forget. Let the world change me, but don’t let it fucking allow me to forget.

What Makes You Laugh: Your face.

What Makes You Mad: Your face.

What Makes You Cry: I still don’t cry. Also, your face.

Your Best Trait: My beautiful beautiful handsome face.

Your Worst Trait: I can’t take things seriously. 

Ever Been In Love?: Hah.

Are You Happy Right Now?: Yes.

II.

“Go fuck yourselves and your fucking rally. I’m going to sleep.”

It was these words that changed everything. Grantaire often wondered what would have happened if he hadn’t said them. If he hadn’t been at the right place at the right time. Would everything be the way that it is? It’s an odd question. If things had been different, would they be different? Whatever the answer to that question is, the events that happened happened as they did.

It all started with a thick, thorn-plated armor of fear. Afraid of letting the world see him, afraid of letting the world hurt him again. It had been some time since his maman had died, and it didn’t matter because he couldn’t even remember through the haze of alcohol and adrenaline. There was also the obsession that brought the sweet in bittersweet, his burning admiration for his Apollo, the one beacon that gave him something to follow in the darkness, at least for a little while. He drowned himself in addiction and obsession and laughter and laziness. He slept through the day and drank through the night, only functioning because he had to, refusing to achieve, refusing to let himself be anything but the drunk cynic. If no one expected anything of him, no one would be disappointed in him.But even his spiny armor couldn’t hide how much he cared. He cared for his friends. He cared too much and hated it, and even the added scent of alcohol did nothing to mask it. 

When he said those words, and accepted those drugs, and let swirling reds and blues and greens and pinks and yellows feather into his black-and-white life, completely by accident, it pierced through it all. It was ripped away from him like a band-aid from a paper cut. His bottles thrown down the sink, out the window, stolen from every nook and cranny of the house. His mask not just unmasked, but burnt to a crisp, as if it had never even been there. As if to say, I can see you, I wish the world could see you, too. It’s entirely possible that he replaced his addiction, obsession with another. It’s entirely possible that his armor was dismantled by gentle fingers and walks by the Seine. 

But it was not just him. It would be a lie to say that his shining beacon of light didn’t change him at all. The friends he had kept since day one, and the new friends he had made by circumstance and persistence. Without them, without the beliefs that he had clashed with, without the anger and tumult, without the punches to his face and the kicks to his pride, he would not be who he is now.

The events that happened happened as they did, and this is the result. Grantaire. Unashamed to admit that he is happy, that he is a little bit in love, and that maybe, just maybe, he is worth something.

And now?

III.

The story is over. The windows close. The sun goes down. The sun will rise for all the days of April 1969 and thereafter, through Woodstock, the first pair of feet on the moon, Jim Morrison’s death, the Dark Side of the Moon, the end of the Vietnam War, the first Star Wars film, the death of John Lennon, the fall of the Berlin Wall, the end of the Soviet Union, Dolly the sheep, the new millenium, to today, and tomorrow, through concerts, and revolutions, through love and heartbreak, through the beginning of lives and the end, but we will never again see them through these cynical pair of eyes.

 Will he continue his education? Will he find his name in a gallery? Will he marry? Will he have children? Will he ever return to his beautiful Paris? Will he ever see his friends again? Will he remember, in fifty years’ time, a little house in the middle of Paris, and the people who lived inside? Will he remember all the laughter, the anger, the hate, the jealousy, the happiness, the smiles, the parties, the music, the alcohol, the drugs, the passion, the fiery belief that they could change the world, the naivety of believing it would never end?

Name: Jeanne “Jehan” Prouvaire

Biggest Dream: To have a happy life.

Greatest Fear: To lose my fiancé.

What Makes You Laugh: Nearly anything.

What Makes You Mad: Intolerance and unfairness.

What Makes You Cry: A lot more than I thought.

Your Best Trait: I’m very… positive?

Your Worst Trait: I’m naïve? Maybe it’s that I take things for granted.

Ever Been In Love?: Yes. I still am and I will be for the rest of my life.

Are You Happy Right Now?: I am very happy. Ecstatic, really.

And now?

I am, currently, Jeanne “Jehan” Prouvaire. A student on the verge of graduating university. I work part-time at L’Ermitage, a café on the Champs-Élysées that is owned by my fiancé, Correntin Mabeuf. We used to live in an occupied house located in the Latin Quarter but were evicted a few days ago. Now, we live in the apartment above the café. To be honest, we’re kind of just living day to day. After meeting with my parents, it was decided that we would wait a year before getting married.

The wedding was on the first of May. A way to commemorate not only the month we met but also the protests that changed the course of history. It was a small, simple affair. Invitations were sent to everyone from the house with nearly all in attendance. Everything was handmade. My dress. Our cake. Everything. It was one of the happiest days of my life. It was also one of the best nights of my life. Despite thinking otherwise before, I was now very happy that we waited to make love.

I was even happier when three years later, our daughter was born. We named her Blythe Odele. She was the most beautiful little girl. Her hair was a curly, amber cloud and her eyes were a warm brown. She grew to be a gorgeous young woman. Soft-spoken and kind, she reminded me a lot of Correntin.

Two years after, we were treated to a surprise blessing of our son, Barrett Milo. He looked more like Correntin than Blythe did. His hair was dark brown, almost black and he wore it like Correntin wore his. The only difference was that Correntin didn’t come home every night with leaves or some other nature in his hair. Barrett did. He was a rambunctious child. Always running around and getting into something. He was very outspoken and had a low tolerance for unfairness.

We surrounded the two of them with unconditional love and acceptance. Our home was happy and, just like I had said once before, full of flowers. There were large windows that let the sun in and a large kitchen where we spent most of our time as a family. Even today, we have dinner together every Sunday night.

 Easter Sunday, 2015.

It was fifteen minutes after noon. We had just returned from church. No matter how many years we’ve been going, I still don’t care for it. Especially on days like today. The sun was shining and the sky was blue. I opened the window, letting a breeze flutter the curtains. I turned around to face Correntin. Next month, we’ll be married for 45 years. I can’t believe it. The best thing is that I’m more in love with him now than the day we married. I walked over to him and gave him a quick kiss. “Hey.”

“Hey.” He replied, smiling. I love his smile. He’s still as handsome as the day I met him.

I laughed and draped my arms over his shoulders. He wrapped his arms around my waist and swayed back and forth. I started to sway along, resting my head against his chest. “I love you.” I whispered to him.

Part One

Name: Babet Biggest Dream: To live the way I used to. Greatest Fear: That I can’t do that. What Makes You Laugh: Stupid shit. What Makes You Mad: A lot. What Makes You Cry: I’m not answerin’ that. Your Best Trait: Uh… I dunno. Your Worst Trait: I’m an asshole who can’t keep any friends. Ever Been In Love?: Why do you need to know? Are You Happy Right Now?: …no.

Part Two

It was one of those weird, out of your head days. Not a crazy day, but one were your mind felt outside, above your body. Babet hated those days. It was quiet, and sunny, too early for lunch and too late for breakfast, so he gave Mabeuf a head’s up and left for a walk. He didn’t get to go on walks much anymore, between shifts at the Ermitage and his classes. His feet took him down a familiar path while his head was off doing who knows what, and when it came back he was at his old spot near the Eiffel Tower. The tourists were the same as always, and he watched them for a moment, feeling pretty damn numb inside, all things considered. Maybe he was just too tired, but he didn’t hate them anymore. He didn’t want them to all be struck dead by holy lightning, or to sidle up and steal their wallets. He just… didn’t care. It was nice to not have to care what they thought, at least not until he had to go back to the cafe. With a start, he realized that, also, he wasn’t afraid of them. He hadn’t done anything illegal in a while, and none of them had any reason to yell at him or anything. He grinned, and then laughed, laughed like a crazy person. “You goddamn Americans,” he muttered, “I don’t have to put up with your shit anymore.” He went back to the cafe almost happy, and was able to honestly grin at Mabeuf for the first time in a while. Maybe everything else in his life was shit right now, but he wouldn’t have to deal with any fucking tourists telling him he didn’t belong anymore.

And Now…?

Part 1

Name: Arthur Benoit Combeferre

Biggest Dream: That someday there won’t be a need for death to achieve change.

Greatest Fear: Being alone. Or seeing his friends hurt.

What Makes You Laugh: His kitten, Garcon. Jokes his friends tell. A good novel.

What Makes You Cry: Being alone. Seeing his friends in any sort of pain. A good novel.

What Makes You Mad: People who tell other people that they aren’t worth anything. Everyone is worth something.

Your Best Trait: He’s always there for his friends when they need him.

Worst Trait: As Brujon said, he’s like a cotton ball. Sometimes he just takes and takes and takes but never gives back.

Ever Been in Love?: Yes.

Are You Happy Now?: No. But that doesn’t mean I’ll never be happy again.

Part 2

Combeferre looked out the window of the house onto the street below. They should be here any minute now. Everyone else had left long ago, taking all their belongings with them to wherever they were going. He couldn’t blame them. This was going to be dangerous. And they had new priorities now. Enjolras had Minnie. Jehan had Correntin. Grantaire had Theodule. Joly had Javert, Bossuet, and Musichetta.

Brujon had Favourite.

He banished that thought from his mind almost as quickly as it appeared. Because the they who were coming? Brujon and Favourite. He was going to America with them. To give Favourite away at their wedding.

Wasn’t that odd? He was going to America. He’d never been outside of France before. And he wasn’t just going for fun. Well, kind of. After the wedding, he would probably stay in America for a month or so, go around New York, see what there was to see, then come back to France. And go back to life as before. Except it wasn’t going to be like before. He had so many new friends in and outside of Paris. He was stronger. As chaotic as this past year had been, he was grateful for it all. The ups and downs and all of it.

He knew he would be able to love again. And lead again. This was his purpose. And he would be damned if he didn’t fulfill it.

Part 3

And now?

Paris, 2015. Fluffy white clouds dotted the clear sky over Parc du Champs-des-Mars. Vendors were all around the Eiffel Tower hawking their wares. Children ran by with their parents frantically chasing after them. Dogs barked. A typical Sunday.

Another component to this typical Parisian Sunday sat on the bench closest to the towel. He was a man of 69, flecks of grey dotted his once fully black hair. Those who frequented the parc knew who he was. He was once a great leader. He fought in the May riots and published his first hand account of the experience. He was practically a legend. He never said a word to anyone unless the person talking to him was very persistent.

And today was no exception. The persistent person arrived earlier that day, and spent nearly an hour trying to talk to him. He had fluffy brown hair, glasses, and a slightly cold expression. Combeferre smirked. Like someone else he once knew.

Which is probably why Combeferre spoke more to this boy than any of the others. His birth, growing up, his time in uni. He took particular care describing 1968, and had the young man not been so focused on translating what he said, he would have noticed the older man’s eyes misting over and a small waver in his voice. And a particular attention paid to a young Rromani thief with the laugh of an angel and the spirit of a phoenix. 

Normally, this was where most information-seekers lost interest, but not this boy. He wanted more. So Combeferre gave him more. He told him about Woodstock, elections, protests, and the haze of drugs, sex, friends, lovers, and mixtures of the two in the seventies. The eighties brought a new threat-- Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome. AIDS. The old man was lucky to not be a victim himself, but some of his friends weren’t. He fought for them. Petitioned for them. Held them while they died.

As he got older, his activism died down a bit. Not completely, but a bit. It took a backseat to his writing. His family. His friends. He never lost contact with any of them. Enjolras, Minnie, Courfeyrac, Jehan, Correntin, Grantaire, Theo, none of them. Not even Brujon and Favourite, at first.

The last time he visited them was almost twenty years ago, before the attack on the World Trade Center. But he made up for it at first with letters, calls, and the like. But...soon those stopped too. It wasn’t on purpose. It was just harder to keep up with people who were so far away.

And now? Now he was an old man, living in Paris as he had always done. Passing the time before he would see them again. Maxine. Ema. Av. All of them. One thing he could be thankful for to break up the monotony was people asking him about the 60s. Like this young man here.

Before he left, the young man asked Combeferre what he could do to enact change. Combeferre’s response? “Fuck the 60s. Fight now. If you want to do anything, you have to stop looking at the past. Learn from it but don’t be stuck in it. Just because it isn’t the sixties doesn’t mean you can’t do anything.”

The young man smiled. “Cimer. And ‘thur?”

Arthur blinked. No one had called him that in forever. “Yes?”

“My father says you’re welcome to join us for tea tonight along the Seine.”