Carrie's Distractions

Les Miserables Canon era, feels ahoy! (TW: implied character death, as it is post-barricade)|

I wish you could have met him. He was incredible. As warm as the sun, and yet, never one to burn you with his temper.  He is magnificent. As shy as the moon behind clouds, and yet, so delightfully opinionated once you get to know him. He loved to dance, to sing, to argue. Life. That was what he was best at. Thriving, encouraging, improving lives. Anything he could do to summon a smile, or better yet, laughter, from someone else. He loves. That is what he is best at. Loves, with his whole heart, and his whole mind, summoning every inch of willpower in his being to try to be worthy of that love. Our friends called him the Center, the glue that held us all together. The cause he took up, he carried within his heart, within his smile, and even within his jokes. For one with such a grim destiny ahead, he never once wavered in his hope for the future. Our friends call him… well. You’ve heard what they all say. He is not quite glue, nor our guide, but he is ours, all the same. Our lovelorn fool and dear companion. Until the very end, when we were no longer his, and he was no longer ours. He had a different destiny to fill. There is nothing left of him. No forwarding address,no relations, no mementos I may keep, beyond that coat. Tattered, destroyed, and yet, still his. You ask why I cannot part with it? It is the only proof I had he once lived. There is something of you in him. A certain forwardness, a soft smile so clearly related to your own, in his eyes, a memento of your own. Your own face is so much more worn than his, exhausted, aged. And yet… You ask why I cannot leave you alone? You are the only proof I have that my memories are true. 

By caring for me when I had no one else, he gave me hope, and a new life.  By your courage, and legacy, as well as your blood, you gave him life.

Paris is not the same without him. Even if so few in the end will ever remember him, I feel as if there is less joy, less laughter, in every corner of this ancient city and every night under the stars. I hope someone else misses him too. Is that strange? Heaven is not the same without him. Even with so many of our friends here, there is less warmth, less of his soft chuckle, and his warm words, in every conversation, and every day.  I hope he arrives not too soon, but not too long from now. Is that strange?

I cannot forget him, not as long as I live. I will never forget him, not in an eternity.  I loved him. I only wish I had told him that, before it was too late. I love him. I only wish he had known that, before it was too late. 

So, this Courfius week drabble turned into… a lot more. Rated PG, feels abound, enjoy!

Courfeyrac did not look up as Marius entered their apartment. He knew it was Marius, because his friend, and now roommate, was the only person who not only took off his shoes at the door, but also apologized.

Perhaps to the floor? Or to the shoes? Surely not to Courfeyrac himself, as he’d told the Linguistics major multiple times he didn’t give a damn if Marius wore shoes inside.

After all, his parents paid for the off-campus apartment, not him.

“All done apologizing to the thin air?” he teased, still looking at his phone.

“I just… sorry.” Marius mumbled, coming to sit on the other side of the couch, always seemingly trying to leave room for eight other people, which was ridiculous, because the Amis met at Combeferre’s house these days, as Joli had decided he was allergic to cats.

“Marius, you know, you can spread out on this couch. Oddly enough, our cat has decided she only likes sitting on it if you are already quite comfortably arranged, so don’t save space on her account.

Courfeyrac was perched on the arm of the old thing, which had once been a sort of mauve but now was rather grey with cat hair. Perhaps he should get a vacuum.

But then Joli would claim to have won the debate over the cleanliness of the apartment. No. better to leave it as is.

“Sorry,” Marius said again. He did not move.

“Nothing to apologize for,” Courfeyrac replied, his thumb swiping across the screen quickly. “No, no, definitely no, hmmm. No.” His commentary made Marius lean over his shoulder.

“What are you doing?”

“I am sadly not doing anyone, hence my need for this app.” He slid the phone into his pocket, and laughed, because Marius’s face had turned a lovely shade of pink. “It’s called tinder, dearest roomie of mine.” “I’m your only roomie. Unless you count Madam Gris.”

“His name is Smaug.”

“You can’t name a kitten after a dragon, Courfeyrac.”

“Have you seen her fangs?” he replied. “She is vicious. I shall raise her to be my attack cat! She shall defend us from all who might wish to break into our fine abode and abscond with our property.”

“Your property,” Marius muttered, glumly.

Ah, damn. Just like that, Marius’s good humor vanished. In the weeks they’d lived together, Courfeyrac had tried multiple tactics to keep that goofy smile on the young man’s face, loved the way it light up his face and made his eyes sparkle.

But between heartbreak, homework, and complicated familial relationships, keeping a smile on Marius Pontmercy’s seemed a nearly impossible task. Luckily, Courfeyrac thrived on doing the impossible.

“Marius” Courfeyrac drawled in the middle of the night. His roommate had the perfect name to be drawled in a mixture of disbelieving and frustration, seasoned with a little more fondness than the dandy Courfeyrac would ever admit. So he said it again, as he lay, blinking at the light of the candles, which had suddenly materialized in the small apartment. Indeed, it seemed every bit of wax with the smallest semblance of a wick he’d ever had had reappeared on the trunk which served as dresser and table. They burned like little stars, and their glow threw rather sensual shadows onto Marius’s form, as he came to bed.

Which was truly a rather impressive gift the candles offered, as one did not often think of the darling little potato of a fool that Marius was as sensual. But tonight, in a stark white shirt, borrowed from Courfeyrac, and loose linen trousers that were thankfully not borrowed, as Marius, being shorter, always got the cuffs of his borrowed trousers scuffed, and with his dark curls all tousled from the cold October air outside, Marius Pontmercy did look quite sensual.

And also very foolish.

 “I know that money, in all its glittering glory both confounds and terrifies you, but surely even you, lord of bubble-land, must realize that sleeping while candles are lit is terribly dangerous, expensive, and frankly rather gauche.”

Marius, on his side of the mattress, mumbled something.

“What was that? I can’t hear you over the sounds of my father’s fortune disappearing as candles melt to wax.”

A slightly louder mumble.

“Hmm? I’ll have you know my father did not affix that damn particle to his name for his money to be spend upon little scraps of wax. Why, if it is a fire you want, we should have a grand one! A bonfire of the very vanities of the government! We could–”

“Scared.”

“Of politics? Yes, we all know that.”

“nuhh…” the noise was a little like a no, if a no was said when one’s face was smushed against a Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

“you have a very cold nose, Monsieur.” Courfeyrac gave in to temptation, and let his hand ruffle through the inky dark curls, the only part of Marius above the line of the scratchy green wool blanket they both shared. “Is your cold nose the reason you wanted candles? For I’ll have you know, there’s a wonderful invention called a hearth, in which a fire far larger than a candle might burn, and provide us with delightful warmth. Say the word and I shall re-acquire the supplies needed to keep us toastier than chestnuts. Or, even better, let us go out and acquire chestnuts, roasted fresh in one of those darling carts.”

“Not cold. ‘Fraid.”

“Fraid of what?”

“Ghosts.” he finally mumbled.

“What?”

Marius had the blanket back over his head and the words muffled into incorrent rumbles. Sighing, Courfeyrac moved to hold him a little closer. “Speak, or I shall start tickling you.”

When that was met with silence, Courfeyrac let his fingers twich over Marius’s ribs. The dark-haired young man let out a soft laugh.  It was that sound that did him in, every time. The sort of laugh that made one put up with things like listening to lectures on Napoleon, and terrible fashion sense, and a general fear of every woman over the age of thirteen and under eighty. The sort of laugh that was bright like a star in it’s sudden appearance.

The sort of laugh that was all the sweeter, and to the listener, sadder, because it was apparent it had not occured often.

It was a mystery Courfeyrac tried not to ponder, how one could grow up so devoid of joy, and still laugh like that.

So, instead of pondering, he got to tickling, and only after Marius was laughing hard enough that tears of humor sparkled in eyes as dark as the night sky, did Courfeyrac blow out the candle.

Silence.

And then.

A creak of a floorboard. A whistle of the wind.

“Marius” Courfeyrac drawled in the middle of the night. His roommate had the perfect name to be drawled in a mixture of disbelieving and frustration, seasoned with a little more fondness than the dandy Courfeyrac would ever admit. So he said it again, as he lay, blinking at the light of the candles, which had suddenly materialized in the small apartment. Indeed, it seemed every bit of wax with the smallest semblance of a wick he’d ever had had reappeared on the trunk which served as dresser and table. They burned like little stars, and their glow threw rather sensual shadows onto Marius’s form, as he came to bed.

Which was truly a rather impressive gift the candles offered, as one did not often think of the darling little potato of a fool that Marius was as sensual. But tonight, in a stark white shirt, borrowed from Courfeyrac, and loose linen trousers that were thankfully not borrowed, as Marius, being shorter, always got the cuffs of his borrowed trousers scuffed, and with his dark curls all tousled from the cold October air outside, Marius Pontmercy did look quite sensual.

And also very foolish.

 “I know that money, in all its glittering glory both confounds and terrifies you, but surely even you, lord of bubble-land, must realize that sleeping while candles are lit is terribly dangerous, expensive, and frankly rather gauche.”

Marius, on his side of the mattress, mumbled something.

“What was that? I can’t hear you over the sounds of my father’s fortune disappearing as candles melt to wax.”

A slightly louder mumble.

“Hmm? I’ll have you know my father did not affix that damn particle to his name for his money to be spend upon little scraps of wax. Why, if it is a fire you want, we should have a grand one! A bonfire of the very vanities of the government! We could–”

“Scared.”

“Of politics? Yes, we all know that.”

“nuhh…” the noise was a little like a no, if a no was said when one’s face was smushed against a Courfeyrac’s shoulder. 

“you have a very cold nose, Monsieur.” Courfeyrac gave in to temptation, and let his hand ruffle through the inky dark curls, the only part of Marius above the line of the scratchy green wool blanket they both shared. “Is your cold nose the reason you wanted candles? For I’ll have you know, there’s a wonderful invention called a hearth, in which a fire far larger than a candle might burn, and provide us with delightful warmth. Say the word and I shall re-acquire the supplies needed to keep us toastier than chestnuts. Or, even better, let us go out and acquire chestnuts, roasted fresh in one of those darling carts.”

“Not cold. ‘Fraid.”

“Fraid of what?”

“Ghosts.” he finally mumbled.

“What?”

Marius had the blanket back over his head and the words muffled into incorrent rumbles. Sighing, Courfeyrac moved to hold him a little closer. “Speak, or I shall start tickling you.”

When that was met with silence, Courfeyrac let his fingers twich over Marius’s ribs. The dark-haired young man let out a soft laugh.  It was that sound that did him in, every time. The sort of laugh that made one put up with things like listening to lectures on Napoleon, and terrible fashion sense, and a general fear of every woman over the age of thirteen and under eighty. The sort of laugh that was bright like a star in it’s sudden appearance.

The sort of laugh that was all the sweeter, and to the listener, sadder, because it was apparent it had not occured often.

It was a mystery Courfeyrac tried not to ponder, how one could grow up so devoid of joy, and still laugh like that.

So, instead of pondering, he got to tickling, and only after Marius was laughing hard enough that tears of humor sparkled in eyes as dark as the night sky, did Courfeyrac blow out the candle.

Silence.

And then.

A creak of a floorboard. A whistle of the wind.

So I finally started the Etsy shop that I mentioned possibly starting a year or so ago!  I crochet and embroider but I also make tricolor cockades!  

I wanted to make a post about it because I’m thinking of having a sale starting on May 15 and running possibly to the end of May (I haven’t decided yet) so you can have a cockade on Barricade Day if you don’t have one already!  There are some on my shop rn if you don’t want to wait but yeah.  Also, if you have an opinion, would free shipping be better than a price percentage markdown?  Let me know what you think (I know international shipping is super expensive which is why I might just do free shipping). 

Here’s the link.

(Also in case you look at my shop and wonder, yes, it’s mostly supposed to be for crochet but I have none on there now because I’m busy with finals I only had winter stuff and that’s over so.)

Oh my gosh. Welcome!  And what a good question! I hardly even know where to start.

Les Mis Dallas/ Dallas Les Mis  is what people mostly call the Dallas Theater Center production of 2014. Directed by Liesl Tommy, it took the story of the musical and reset it to be in a modern city (a purposely non-specific modern city).  While it kept the libretto and the story, it was a totally redone staging and design, made to stress the contemporary relevance of the story’s themes and encourage people to feel the immediacy of the story again.

…That’s the newspaper summary, and it sounds high-concept and boring. LMD was anything but. So here’s Entirely Subjective fannish shouting. Under  a cut for lots of shouting and lots of images. 

Oh gosh, good question! 

Disclaimer, I don’t think anyone’s gotten it 100 percent–all the adaptations   I’ve seen lose or add a few scenes, and almost all of them shorten the Amis Roster. 

- I Miserabili, 1964 TV series : among other things, the single best adaptation!version  Feuilly I’ve ever seen :D  (this is also just a really really good adaptation generally, watch it watch it)  Also includes the amazing scene between Javert and Grantaire at the barricade, which is not Hugo Canon but omg it SHOULD BE. 

- the 1972 French miniseries (not yet subtitled, but seriously IT’S SO GOOD, watch it, if you know the book you’ll recognize the scenes when they happen, and I love the casting choices.)

Note that none of the above get Enjolras being blond or Bossuet being bald. I have never seen ANY film adaptation acknowledge Bossuet being bald,  it is An Outrage,  but they are still pretty faithful adaptations!

Special Mention:  

Shoujo Cosette Shoujo Cosette massively sidelines Feuilly, Bahorel, and Joly (for two of the Amis who get actual repeated speaking roles in the text, Bahorel and Joly get shorted in adaptations a lot ) , and it adds so many scenes in so many places that it certainly can’t be considered accurate,  exactly, but it gives a whole lot of Amis goodness all the same, including Enjolras getting mobbed by girls,  a Jean Prouvaire death scene and Combeferre inviting Enjolras home to meet his parents after the revolution (!!)  and Courfeyrac having no sense of personal space with Marius any at  all.  Not remotely  accurate, but somehow still spot on. XD 

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Mawius