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psalm_onethirtyoneMore fic. I finished my schoolwork in two hours and became blessed with spare time.
At the request of![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
mhari and keats_prouvaire, Samuel:
Samuel found, to his surprise, that he was avoiding Combeferre. There was no reasonable reason for it--it was just that, while he was trying to grow up and stop acting so much of a child, he didn't want Combeferre to see him trying. He wanted Combeferre to see him again when he was perfect, and to observe Combeferre's stunned congratulations.
So, when he wasn't at school or holding a meeting as Dimitri in Musain or the Corinthe, he haunted Feuilly's house. Feuilly was oddly tolerant of this, apart from a few sideways looks, and Manon chattered amiably while she went about her Routine. He grew to understand, over the course of two weeks, that Feuilly and Manon had a Routine, and that they always did the same things on the same days throughout the week. They hardly ever changed it.
The child, Justin, didn't speak. He only watched with his black Druid eyes. It bothered Samuel considerably, but as Feuilly and Manon were putting up with him so well, he didn't even think about saying anything. He just gave Justin exasperated glances when he went past him.
It made him truly happy to be there, however. He felt useful, and Feuilly's family made him unafraid of himself. He enjoyed being himself.
Manon had him fetch things occasionally, and Feuilly once sent him to the bakery for bread for supper. Samuel had discovered that they were equals. They shared everything and they were everything. Sometimes Feuilly was a wife as well as a husband, making supper himself and setting the table; sometimes Manon was a father as well as a mother and taught her son how to hold a brush for painting silk fans. But the difference was in that in their family, nothing was really something that 'the husband' would do or 'the mother' would do. They were so equal that sometimes it made Samuel's head hurt.
But it taught him what equality really was.
They never really left their Routines in all the time he was there, and it struck him that they must lead a rather boring life. He wondered how one could survive in a life so predictable. They always knew what would happen next. Then he realised they didn't always know what would happen. He realised that their odd, imperfect life made them happy. They loved one another and their son and they respected one another. He knew, of course, that they weren't always happy. He had seen Manon's thin face look thinner in worry, and Feuilly's black eyes go blank in disappointment. But they understood that to live one cannot dwell on the bad things. They knew how to live and not just stay alive, but to love living.
It taught him what freedom really was.
And he knew he was growing up, at last.
~~~
And formhari, sansenmage, venefica32, Jekyll&Hyde ficlets, of the creepy ikkle Hyde whom mine is, being nasty and Hydeish.
The Feeling of Being Edward Hyde
He's dark, and small, and Jekyll's clothes don't fit him.
It's quite aggravating. He likes to wear nice clothes, so of course his father is a bigger man than he is, and the soft shirts and smooth trousers are too large and puddle about his bony ankles. He sits on the floor of Jekyll's room, frowning, trying to pin up the trousers, and occasionally cursing.
Mostly, he considers himself good-looking. He has, he thinks, very nice hair, dark hair, unlike Jekyll's, which is grey. His is long and dark. Likely he has a darkly seductive sort of face, a fascinating face, he tells himself pleasedly. What he needs is the clothes to go with it.
He rolls up the trouser cuffs eventually, and turns back the cuffs of the shirt as well. The white of the linen goes well with his thin, slightly olive hands.
He isn't vain, he adds sulkily to Jekyll, who is lurking at the back of his mind. He's just looking himself over. He likes the new feeling of being Out, and knowing what he looks like. Jekyll is always nagging, always half-worried. That's the trouble with being a good man all your life, he informs Jekyll's presence. You don't learn to fully enjoy things that aren't strictly good, in the moral sense of the word.
He tightens the laces of Jekyll's large boots over his small feet, and leaves the house. What he needs is a tailor, and he's every intent of getting one. A tailor can hem up the damn cuffs, which are already coming down.
The tailor isn't there when he stops by the shop, because of course it's rather late. Unfortunately, he's always forgetting that sort of detail. Normal men don't keep his hours. The world doesn't keep his hours.
But to his amusement, there's a girl hovering around the tailor's shop. She seems to be lost, and he stops her.
"Good evening," he says, trying out his voice, which, although not quite new, is still a novelty because it's his. A very nice voice!, slightly higher, but growlier than Jekyll's. It sounds perfect for him, with his small darkness to fit in with the night. The girl turns to him and starts.
"Good evening."
"You aren't lost, are you, miss?" He smiles.
"I'm afraid I am... I can't recall this part of town at all."
His smile widens. "Where do you live? I believe I can help." He doesn't worry about the trousers. He won't really need them anyway, in a little while. By the way, he adds to Jekyll, as the girl names the street she came from, this is what it's like to live. He's very sorry Jekyll missed it. He enjoys it. Jekyll will learn to like it, too, once he gets used to it. Being a good man is so terribly boring.
And goodness, the clothes don't even matter now. There's an answer to everything, when you're small and dark and quick.
He'll still be seeing the tailor to-morrow, however.
~~~
It's How You Say It
He knows how to speak silkily, and convince Jekyll of almost anything. Old Jekyll's losing sense, and Jekyll likes the newfound pleasures he's always known how to indulge in. When he whispers to Jekyll and tells him that there's no point in shutting him away, Jekyll listens. Who wouldn't listen?
He knows how to speak. That's what he's all about. He knows how things must be said to convince folk that he's a very reasonable, sane fellow. Wine makes him lightheaded and yet he keeps his sense. Being delighted only helps him, because the more delight he derives, the more he learns that he can't ever let all this go.
He loves being free. He loves being out. More than he loves women and more than he loves drink and more than he loves any number of his strange fantasies, he loves being out. He loves the fact that he has his own hair to be swept by the stars, and he loves that fact that it's his own voice he uses to seduce people into his ideas.
Being out means stretching his arms as far as he wants without being cramped inside Jekyll. Being out means jumping in the air until the sweat runs down his cheeks and knowing he'll ache the next day because he has real limbs to ache. Being out means if his heart bursts it'll be his own heart and his own blood and his own death, not Jekyll's.
And it's a good bit thanks to his voice, he thinks, amused. His very nice, perhaps--perhaps tenor voice--with the slight gravelly roughness to it, that he can make go silk at a moment's notice. Being out and staying out is thanks to that voice, and not always paying at taverns is thanks to that voice and picking girls off the street is thanks to that lovely, perfected voice.
Jekyll is prey to his voice as well, and Jekyll hasn't forced him in yet. He smiles. He's taking care of that, too, secretly. So far, he stays out without protest, but if he must figure out how to get out on his own, he will. He'll never go back in willingly and stay shut up behind locked doors in Jekyll's mind ever again.
But he doesn't think that possibility will ever begin to occur. After all, he knows how to use his voice.
~~~
Annnd foreponinenkind, Eponine/Enjolras.
God, Eponine, The Things You Do
She was dirty. She felt dirty. She felt mad and she was hungry. Eponine was standing outside of the first cafe that looked likely, jumping from foot to foot because they were both bleeding a little, and hoping someone would come out and offer her something. To her acute discouragement, no one had yet.
She hoped she looked dirty enough. With a little moan of impatience, she rubbed another handful of dust over her cheeks. She was hungry hungry hungry hungry--
A young man stepped out of the cafe. He was quite tall, and very pretty (almost as pretty as her new neighbour, but not as gently so) and he looked somewhat caught up in his own thoughts. She sighed at that--he likely wouldn't notice her, and she wasn't a beggar, oh she wasn't, so she wouldn't actually go up to him and ask him to give her something to eat. Standing by a door and hoping someone felt charitable wasn't the same as begging, she insisted to herself.
But the young man was looking at her. His eyebrows were raised, and he looked as though he were telling himself something, for his lips moved a little, without making a sound.
"Girl," he said. "Come here for a moment."
She scurried over. Good luck! Perhaps he would! Well, that she hadn't expected. "Yes, M.?" she asked, coughing to try and seem a bit more pathetic.
"What is your name?"
"Eponine Jondrette."
"Have you always lived on the streets? Do you know why you have, or are you kept in ignorance?"
She felt indignant, a little, at that. She knew what the word ignorance meant because her father used it so often. But she'd not either lived all her life on the streets, and she wasn't ignorant! They'd used to've been quite rich, she thought crossly. But if this young man was making sure she was suitably poor before he gave her anything--sometimes it happened that way--
"'Ve always lived in Paris, if that's what you mean." She tilted her head, trying to look poorer and stupider (not that she was). She was so hungry hungry damn it and she wanted his sympathy.
"I did think... Poor girl, you don't know you could be happy, do you? You don't know that if there were a Republic, you'd be taken care of." His blue eyes looked nearly angry. "And you need it. Someday, perhaps you'll have a home of your own, instead of sleeping on the streets."
She did so have a home! An ugly home, but it was still a home. She didn't argue, however. She was mostly sure it was only a small matter of time before he gave her something. Anyway, the way he talked puzzled her.
"Eponine, you said? Here's five francs for you, and your family, if they've not all been murdered by cruelty."
She grabbed it eagerly. Ha! So he had been the right sort! She was utterly delighted, and felt her insides dancing. She was so hungry, and now she wouldn't be! The hunger nearly went away, she was so delighted. Five francs!
In her ecstasy, she jumped up on her thin, bony legs and kissed the young man. "Thank you, M.!" Then she went back to her gloating, turning the five franc piece over. Five whole francs! She spun about and ran, rubbing the piece. Now she could eat!
The young man stood, looking after her for a long time. At last, he wiped off his lips with two fingers and sighed. He just had fallen in love with the idea of what the poor were now and what they had become. He had fallen in love with this girl and with what could save her. He saw, passing before his eyes, revolutions, 1793, barricades, freedom, and ugly street children transformed into angels of France. He suddenly knew what he would do and what he wanted most in life.
And Eponine, stuffing down a bun, didn't even know what she'd done.
~~~
And lastly, formhari, petronelle, sansenmage, nympholepsy, and erinpuff, Hamlet/Horatio.
Fashion i' th' Earth
Hamlet is mad, yes, and he's not ashamed of it, only frustrated by it. Horatio can see; it seems as though everything he does is obvious to Horatio. He doesn't just act; most of the time he's only himself and they still think him mad. It makes the whole world swirl together in senselessness. Sometimes he wonders if he isn't so completely mad that he'll drown in it. He makes everything strange by himself and he can't reach out and touch anyone. But Horatio can see. Horatio hums and doesn't seem to realise that the world's changed from having a healthy complexion to pallour; yet, at the same time, he knows when to rub Hamlet's shoulders and insist that it's all going to turn out right.
Yes, Claudius must die. It can be done. It will happen. If Hamlet never even touches him, Horatio promises, he will still die. Everyone dies, and Claudius will be getting rather old now, he says, musing on it.
Horatio always looks the same. He's the only thing that hasn't changed. He still exaggerates stories when he tells them. He still lies on the floor on his back and says things that are so annoyingly philosophical that Hamlet doesn't want to think about them. He still reacts sweetly to teasing and still makes jests with a perfectly straight face.
He still kisses Hamlet's golden hair and tries to pick out the rosemary, only to be slapped at. Hamlet needs the rosemary. And then, blithely, Horatio leaves off and doesn't touch it.
Night, Hamlet suspects, is when Horatio does his worrying, when there's no one to see. During the day, he must stay in his role of warm comfort and understanding philosophy. Perhaps Hamlet is selfish, but he prefers it that way. He needs Horatio when Horatio is composed almost as much as he needs his rosemary.
He's mad, and he never thinks straight. He keeps getting all his thoughts mixed up, and yet one thought he generally keeps whole and apart from the jumble of other ones: he loves Horatio. He needs Horatio.
And on the occasions that he feels as though he's lucid, that he's sane at last, Horatio makes him do things he used to do. Horatio reads with him, lying on his stomach with his feet in the air, and Hamlet lies on his back, holding his own book up high where he can hardly read it, just as he did when he was a boy. Sometimes they take walks together, and Hamlet realises that Horatio feels so happy he may break because he has his old friend back.
Does that mean, since when Hamlet returns into the madness, Horatio seems as though his heart may break, that either happy or miserable, Horatio will end up in pieces?
But Hamlet loves Horatio, and hides the worry that he's destroying him within madness. Then, when Horatio kisses his hair and his cheeks and smilingly tells him that in the end, they'll be happy, he can believe it without guilt.
Horatio is the only one who understands.
~~~
I think I write too much. Ah, well.
At the request of
mhari and keats_prouvaire, Samuel:Samuel found, to his surprise, that he was avoiding Combeferre. There was no reasonable reason for it--it was just that, while he was trying to grow up and stop acting so much of a child, he didn't want Combeferre to see him trying. He wanted Combeferre to see him again when he was perfect, and to observe Combeferre's stunned congratulations.
So, when he wasn't at school or holding a meeting as Dimitri in Musain or the Corinthe, he haunted Feuilly's house. Feuilly was oddly tolerant of this, apart from a few sideways looks, and Manon chattered amiably while she went about her Routine. He grew to understand, over the course of two weeks, that Feuilly and Manon had a Routine, and that they always did the same things on the same days throughout the week. They hardly ever changed it.
The child, Justin, didn't speak. He only watched with his black Druid eyes. It bothered Samuel considerably, but as Feuilly and Manon were putting up with him so well, he didn't even think about saying anything. He just gave Justin exasperated glances when he went past him.
It made him truly happy to be there, however. He felt useful, and Feuilly's family made him unafraid of himself. He enjoyed being himself.
Manon had him fetch things occasionally, and Feuilly once sent him to the bakery for bread for supper. Samuel had discovered that they were equals. They shared everything and they were everything. Sometimes Feuilly was a wife as well as a husband, making supper himself and setting the table; sometimes Manon was a father as well as a mother and taught her son how to hold a brush for painting silk fans. But the difference was in that in their family, nothing was really something that 'the husband' would do or 'the mother' would do. They were so equal that sometimes it made Samuel's head hurt.
But it taught him what equality really was.
They never really left their Routines in all the time he was there, and it struck him that they must lead a rather boring life. He wondered how one could survive in a life so predictable. They always knew what would happen next. Then he realised they didn't always know what would happen. He realised that their odd, imperfect life made them happy. They loved one another and their son and they respected one another. He knew, of course, that they weren't always happy. He had seen Manon's thin face look thinner in worry, and Feuilly's black eyes go blank in disappointment. But they understood that to live one cannot dwell on the bad things. They knew how to live and not just stay alive, but to love living.
It taught him what freedom really was.
And he knew he was growing up, at last.
~~~
And for
mhari, sansenmage, venefica32, Jekyll&Hyde ficlets, of the creepy ikkle Hyde whom mine is, being nasty and Hydeish.The Feeling of Being Edward Hyde
He's dark, and small, and Jekyll's clothes don't fit him.
It's quite aggravating. He likes to wear nice clothes, so of course his father is a bigger man than he is, and the soft shirts and smooth trousers are too large and puddle about his bony ankles. He sits on the floor of Jekyll's room, frowning, trying to pin up the trousers, and occasionally cursing.
Mostly, he considers himself good-looking. He has, he thinks, very nice hair, dark hair, unlike Jekyll's, which is grey. His is long and dark. Likely he has a darkly seductive sort of face, a fascinating face, he tells himself pleasedly. What he needs is the clothes to go with it.
He rolls up the trouser cuffs eventually, and turns back the cuffs of the shirt as well. The white of the linen goes well with his thin, slightly olive hands.
He isn't vain, he adds sulkily to Jekyll, who is lurking at the back of his mind. He's just looking himself over. He likes the new feeling of being Out, and knowing what he looks like. Jekyll is always nagging, always half-worried. That's the trouble with being a good man all your life, he informs Jekyll's presence. You don't learn to fully enjoy things that aren't strictly good, in the moral sense of the word.
He tightens the laces of Jekyll's large boots over his small feet, and leaves the house. What he needs is a tailor, and he's every intent of getting one. A tailor can hem up the damn cuffs, which are already coming down.
The tailor isn't there when he stops by the shop, because of course it's rather late. Unfortunately, he's always forgetting that sort of detail. Normal men don't keep his hours. The world doesn't keep his hours.
But to his amusement, there's a girl hovering around the tailor's shop. She seems to be lost, and he stops her.
"Good evening," he says, trying out his voice, which, although not quite new, is still a novelty because it's his. A very nice voice!, slightly higher, but growlier than Jekyll's. It sounds perfect for him, with his small darkness to fit in with the night. The girl turns to him and starts.
"Good evening."
"You aren't lost, are you, miss?" He smiles.
"I'm afraid I am... I can't recall this part of town at all."
His smile widens. "Where do you live? I believe I can help." He doesn't worry about the trousers. He won't really need them anyway, in a little while. By the way, he adds to Jekyll, as the girl names the street she came from, this is what it's like to live. He's very sorry Jekyll missed it. He enjoys it. Jekyll will learn to like it, too, once he gets used to it. Being a good man is so terribly boring.
And goodness, the clothes don't even matter now. There's an answer to everything, when you're small and dark and quick.
He'll still be seeing the tailor to-morrow, however.
~~~
It's How You Say It
He knows how to speak silkily, and convince Jekyll of almost anything. Old Jekyll's losing sense, and Jekyll likes the newfound pleasures he's always known how to indulge in. When he whispers to Jekyll and tells him that there's no point in shutting him away, Jekyll listens. Who wouldn't listen?
He knows how to speak. That's what he's all about. He knows how things must be said to convince folk that he's a very reasonable, sane fellow. Wine makes him lightheaded and yet he keeps his sense. Being delighted only helps him, because the more delight he derives, the more he learns that he can't ever let all this go.
He loves being free. He loves being out. More than he loves women and more than he loves drink and more than he loves any number of his strange fantasies, he loves being out. He loves the fact that he has his own hair to be swept by the stars, and he loves that fact that it's his own voice he uses to seduce people into his ideas.
Being out means stretching his arms as far as he wants without being cramped inside Jekyll. Being out means jumping in the air until the sweat runs down his cheeks and knowing he'll ache the next day because he has real limbs to ache. Being out means if his heart bursts it'll be his own heart and his own blood and his own death, not Jekyll's.
And it's a good bit thanks to his voice, he thinks, amused. His very nice, perhaps--perhaps tenor voice--with the slight gravelly roughness to it, that he can make go silk at a moment's notice. Being out and staying out is thanks to that voice, and not always paying at taverns is thanks to that voice and picking girls off the street is thanks to that lovely, perfected voice.
Jekyll is prey to his voice as well, and Jekyll hasn't forced him in yet. He smiles. He's taking care of that, too, secretly. So far, he stays out without protest, but if he must figure out how to get out on his own, he will. He'll never go back in willingly and stay shut up behind locked doors in Jekyll's mind ever again.
But he doesn't think that possibility will ever begin to occur. After all, he knows how to use his voice.
~~~
Annnd for
eponinenkind, Eponine/Enjolras.God, Eponine, The Things You Do
She was dirty. She felt dirty. She felt mad and she was hungry. Eponine was standing outside of the first cafe that looked likely, jumping from foot to foot because they were both bleeding a little, and hoping someone would come out and offer her something. To her acute discouragement, no one had yet.
She hoped she looked dirty enough. With a little moan of impatience, she rubbed another handful of dust over her cheeks. She was hungry hungry hungry hungry--
A young man stepped out of the cafe. He was quite tall, and very pretty (almost as pretty as her new neighbour, but not as gently so) and he looked somewhat caught up in his own thoughts. She sighed at that--he likely wouldn't notice her, and she wasn't a beggar, oh she wasn't, so she wouldn't actually go up to him and ask him to give her something to eat. Standing by a door and hoping someone felt charitable wasn't the same as begging, she insisted to herself.
But the young man was looking at her. His eyebrows were raised, and he looked as though he were telling himself something, for his lips moved a little, without making a sound.
"Girl," he said. "Come here for a moment."
She scurried over. Good luck! Perhaps he would! Well, that she hadn't expected. "Yes, M.?" she asked, coughing to try and seem a bit more pathetic.
"What is your name?"
"Eponine Jondrette."
"Have you always lived on the streets? Do you know why you have, or are you kept in ignorance?"
She felt indignant, a little, at that. She knew what the word ignorance meant because her father used it so often. But she'd not either lived all her life on the streets, and she wasn't ignorant! They'd used to've been quite rich, she thought crossly. But if this young man was making sure she was suitably poor before he gave her anything--sometimes it happened that way--
"'Ve always lived in Paris, if that's what you mean." She tilted her head, trying to look poorer and stupider (not that she was). She was so hungry hungry damn it and she wanted his sympathy.
"I did think... Poor girl, you don't know you could be happy, do you? You don't know that if there were a Republic, you'd be taken care of." His blue eyes looked nearly angry. "And you need it. Someday, perhaps you'll have a home of your own, instead of sleeping on the streets."
She did so have a home! An ugly home, but it was still a home. She didn't argue, however. She was mostly sure it was only a small matter of time before he gave her something. Anyway, the way he talked puzzled her.
"Eponine, you said? Here's five francs for you, and your family, if they've not all been murdered by cruelty."
She grabbed it eagerly. Ha! So he had been the right sort! She was utterly delighted, and felt her insides dancing. She was so hungry, and now she wouldn't be! The hunger nearly went away, she was so delighted. Five francs!
In her ecstasy, she jumped up on her thin, bony legs and kissed the young man. "Thank you, M.!" Then she went back to her gloating, turning the five franc piece over. Five whole francs! She spun about and ran, rubbing the piece. Now she could eat!
The young man stood, looking after her for a long time. At last, he wiped off his lips with two fingers and sighed. He just had fallen in love with the idea of what the poor were now and what they had become. He had fallen in love with this girl and with what could save her. He saw, passing before his eyes, revolutions, 1793, barricades, freedom, and ugly street children transformed into angels of France. He suddenly knew what he would do and what he wanted most in life.
And Eponine, stuffing down a bun, didn't even know what she'd done.
~~~
And lastly, for
mhari, petronelle, sansenmage, nympholepsy, and erinpuff, Hamlet/Horatio.Fashion i' th' Earth
Hamlet is mad, yes, and he's not ashamed of it, only frustrated by it. Horatio can see; it seems as though everything he does is obvious to Horatio. He doesn't just act; most of the time he's only himself and they still think him mad. It makes the whole world swirl together in senselessness. Sometimes he wonders if he isn't so completely mad that he'll drown in it. He makes everything strange by himself and he can't reach out and touch anyone. But Horatio can see. Horatio hums and doesn't seem to realise that the world's changed from having a healthy complexion to pallour; yet, at the same time, he knows when to rub Hamlet's shoulders and insist that it's all going to turn out right.
Yes, Claudius must die. It can be done. It will happen. If Hamlet never even touches him, Horatio promises, he will still die. Everyone dies, and Claudius will be getting rather old now, he says, musing on it.
Horatio always looks the same. He's the only thing that hasn't changed. He still exaggerates stories when he tells them. He still lies on the floor on his back and says things that are so annoyingly philosophical that Hamlet doesn't want to think about them. He still reacts sweetly to teasing and still makes jests with a perfectly straight face.
He still kisses Hamlet's golden hair and tries to pick out the rosemary, only to be slapped at. Hamlet needs the rosemary. And then, blithely, Horatio leaves off and doesn't touch it.
Night, Hamlet suspects, is when Horatio does his worrying, when there's no one to see. During the day, he must stay in his role of warm comfort and understanding philosophy. Perhaps Hamlet is selfish, but he prefers it that way. He needs Horatio when Horatio is composed almost as much as he needs his rosemary.
He's mad, and he never thinks straight. He keeps getting all his thoughts mixed up, and yet one thought he generally keeps whole and apart from the jumble of other ones: he loves Horatio. He needs Horatio.
And on the occasions that he feels as though he's lucid, that he's sane at last, Horatio makes him do things he used to do. Horatio reads with him, lying on his stomach with his feet in the air, and Hamlet lies on his back, holding his own book up high where he can hardly read it, just as he did when he was a boy. Sometimes they take walks together, and Hamlet realises that Horatio feels so happy he may break because he has his old friend back.
Does that mean, since when Hamlet returns into the madness, Horatio seems as though his heart may break, that either happy or miserable, Horatio will end up in pieces?
But Hamlet loves Horatio, and hides the worry that he's destroying him within madness. Then, when Horatio kisses his hair and his cheeks and smilingly tells him that in the end, they'll be happy, he can believe it without guilt.
Horatio is the only one who understands.
~~~
I think I write too much. Ah, well.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-12 12:46 pm (UTC)I think I write too much. Ah, well.
If you didn't, I would be quite sad, and I wouldn't be the only one.
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-12 06:41 pm (UTC)If you didn't, I would be quite sad, and I wouldn't be the only one.
Emphatically piffle...
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-13 07:40 am (UTC)Thank you sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo much! I must say I felt rather stupid when I voted for that pairing *cough* I can't believe you've written it! Thank you!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Even though you hate Eponine! That's so wonderful! ^________^ And it's the only way to make it believable, really - you're soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo cool! XD
*bows down and worships at your feet*
Well. Yes. I'm a fangirl. XD
And you do not write too much. Please don't stop, because what you write is wonderful and beautiful and in character and just... well. Yeah. I love your writing, and so does pretty much everyone who reads your fic, I think! ^___^
♥
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-13 07:08 pm (UTC)Eee, thanks so much! *fluffles you*
(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-14 05:34 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2004-04-14 09:15 am (UTC)And that Enjolras/Eponine.
When I first saw that combination I said "ick" but then I read it and... It might work like that. Definitely not my OTP but... a plausible way to do it.
I'm impressed.