also i am totally gonna ask you to fill in those parentheses
The tortoise was acquired when Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac were on a summer holiday picnic in Bourg-la-Reine (Enjolras having been forced to go because he had not seen the sun for three days). It crawled up Enjolras’ shirtsleeve, chewed thoughtfully on his hair for a few minutes, and fell asleep. Courfeyrac decided that, the tortoise obviously having developed a deep and tender attachment to Enjolras, it would be cruel for them to leave it in the country. Enjolras attempted to “accidentally” forget it at several points on the return journey, but in the end: there they were in Paris, and there it was in Paris, and he was stuck with it.
The tortoise’s name came about because none of the three of them had the slightest idea what tortoises eat, and while Combeferre was researching the subject, Courfeyrac began feeding the tortoise bread soaked in brandy. A lack of protest by the tortoise was interpreted by Courfeyrac as powerful endorsement of brandy. The ultimate result of this evening was an extremely intoxicated (“Courfeyrac! You have intoxicated my tortoise!”) tortoise and Courfeyrac’s immovable decision to call it Mirabeau-Tonneau* from then on.
(Eventually Enjolras came to tolerate the tortoise and even— though only on his more sentimental nights— maybe a bit more.)
*”Barrel-Mirabeau,” which is what the more famous Mirabeau’s drunk brother was called.
Here’s an incredibly stupid ficlet with “Sleepy Hollow” Hessian magic:
Marius woke up to discover he was not in the Gorbeau Tenement. He was pleased with this, since he had meant to move out after failing to shoot his pistol, but his recollection of the previous evening consisted mostly of Courfeyrac dragging him around the Latin Quarter and he did not remember moving his furniture. After a moment, Marius sat up and realized he had not moved his furniture. He was in Courfeyrac’s apartment. Marius hastily rose, adjusting Courfeyrac’s nightshirt— which ought to have been too long on him— but he had once borrowed a coat of Courfeyrac’s and it had fit—
Marius turned and looked helplessly at Courfeyrac’s reflection in the mirror. What the hell had happened? Marius poked at Courfeyrac’s face. The previous night Courfeyrac had mentioned he’d bought a new bed? And they had both slept in it because MArius hadn’t wanted to risk seeing Thenardier again— Marius leapt back towards the bed, stumbling with Courfeyrac’s legs and read, to his increasing horror, a German spell carved into the headboard. Marius fumbled with Courfeyrac’s desk and with Courfeyrac’s hands and eventually managed to produce a page of ink blots explaining what had happened.
About two hours later, Marius opened the door to see himself waggling his eyebrows. Marius gestured helplessly between them and made an inarticulate noise meant to express his existential confusion and his inability to take another step. Courfeyrac said, with an air of innocence, “I have come to sleep with you.”
THE EYEBROWS. I love it. What HAS Courfeyrac been doing with Marius’ body all this time? HAS HE BEEN…
buying it new clothes?
Oh maaaan. Enjolras gets evicted for an Accident With Gunpowder in his flat (not arrested, not even blown up—evicted, oh the indignity, because his landlady’s sensibilities were offended even though nothing caught fire for more than thirty seconds and he was perfectly willing to replace those broken windows) and Grantaire is the only one who can put him up. (Combeferre technically has a spare bed, but it’s occupied by all the spare parts from his latest attempt to build an improved steam engine—besides, he snores like an un-improved one.)
Hostilities commence when Enjolras marks off the boundaries of his corner of the room in chalk so that he can maintain it in a state of Spartan tidiness by pushing the encroaching tides of dirty linen and empty bottles back to the other side of the line. Grantaire grumbles but puts up with it (and maybe even sends his stuff off to the laundress more regularly than usual), but then Enjolras starts arranging secretive political assignations with Parties Unknown in their flat at three in the goddamn morning, and that’s it, it’s time for Grantaire to live down to his reputation and pay Enjolras back for those nights of lost sleep, and he is totally not above bringing a girl home and paying her a little bit extra to be really loud in bed. Which is not a plan he’s thought through very well, because when Enjolras rolls out of bed stark naked and stumbles over to glare them into keeping it down so he can sleep, Grantaire has to deal with sudden crushing amounts of shame, several unwelcome revelations about his sexuality, and the indignity of having his partner slip out of bed as soon as she thinks he’s asleep to go try and seduce his roommate.
Enjolras is either inconsiderate or oblivious enough to never discreetly leave the room while Grantaire is trying to have a furtive wank. Grantaire is considerate enough not to mention that Enjolras talks in his sleep, or that “as lascivious as the dreams of a chaste man” turns out to be truer than he would ever have imagined.
They probably reach an uneasy truce at some point when Grantaire, thinking he’s alone in the flat, decides to blow off some steam by smoking an absolute fuckton of hashish—only to see Enjolras emerge from where he was reading in an alcove somewhere, high as a goddamn kite off secondhand smoke and intent on making Grantaire understand the profound hilarity of some anecdote from Rousseau’s Solitary Wanderer. Cue Grantaire actually being impressed by the profundity of something (an experience he’s tempted to laugh derisively about once he’s no longer stoned off his ass, except it was Enjolras’ conviction that sold him on it way more than the anecdote itself, and he’s weirdly reluctant to laugh about that) and Enjolras hazily admitting to some feeeeelings outside his devotion to The Revolution. Both of them are too unsettled by this incident to argue about it afterwards, or talk about it at all for that matter.
and it probably ends in parallel catastrophes where they both show off what utter fuckups they can be, and awkardly try to make up for it afterwards with some backhanded and plausibly-deniable gesture of affection. (Grantaire blows all of Enjolras’ firearms/gunpowder money gambling at Frascati’s, Enjolras covers his expenses at the last minute by pawning something of Grantaire’s that turns out to have immense sentimental value to him, it almost comes to blows, and somehow it ends in Enjolras finding a package on his desk with a note that says “Got it back from the pawnbroker just fine, saw this at a secondhand stall while I was up at the Temple and thought of you, now next time you can hock your own damn watch” and it’s a bona fide 1790s decimal pocketwatch)
but this is, like, only scratching the surface of the goldmine of possibilities that is E/R reluctant-roommates romcom
I CANNOT stop laughing…and I have a sudden BURNING NEED for a full story/possible sitcom of this scenario.
You didn’t pick a pairing! So I’ll make one up.
It would be Enjolras and Feuilly, and they would be in Enjolras’s apartment working on something revolution-y and fiercely concentrating on it, and gradually—VERY gradually—one of them (probably Enjolras, because of combat instincts, which are his specialty though Feuilly has them too) would become conscious of a noise. A noise that’s been there for a while and is actually kind of loud, but they hadn’t noticed it. They were busy revolution-ing, and the two of them have but one thought, and that thought is NOT crying babies. Which is what the noise is. The baby is on Enjolras’s bed and neither of them has a clue how it got there.
Anyway, they stare at the baby in confusion for a second, and then Enjolras opens his mouth to yell for Combeferre before remembering that he’s not there. Feuilly picks up the baby but doesn’t really know what to do with it. He tries bouncing it, but that makes it cry harder.
And then Enjolras in a fit of desperation tries singing the baby the Carmagnole as a lullaby and it calms the baby down for a bit, and then Feuilly sings it the Marseillaise and it falls asleep. This makes both Enjolras and Feuilly smile.
They wrap it up in a tricolor flag as a blanket, because Feuilly has a vague idea that babies should have blankets. Then they have a cute little moment where they almost coo over what a good little republican it is. Almost.
And then Feuilly runs to fetch Combeferre.
The table next to them began to wail. It was a sudden, piercing sound, starting off thin and quickly gathering strength. Joly hiccupped. Lesgle felt suddenly sober. “I think someone has left a baby,” he said in measured syllables. “I think someone has left a baby, possibly under the table or behind that, that article of furniture there. —Would you call it a canapé, Joly? The green thing with its back to us.”
"I believe it’s Chippendale."
"Ah." Lesgle had the feeling Joly had not quite grasped the situation: but the dear fellow was always game for an adventure, and had gotten to his feet. He wavered to the article of furniture and peered carefully over the high back. Lesgle caught up to him and provided a firm hand under his elbow before he could list too far to the side.
"It’s definitely a baby," said Joly. "We’ve seen pictures of them in lectures. It’s, ah—hmm—it’s a baby, all right. I will go so far as to deduce…diagnose…say that its lungs are in fine shape."
"No one is doing anything about it."
"Well, it’s a public ball. Everyone’s otherwise engaged."
"I think it wants to be held. You’d better, you’re…you’ve seen pictures of them in lectures."
"My dear Bossuet, I am in no condition for delicate operations." No. Well. That was true. Lesgle did his best, and it turned out that babies were quite muscular. The creature arched its back in a hostile manner and turned very red.
Half an hour later, Lesgle and the baby had come to a better understanding: the baby was huffing sullenly around a milk-sopped crust of bread provided by a frowning servant. It had very dark eyes and not much hair. He could sympathize.
An hour later, and still no one had claimed it. Joly finished his third cup of coffee and rubbed his nose with his cane. “Well, my dear, I suppose we might take it home and put a notice in the papers.”
"How do you propose…"
"In a fiacre, of course."
Marrons glaces are these:
They come in individual packages like this:
They are candied chestnuts and they are amazing and a staple of my childhood. Here is the wikipedia article which, unlike me, was not too lazy to properly include accents.
(Also, though you didn’t ask, have some bonus calissons because I’m on the subject of French candy:
They’re made of almond paste and sugar and deliciousness and the town where my dad was born is famous for them.)
Oh my god those look amazing.
YAY! How nice, Anon! XD