(no subject)
Ok, none of these are in any order or nothing. I'm gonna add them to the drabble site later, but I thought I'd give you first looks. PS: I'm going to Philly to see THIS PLAY (Les Miz) next month!!! W00t! (And, because I'm a loser, I got a myspace, where I'm actually taking time to post shit about my daily life. It's http://www.myspace.com/ladyrevolution and the journal is http://blog.myspace.com/ladyrevolution If you are so inclined, you can check it out. Now, to the real reason for this post!
LAST-005
I remember his last word. “Free!” It was appropriate, I know. He lived for the freedom of his country and he died for it.
I remember his last words to me. “Thank you, Grantaire.” I remember his hand on my shoulder and the look of compassion, mingled with remorse.
I remember the moment he was shot. It was as though my world stopped. He fell over the edge of the barricade, even as I ran to him.
I remember the blood that flowed from him. Red. Like the flag he carried so proudly.
I remember being shot down beside him.
I remember.
LOVERS-023
“Enjolras, I was you to be sure about this.” “Grantaire…please. If we die tomorrow…” “hush!” The taller, darker man moved forward. “I don’t want you to think about tomorrow. I want to know, here and now, if this is what you want.” The blonde hesitated ever so slightly…then nodded. Grantaire smiled. “Then lay down on the bed.”
Enjolras did ah he was told, and Grantaire lay beside him, wrapping the smaller man in an embrace. Before he lowered his lips to his desires, he searched his face for an signs of trepidation. Finding none, François finally kisses Julien.
SOUND-037
A shot rings out in the night. A man groans and collapses. Two men curse. They have missed their target. The fallen man’s companion, the true target, runs to him. “François!” he cries, cradling his friend against his chest.
The bullet struck low, piercing the man’s belly. “Dear God.” His friend whispers. The plod flows heavily. The injured man gropes for his friends hand. The other takes it, clutches it to his breast, whispering words of comfort, punctuated with cries for help.
The dying man’s other shaking hand raises to touch his friends face.
“I’m alright, Julien.”
“I’m alright.”
TOUCH-038
I know Grantaire loves me. I know, because he never touches me. He touches the others. Handshakes, pats on the shoulder, friendly punches. But not I. He won’t touch me without my permission.
There are days when I almost wish he would touch me. Just a brush of his hand across my should, nothing more. Just so I know that, no matter how foolish he thinks me, that he will not leave me. For all the dear friends I have, for all those who listen…he matters the most. But he knows this.
Because I never touch him either.
LAST-005
I remember his last word. “Free!” It was appropriate, I know. He lived for the freedom of his country and he died for it.
I remember his last words to me. “Thank you, Grantaire.” I remember his hand on my shoulder and the look of compassion, mingled with remorse.
I remember the moment he was shot. It was as though my world stopped. He fell over the edge of the barricade, even as I ran to him.
I remember the blood that flowed from him. Red. Like the flag he carried so proudly.
I remember being shot down beside him.
I remember.
LOVERS-023
“Enjolras, I was you to be sure about this.” “Grantaire…please. If we die tomorrow…” “hush!” The taller, darker man moved forward. “I don’t want you to think about tomorrow. I want to know, here and now, if this is what you want.” The blonde hesitated ever so slightly…then nodded. Grantaire smiled. “Then lay down on the bed.”
Enjolras did ah he was told, and Grantaire lay beside him, wrapping the smaller man in an embrace. Before he lowered his lips to his desires, he searched his face for an signs of trepidation. Finding none, François finally kisses Julien.
SOUND-037
A shot rings out in the night. A man groans and collapses. Two men curse. They have missed their target. The fallen man’s companion, the true target, runs to him. “François!” he cries, cradling his friend against his chest.
The bullet struck low, piercing the man’s belly. “Dear God.” His friend whispers. The plod flows heavily. The injured man gropes for his friends hand. The other takes it, clutches it to his breast, whispering words of comfort, punctuated with cries for help.
The dying man’s other shaking hand raises to touch his friends face.
“I’m alright, Julien.”
“I’m alright.”
TOUCH-038
I know Grantaire loves me. I know, because he never touches me. He touches the others. Handshakes, pats on the shoulder, friendly punches. But not I. He won’t touch me without my permission.
There are days when I almost wish he would touch me. Just a brush of his hand across my should, nothing more. Just so I know that, no matter how foolish he thinks me, that he will not leave me. For all the dear friends I have, for all those who listen…he matters the most. But he knows this.
Because I never touch him either.