Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Open upon a time, there was a railroad line. It was the road to Hell, it was hard times. It was a world of gods and men.

It’s an old song -- it’s an old tale from way back when -- and we’re going to sing it again.

See, on the road to Hell, there were three old men all dressed the same and they were always singing in the back of your mind. Their names were Claquesous, Babet, and Gueulemer: the Fates.

And on the road to Hell, there was a man stepping off a train with a suitcase full of summertime. Persephone embodied: Grantaire, by name.

If you ride that train to the end of the line, where the sun doesn’t shine and it’s always shady, it’s there you’ll find the king of the mine: Almighty Mr. Hades Enjolras.

Oh, right, almost forgot… on the road to Hell, there was a railroad station, and a man with feathers on his feet. Who could help you to your final destination. Mr. Hermes Courfeyrac; that’s me.

See, someone’s got to tell the tale, whether or not it turns out well. Maybe it will turn out this time. It’s a sad tale, it’s a tragedy. We’re going to sing it anyway.

Now, not everyone gets to be a God, and don’t forget that times are hard. Hard times in the world of men. Let’s introduce a few of them:

You can tip your hats and your wallets to the hardest working Chorus in the Gods’ almighty world: Les Amis de l’ABC. They're working just as hard for you, let’s see what this crew can do.

On the road to Hell, there was a poor boy working on a song. 

“La la la la la la la…”

His mama, a Muse, was a friend of mine. You might say the boy was touched--

“La la la la la la la…”

--Because he was touched by the gods themselves. The poet: Jehan Prouvaire.

There was one more soul on this road. Boy, come on in from the cold! On the railroad line on the road to Hell, there was a young man looking for something to eat. And thus begins the tale of Jehan and Montparnasse.

It’s a love song. It’s a tale of a love from long ago. It’s a sad song, but we’re going to sing it even so. It’s an old song; it’s an old tale from way back when. And we’re going to sing it again.

Chapter Text

Montparnasse was a hungry young man and a runaway from everywhere he’d ever been. He was no stranger to the world.

“The weather ain’t the way it was before,” Montparnasse muttered to himself. “Ain’t no spring or fall at all anymore. It’s either blazing hot or freezing cold.”

“And there ain’t a thing that you can do,” Claquesous taunted him, no more coherent than what the whispering of the wind.

“When the weather takes a turn on you,” Babet added, just as viciously.

“‘Cept for hurry up and hit the road,”  Gueulemer hissed.

“Do you hear that sound?” Montparnasse asked no one as he trekked further.

“Wind comes up. Move…”

“Move to another town.” Gueulemer echoed Montparnasse’s thoughts, “Ain’t nobody gonna stick around when the dark clouds roll any way the wind blows.”

The Fates always sang in the back of his mind. Wherever it was this young man went, the Fates were close behind. They taunted him incessantly.

“Anybody got a match?” Montparnasse looked around until he saw someone who did. Taking a small candle from his coat, he approached the stranger, “Gimme that.”

The stranger, Mr. Courfeyrac, handed him a match without protest. Montparnasse used the match to light his candle, which was subsequently blown out as the Fates passed him by. They snickered, unbeknownst to anyone but the Gods’ herald.

Montparnasse sighed in frustration, “People turn on you just like the wind. Everybody is a fair weather friend. In the end, you’re better off alone.”

“When your body aches to lay it down,” Claquesous mocked, “When you’re hungry and there ain’t enough to go ‘round.”

“Ain’t no length to which a person won’t go,” Gueulemer added. “Any way the wind blows…”

Montparnasse began to walk away from the god, “And sometimes you think you would do anything just to fill your belly full of food and find a bed that you could fall into. Somewhere the weather wouldn’t follow you wherever you go.”

Now, Jehan was the son of a Muse, and you know how Muses are. Sometimes they abandon you. And this poor boy wore his heart out on his sleeve. You might say that he was naïve to the ways of the world, but he had a way with words and rhyme. It wasn't because Courfeyrac was kind that he though this. Jehan's mother, after all, had been a friend of his. Besides, he liked to hear Jehan sing and his way of seeing things. So he took him under his wing. And that is where he stayed.

Until one day.

It wasn’t difficult to see how starstruck Jehan was with the newcomer: a tall, dark, young man who had only recently arrived in the Parisian district. Jehan would steal shy glances at him from a distance, but kept close to his mentor.

Eventually, Courfeyrac sighed, “You wanna talk to him?”

Jehan’s eyes lit up, “Yes!”

The messenger god smiled at the poet, gently, “Go on.” He added, hesitantly, “Jehan?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t come on too strong.”

Jehan nodded excitedly, and began to wearily approach the dark, lanky stranger. He tentatively tapped his shoulder and the boy turned around, expectantly.

Mustering up all of his courage, Jehan blurted out, “Come home with me?”

Montparnasse crossed his arms, mildly amused, “Who are you?”

“The man who’s gonna marry you,” Jehan quickly clasped a hand over his mouth, surprised at himself. He wearily lowered his palm and reached it out, “I’m Jehan.”

Montparnasse looked over to Courfeyrac, who was behind Jehan, “Is he always like this?”

“Yes.”

Montparnasse returned his focus to Jehan, taking his hand, “I’m Montparnasse.”

“Your name is like a melody,” Jehan said, dreamily.

“A singer,” Montparnasse noted, coyly, “Is that what you are?”

Jehan turned his gaze away, shyly, “I also play the lyre…”

“Oh, a liar and a player too!” Montparnasse remarked. “I’ve met too many men like you.”

“Oh, no, I’m not like that,” Jehan nearly jumped to reassure him.

Courfeyrac approached the pair, placing a tentative hand on Jehan’s shoulder, “He’s not like any man you’ve ever met. Tell him what you’re workin’ on,” he encouraged.

Jehan shrugged, humbly, “I’m working on a song.” He quickly added, “It isn’t finished yet. But when it’s done and when I sing it, Spring will come again.”

Montparnasse’s eyes widened, “Come again?”

“Spring will come,” Jehan repeated, more sure of himself.

“When?” Montparnasse asked, with more urgency. “I haven’t seen a Spring or Fall since… I can’t recall.”

“That’s what I’m working on,” Jehan explained. He smiled, gently, “A song to fix what’s wrong, take what’s broken, make it whole. A song so beautiful, it brings the world back into tune. Back into time and all the flowers will bloom… When you become my husband.”

“Oh, he’s crazy,” Montparnasse remarked, once again to Courfeyrac. “Why would I become his husband?”

“Maybe because he’ll make you feel alive,” Courfeyrac answered simply.

“Alive?” Montparnasse repeated, thoughtfully. “That’s worth a lot. What else ya got?”

Montparnasse began to circle coyly around Jehan like a vulture, “Lover, tell me if you can, who’s gonna buy the wedding bands? Times being what they are… hard and getting harder all the time.”

Jehan excitedly struck up his counter right away, “Lover, when I sing my song, all the rivers will sing along! And they’re gonna break their banks for us, and with their gold, be generous. All a-flashing in the pan, all to fashion for your hand. The river’s gonna give us the wedding bands!”

Montparnasse snickered, not unkindly, “Lover, tell me if you’re able, who’s gonna lay the wedding table? Times being what they are… dark and getting darker all the time--”

“Lover, when I sing my song, all the trees are gonna sing along!” Jehan replied, just as confidently. “And they’re gonna bend their branches down to lay their fruit upon the ground. The almond and the apple, and the sugar from the maple; the trees are gonna lay the wedding table.”

Montparnasse thought for a moment, his coy disposition almost slipping as he considered it. “So, when you sing your song -- the one you’re working on -- Spring will come again?” he inquired.

Jehan nodded, uneasily at the question, but sure of himself, “Yes.”

“Sing it,” Montparnasse requested. “You want to take me home?”

“Yes,” Jehan said, nodding vigorously.

Montparnasse clasped his hands around Jehan’s, almost encouragingly, “Sing the song.”

Jehan took a deep breath and closed his eyes, “La la la la la la la…”

From around the square, several of the Amis stopped what they were doing and involuntarily joined him. Combeferre paused his hurried writing on a nearby bench; from across the street, Feuilly looked up from his maintenance work; Bossuet, Bahorel, and Joly all momentarily paused their drunken haze to join the choir. Their world became so filled with the sound that Montparnasse thought, if only for a minute, that the sound was also coming from the heavens itself.

Then Jehan stopped, opened his eyes, and looked to Montparnasse, expectantly. He seemed unsure what his impression would be.

“How--” Montparnasse’s mouth hung open, speechless. “How’d you do that?”

“I don’t know,” Jehan answered, honestly. “The song’s not finished yet.”

“Even so, it can do this?”

“I know…”

Looking into Jehan’s eyes, Montparnasse squeezed Jehan’s hands, “You have to finish it!” He released his hands and moved slyly behind Jehan. He leaned over the poet’s shoulder, coyly, “Lover, tell me when we’re wed, who’s gonna make the wedding bed? Times being what they are: hard and getting harder all the time!”

Jehan smiled back to him, “Lover, when I sing my song, all the birds are gonna sing along! And they’ll come flying from all around to lay their feathers on the ground. And we’ll lie down in the elderdown, a pillow underneath our heads…” Jehan, too caught up in his poetic streak, paused. “The birds are gonna make the wedding bed.”

Montparnasse smiled softly, “And the trees are gonna lay the wedding table.”

“And the rivers are gonna give us the wedding bands,” Jehan added, a soft grin forming on his face.

Chapter Text

Jehan and Montparnasse soon parted for the night after that, their chests filled with hope and what felt like the beginning of love.

Courfeyrac, who had disappeared soon after his contribution to the conversation, found Jehan, who was dreamily in a whirlwind filled with Montparnasse.

He walked with the dazed boy, “Where’d you get that melody?”

“I don’t know,” Jehan told him, honestly. “It just came to me as if I’d known it all along.”

“You have,” the messenger pointed out. “It’s an old song: a song of love from long ago.” Courfeyrac grew solemn, “Long time since I’ve heard it through.”

Jehan perked up, “You’ve heard that melody before?”

Courfeyrac shrugged, “Sure.”

“Tell me more,” Jehan pleaded his friend.

Courfeyrac was silent for a while, “Remember the tale I told you once about the Gods?”

“Which ones?” Jehan asked. There were so many.

“Enjolras and Grantaire,” Courfeyrac replied. “Remember how it used to be their love that made the world go ‘round?”

“Yeah, I remember now,” Jehan pondered. He lifted his head up quickly, “But that was long ago.”

“Tell it again,” Courfeyrac requested, knowing the poet knew it well.

Jehan took a deep breath, taking his lyre and strumming it gently, “King of shadows, king of shades, Enjolras was the king of the Underworld. But he fell in love with a beautiful man, who walked above in his mother’s green field. He fell in love with Grantaire, who was gathering flowers in the light of the sun. And he took him home to become his king, where the sun never shone on anyone.”

“Go on…” Courfeyrac encouraged, wearily.

Jehan strummed the lyre again, carefully recalling the tale, “The man loved him and the kingdom they shared, but without him above, not one flower would grow. So King Enjolras agreed that for half of each year, he would stay with him there in his world down below. But the other half, he could walk in the sun, and the sun, in turn, burned twice as bright. Which is where the seasons come from, and with them, the cycle of the seed and the sickle, and the lives of the people, and the birds in their flight.”

“Singing…” Courfeyrac continued, expectantly.

It came naturally to Jehan this time, just as it had with his friends earlier, “La la la la la la la….”

“Down below and up above,” Courfeyrac continued.

“La la la la la la la….”

“In harmony and rhythm.”

“La la la la la la la…”

“The Gods sang his song of love.”

“La la la la la la la…”

“And the world sang it with them.” Courfeyrac’s tone grew grave, “But that was long ago, before we were on this road…”

Chapter Text

And on the road to hell, there was a lot of waiting. Everybody waiting on a train to bring that man with the suitcase back again. He’s never early, always late. These days, he never stays for long, but good things come to those who wait.

Courfeyrac took Jehan by the shoulders, turning him to see the approaching train, “Here he comes!”

A scruffy man dawned in green stepped off the train with his suitcase, “Well, it’s like he said, I’m an outdoor boy.”

“You’re late again!” Courfeyrac called, chasing after him.

He shrugged his old friend off and continued to monologue, “Married to the king of the Underworld.”

“He forgot a little thing called Spring!” Courfeyrac called to the other Amis.

“Are you wondering where I’ve been?” he implored.

“Where you been?” one of the Amis, Bahorel, shouted.

Feuilly, beside him, agreed, “I’m wondering!”

“Been to hell and back again!” he chided. “But like my mama always said: Brother, when you’re down, you’re down, and when you’re up, you’re up. If you ain’t six feet underground, you’re living it up on top!” Grantaire, shaking his head, conceded, “Let’s not talk about hard times. Pour the wine; it’s summertime! ‘Cause right now we’re livin’ it.”

“How are we livin’ it?” Joly shouted.

“Oh brother, right here we’re livin’ it!” Grantaire toasted his glass of wine to the air and downed it.

“Where are we livin’ it?” hollered Bossuet.

“Livin’ it up on top! Who makes the summer sun shine bright?” Grantaire asked, coyly. “That’s right: Grantaire! Who makes the fruit of the vine get ripe?”

“Grantaire!” Musichetta yelled from beside Joly and Bossuet.

Grantaire winked cheekily, “That’s me! Who makes the flowers bloom again, in spite of a man?”

“You do!” Musichetta cheered along with Feuilly.

“Who’s doing the best he can?” Grantaire looked around the crowd, “Grantaire, that’s who.” As he moved through the crowd of his beloved disciples, he admitted, “Now some might say, the weather ain’t what it used to be, but let me tell you something that my mama said to me. You take what you can get, and make the most of it. So right now we’re livin’ it!”

The crowd cheered for their patron as he led them all to the local tavern for the special occasion. The present Amis, which consisted of Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, and Bahorel went in together with Musichetta, following Grantaire close behind. Courfeyrac looked over the crowd in search of Combeferre, but eventually figured he was off doing some sort of study at the time and missed Grantaire's arrival.

Meanwhile, there was a young man who had always run away. Except this time, in spite of himself, he decided to stay because of a poor boy with a lyre.

“Who says times are hard?” Grantaire called, raising another cup.

The flowers bloomed and the fruit became ripe. And for a moment there--

“Anybody want a drink?” the patron god offered.

--the world came back to life.

“Up on top, we ain’t got much, but we’re livin’ it up,” Grantaire toasted. “Just enough to fill our cups.”

“Livin’ it up on top!” Bossuet shouted, drunkenly.

“Brother, pass that bottle around!” Grantaire instructed, lightheartedly. Bossuet flushed redder than the alcohol would let him as he passed the bottle over to Bahorel and Feuilly.

“Let the poet bless this round,” Courfeyrac suggested, over the noise of the tavern.

The Amis and the other tavern guests cheered as Jehan stood himself up on a table and raised his glass, “To the patron of all of this: Grantaire! Who has finally returned to us with wine enough to share, asking nothing in return except that we should live and learn to live as brothers in this life. And to trust he will provide, and if no one takes too much, there will always be enough. He will always fill our cups.”

Grantaire was sat up top the bar counter. He raised his own glass, touched by the poet’s words, “I will.”

“And we will always raise them up to the world we dream about, and the one we live in now,” Jehan tipped his cup in salute, a smile forming on his delicate face. “‘Cause right now, we’re livin’ it!”

Joly cupped his hands around the corners of his mouth and called, “How are we livin’ it?”

“Livin’ it up!” Jehan called back. “Oh brother, right here we’re livin’ it.”

“Where are we livin’ it?” Feuilly hollered.

“Listen here, I’ll tell you where,” Jehan added, coyly. “We’re livin’ it up on top! And we ain’t gonna stop!”

“I’ll drink to that!” Grantaire cheered, supportively, already prepared to take a sip.

Chapter Text

Jehan was a poor boy, but he had a gift to give: he could make you see how the world could be in spite of the way that it is.

And Montparnasse was a young man, but he’d seen how the world was. When he fell, he fell in spite of himself, in love with Jehan. He was alone for so long that he didn’t even know that he was cold. He would turn his collar to the wind and that’s how it had always been. All he had ever known was how to hold his own, and now he wanted to hold Jehan too. He could feel sunlight all around him whenever he was with Jehan; everything was bright and warm and shining like it never had before. And for a moment, he could forget just how dark and cold it could get. He was starting to love Jehan over the course of their summer together and for once in his life, he didn’t want to leave.

Meanwhile, Jehan didn’t know how or why or who he was that he should get to hold Montparnasse. But he did know from the moment he saw him alone against the sky that it was like he had known him all along. He knew before they met and he didn’t even know him yet. It felt like Montparnasse was someone he had always known and suddenly it felt as though he was holding the world in his arms.

Though, no one ever survives that long on their own without holding any hesitation. Montparnasse was still filled with concerns and insecurities that the wind would change on them and that Jehan would leave, even if it seemed largely out of character for him.

On the other hand, while Jehan might not have been the best with social cues, one does not maintain being a poet for long without understanding certain unspoken sentiments.

They were together one night, gazing out at the stars as they sat on a lively hill. Montparnasse had just pointed out Orion’s Belt. Jehan laughed and a content silence fell over them when it had occurred to Jehan.

Lacing his fingers with Montparnasse’s, Jehan rested his head on his partner’s shoulder. “I’m gonna hold you forever,” the poet assured him. “The wind will never change on us as long as we stay with each other.”

Montparnasse smiled to himself, “Then it will always be like this.”

Chapter Text

On the road to Hell, there was a railroad track.  

Grantaire’s face contorted in anger, “Oh, come on!”

There was a train coming up from way down below.

“That was not six months!” Grantaire shouted in frustration at the train in the distance.

“Better go and get your suitcase packed,” Claquesous taunted, “Guess it’s time to go.”

Grantaire childishly stuck his tongue out at the Fate.

He’s going to ride that train until the end of the line, because the King of the Mine is coming soon.

“Did you ever wonder what it’s like on the underside?” Courfeyrac thought out loud to no one in particular. “Way down under on the yonder side? On the other side of his wall? Follow that dollar for a long way down, far away from the poorhouse door." Courfeyrac huffed, "You either get to Hell or Hadestown, there ain’t no difference anymore!”

As the train grew closer, the terrified citizens of that Parisian district swore they could hear hellhounds howling behind that sinister whistle.

“Everybody tryin’ to get a ticket to go, but those who go, they don’t come back,” Courfeyrac snapped, almost bitterly. “They goin’ way down Hadestown, way down under the ground.”

Grantaire, all riled up, noticed the pale faces of his patrons and the other on-goers. Even those in the district who had King Enjolras as a patron god had wide eyes and terrified faces. Maybe, he considered, he could get a little scare out of them as one last joke.

“Winter’s nigh and summer’s over,” Grantaire dramatically sighed. “Hear that high and lonesome sound of my husband coming to bring me home to Hadestown?”

The unsuspecting patrons in ear shot paused and listened closely, only to be startled by the sudden noise of the whistle being blown.

“Down there, it’s a bunch of stiffs.” Grantaire draped himself over Bahorel, “Brother, I’ll be bored to death. I’m gonna have to import some stuff, just to entertain myself,” he added, dully. “Give me morphine in a tin and a crate of the fruit of the vine. It takes a lot of medicine to make it through the wintertime.”

“Every little penny in the wishing well,” Babet mused to no one, “Every little nickel on the drum. All them shiny little heads and tails, where you do think they come from? They come from way down in Hadestown.”

Courfeyrac, one of the few who could actually hear those pesky Fates, rolled his eyes, “Everybody’s hungry and tired. Everybody slaves by the sweat of his brow. The wage is nothing and the work is hard. It’s a graveyard down in Hadestown.”

Patrons of Grantaire and his husband alike, all gathered around Grantaire and Courfeyrac as they continued to spin their tale.

“Mr. Enjolras is a mean old boss!” Courfeyrac told the crowd.

Grantaire nodded, enthusiastically, “With a silver whistle and a golden scale.”

“An eye for an eye!” Bossuet shouted from the crowd.

“And he weighs the cost,” continued Courfeyrac.

“A lie for a lie,” spat Feuilly, huffing at what injustices the god had come to.

“And your soul for sale,” Courfeyrac added, intently.

“Sold!” Bahorel hollered, nudging Feuilly with his elbow, lightheartedly.

“To the king on the chromium throne,” Grantaire chided.

“Overthrown!”

“To the bottom of a Sing Sing cell--”

“Where the little wheel squeals and the big wheel groans,” Courfeyrac finished, eying Grantaire, pointedly.

Grantaire glared at him, smiling, “And you better forget about your wishing well.”

The crowd watched the gods, intently, some shaking with fear and others hollering with laughter. Joly, Feuilly, and Combeferre of the Amis were none too pleased at the ways of the god they spoke of. Joly would say he believed that forcing people to work like that was inhumane… even if those people were dead. Feuilly and Combeferre, on the other hand, thought of it more personally, seeing as they were two of the few who actually had the king of Hell as a patron. Combeferre was rather bitter that Enjolras had seemingly forgotten the freedom he had promised his band of misfits, while Feuilly was upset about his decision to inflict unfair working conditions to the dead as a working class citizen himself.

Bossuet and Bahorel, on the other hand, were none the wiser and cheered on the Gods’ story.

On the road to Hell, there was a railroad car, and the car door opened and a man stepped out. Everybody looked and everybody saw it was the same man they had been talking about.

Grantaire whipped around in this realisation and glared at him. “You’re early !” he snapped.

Enjolras merely stood there -- a small, unrecognisable, smile on his face, “I missed you.”

The Fates, who had no consideration for the Gods nor their disciples, started making snide remarks.

“Mr, Enjolras is a mighty king,” said Gueulemer. “He must be making some mighty big deals.”

“Seems like he owns everything,” Babet replied, snidely.

Montparnasse could not hear the Fates, but it seemed as though he shared their sentiment from his place in the back. “Kind of makes you wonder how it feels…” he pondered.

Coufeyrac grabbed his conductor hat, “All aboard!”

Chapter Text

With Grantaire gone, the cold came on.

“He came too soon,” Jehan worried. “He came for him too soon. It’s not supposed to be like this…”

“Well,” Montparnasse looped his arm around Jehan’s shoulder, “Until someone brings the world back into tune, this is how it is.”

Jehan, keeping his head down, scooted away from Montparnasse’s touch.

“Hey, where are you going?” Montparnasse asked, a little hurt by this action.

Jehan couldn’t look at him as he shrugged lightly, “I have to finish the song.”

Montparnasse nodded, supportively, “Finish it quick. The wind is changing. There’s a storm coming on.”

As Jehan disappeared into his workspace, Montparnasse rose and headed out himself. Expecting the worst already, he started to prepare stocking up supplies that he hoped would last throughout the season.

“We need food,” he thought out loud. “We need firewood.” He paused for a moment, “Did you hear me? Jehan?” He turned around to where he thought Jehan would be, “Jehan!”

He was met with silence.

Montparnasse nodded in submission, “Okay, finish it.”

Jehan and Montparnasse: a poor boy working on a song and a young man looking for something to eat, both under a gathering storm.

Jehan strummed his lyre, carefully, and sang softly, “King of silver, king of gold, and everything glittering under the ground. Enjolras is king of oil and coal, and the riches that flow where those rivers are found. But for half of the year with Grantaire gone, his loneliness moves him crude and black. He thinks of his husband in the arms of the sun, and jealousy fuels him, and feeds him, and fills him with doubt that he’ll never come. Dread that he’ll never come. Doubt that his lover will ever come back.”

He takes a deep breath before continuing, “King of mortar, king of bricks. The River Styx is a river of stones, and Enjolras lays them high and thick with a million hands that are not his own. With a million hands, he builds a wall around all the riches he digs from the Earth. The pickaxe flashes, the hammer falls, and crashing and pounding as rivers surround him and drown out the sound of the song he once heard:

“La la la la la la la… 

La la la la la la la…

La la la la la la la….

La la la la la la…”

Chapter Text

As Grantaire returned to his underground home, the workers in his husband’s mine worked tirelessly. His gaze caught one such worker, who he managed to recognise: he was a prisoner there for nineteen years to Grantaire and looked like it too. He could hear the man chanting below:

“Low, keep your head, keep your head low. Oh, you gotta keep your head low. If you wanna keep your head, you gotta keep your head low.”

Grantaire shuddered at the sight, until he realised that this shake was neither caused by the sight or because of the cold. It was one of those awful heat shivers.

“In the coldest time of year, why is it so hot down here?” Grantaire snapped, trying to fan himself. “Hotter than a crucible… It ain’t right and it ain’t natural--”

“Lover, you were gone for so long,” Enjolras replied, coolly. “So I built a foundry in the ground beneath your feet. Here I fashioned things of steel, oil drums, and automobiles. Then, I kept that furnace fed with the fossils of the dead. Lover, when you feel that fire, think of it as my desire for you.”

Grantaire sighed at his husband’s foolishness, “In the darkest time of year, why is it so bright down here?” He shielded his eyes as he winced, “Brighter than a carnival. It ain’t right and it ain’t natural.”

Enjolras, seeming proud of his work despite his husband’s reaction, marvelled at the lights, “Lover, I was lonesome while you were gone, so I laid a power grid in the ground on which you stood. And wasn’t it electrifying, when I made the neon shine! Silver screen, cathode ray, brighter than the light of day. Lover, when you see that glare, think of it as my despair.”

Grantaire knew that Enjolras was getting worse every time he left. The man he fell in love with would never force workers like this or build man-made monstrosities for him. He couldn’t stop him though; he wouldn’t even know where to begin.

“Every year, it’s getting worse,” Grantaire frowned in defeat. “Hadestown: hell on Earth! Did you think I’d be impressed? With this neon necropolis?” Grantaire rushedly held Enjolras’s hands in his own, “Lover, what have you become? Coal cars… and oil drums! Warehouse walls and factory floors -- I don’t know you anymore. The harvest dies and people starve, oceans rise and overflow… it ain’t right and it ain’t natural!”

Enjolras let Grantaire hold his hands, only moving his head to look him in the eye, “Lover, everything I do… I do it for the love of you.” He clearly seemed upset, but this new Enjolras didn’t know any other way to handle that feeling other than getting defensive. He pulled his hands away abruptly and turned away, “If you don’t even want my love… I’ll give it to someone who appreciates the comforts of a gilded cage and doesn’t try to fly away the moment Mother Nature calls.”

Grantaire winced. His mother, Demeter, was always a touchy subject to them both. He could never bring himself to tell Enjolras that he never even saw his mother when he left. He only visited the Amis -- their people.

Meanwhile, Jehan was trying and searching for the answers that would finish his song. He was desperate to finally bring the world back into tune. 

“La la la la la la la…

La la la la la la la…

La la la la la la la…

La la la la la la--”

Jehan’s body tensed, “They can’t find the tune.”

Courfeyrac, rounding a corner, ran up to him urgently, “Jehan!”

Jehan hardly heard him. He was too caught up in his work. “They can’t feel the rhythm…”

“Jehan!” Courfeyrac shouted again.

Jehan looked to Courfeyrac as if he had known he was there the whole time, “King Enjolras is deafened by a river of stone, and Lord Grantaire’s blinded by a river of wine, living in oblivion.” Jehan started to lose himself again, overwhelmed by his insights, “His black gold flows in the world down below, and his dark clouds roll in the one up above.”

“Look up!”

“And that is the reason we’re on this road…” Jehan murmured. “And the seasons are wrong and the wind is so strong… That’s why times are so hard. It’s because of the Gods. The Gods have forgotten the song of their love. Singing, la la la la la la la…”

Jehan tried singing harder and louder than he ever had before, but it was no use. No matter how hard he sang or how focused he was, his voice was not enough to break through the chanting of Enjolras’s workers or the river of stone.

Jehan was just a poor boy working on a song. He didn’t see the storm coming on.

While discovering that Enjolras and Grantaire had been blinded by pride and gluttony, Jehan didn’t see that he was blinded by his poetry. Montparnasse, meanwhile, was looking low and high, disappointed to see there was no food left to find.

“It’s hard enough to feed yourself,” Claquesous taunted.

“Let alone somebody else,” Gueulemer added.

While Montparnasse could not hear the Fates, he felt their words.

“I’m trying to believe that the song he’s working on is going to work,” Montparnasse tried convincing himself.

Suddenly, the wind picked up harshly. Babet moved Montparnasse's coat just enough for the wind to pick it up and carry it away.

Montparnasse’s head snapped forward, “Give that back!” He began to chase the coat in a panicked hurry as the Fates stood there and watched him struggle. “It’s everything we have!”

Eventually, the coat became too high for even his tall frame to reach. 

“Jehan!” he cried out, looking around, urgently. He needed sheltering, harbouring, but his lover was nowhere to be seen.

Montparnasse was a hungry boy. He was no stranger to the wind, but he had not seen anything like the mighty storm he got caught in. It only took a minute, but the wrath of the Gods was in it.

Chapter Text

Since the fight with Grantaire, Enjolras opted to visit the surface for a while to give him some space. That’s when he found Montparnasse, huddled underneath a tree.

He crouched down next to the unsuspecting Montparnasse, initially startling him.

“Hey, little songbird. Got a song?”

Montparnasse only glared at the odd man. He was no stranger to them. “I think you got the wrong guy.”

“Come on,” Enjolras encouraged, properly sitting down next to him, “I’m a busy man and I can’t stay long. I got clients to call and orders to fill. I have walls to build, I’ve got riots to quell. They’re giving me hell back in Hades.”

Montparnasse shook his head slightly, knowing nothing good could come from speaking to the king of Hell.

“What? Cat got your tongue?” Enjolras mused, also very unlike him if you asked anyone who had known him for more than a century. “It’s always a pity for one so handsome and young when poverty comes to clip your wings and knock the wind right out of your lungs.” Montparnasse didn’t seem very susceptible to that either. “Hey, nobody sings on empty,” he reassured him.

Strange was the call of this strange man. Montparnasse was intrigued by his words, to say the least, but despite his past, he was a loyal man. Even if he wanted a soft place to lie down forever.

“You know, you’ve got something fine. You’d shine like a diamond down in the mine,” Enjolras remarked. “And the choice is yours if you’re willing to choose, seeing as you’ve got nothing to lose.” He shrugged, “And I could use a canary.”

Things weren’t like they were before. Montparnasse wondered where Jehan could possibly be. Wasn’t it supposed to be the two of them?

“Let me guess,” Enjolras added, “He’s some kind of poet and he’s penniless. Give him your hand, he’ll give you his hand-to-mouth. He’ll write you a poem when the power’s out. Hey, why not fly South for the winter?”

Why not?

“Look all around you,” Enjolras scanned the sky, “See how the vipers and vultures surround you? They’ll take you down and pick you clean, if you stick around such a desperate scene. See, people get mean when the chips are down.”

Enjolras slid him a small piece of paper.

Montparnasse looked at it, fazed, “What is it?”

“Your ticket.”

Montparnasse was a hungry young man, and Enjolras gave him a choice to make: a ticket to the underworld.

“Life ain’t easy, life ain’t fair,”  Gueulemer said. “A person’s gotta fight for their rightful share. What are you going to do when the chips are down?”

“Help yourself, to hell with the rest,”  Babet chimed in, “even the one who loves you the best.”

“What are you going to do now that the chips are down?” Claquesous boasted.

“Oh, my aching heart…” Montparnasse clutched his chest. He loved Jehan dearly, but… maybe Enjolras was right.

The Fates did not cease taunting him in the back of his mind.

“Take if you can.”

“Give if you must.”

“Ain’t nobody but yourself to trust.”

“Aim for the heart.”

“Shoot to kill.”

“If you don’t do it, then the other one will.”

“And the first shall be first.”

“And the last shall be last.”

“Cast your eyes to heaven, you get a knife in the back.”

“Nobody’s righteous.”

“Nobody’s proud.”

“Nobody’s innocent now that the chips are down.”

Chapter Text

Montparnasse clutched his chest, painfully to himself, “Jehan, my heart is yours. Always was and will be. It’s my gut that I can’t ignore. Jehan… I’m hungry.”

Neither Jehan nor Enjolras were anywhere to be seen. This was Montparnasse’s decision to make alone.

“Oh, my heart aches to stay.” Montparnasse sighed, “But the flesh will have its way. The way is dark and long… but I’m already gone.”

Montparnasse started his journey to the railroad line, the Fates following him close behind. While his companions began to mock the boy, Babet glared at them both. Hearing Montparnasse go on about Jehan made him question what they were doing this for. They were supposed to be the great Fates, but ever since they had taken the form of Gueulemer, Claquesous, and Babet, they were deduced to getting pleasure out of simply mocking the living.

“Go ahead and lay the blame,” Babet scolded them. “Talk of virtue, talk of sin. Wouldn’t you have done the same in his shoes? In his skin? You can have your principles when you’ve got a belly full, but hunger has a way with you. There’s no telling what you’re going to do when the chips are down.”

That shut them right up.

The storm passed not long after. Jehan, finally satisfied with his discoveries, went around the district in search of his missing partner, instead finding Courfeyrac. He ran passed all of the destruction caused by the storm and to his friend.

“Mr. Courfeyrac!”

“Hey, the big artiste!” Courfeyrac called. He looked him up and down, confused, “Ain’t you working on your masterpiece?”

Jehan shook his head and looked around them, “Where’s Montparnasse?”

Courfeyrac stifled a scoff, “Brother, why do you care? You’ll find another muse somewhere.”

Jehan’s face fell, “Where is he?”

“Why you wanna know?” Courfeyrac asked, grimly.

“Wherever he is, is where I’ll go,” Jehan declared.

Courfeyrac’s usually cheerful face grew dark, “And what if I said he’s down below?”

“Down below…?” Jehan repeated.

“Down below,” Courfeyrac confirmed. “Six-feet-under-the-ground below. He called your name before he went, but I guess you weren’t listening.”

Jehan shook his head in disbelief, “No…”

“So… just how far would you go for him?” Courfeyrac inquired. 

“To the end of time,” Jehan replied, confidently. “To the end of the earth.”

“You got a ticket?”

“No…?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Courfeyrac shrugged. “Of course… there is another way. But--nah, I ain’t supposed to say.”

Jehan lit up slightly, “Another way?”

“Around the back,” Courfeyrac told him without a fight. “But that ain’t easy walking, Jehan. It ain’t for the sensitive of soul. So, do you really want to go?”

“With all my heart.”

“With all your heart?” Courfeyrac repeated, almost surprised. “Well, that’s a start.”

How to get to Hadestown: You have to take the long way down, through the underground under cover of night. You have to lay low and stay out of sight. There’s no compass, there’s no map. Just a telephone wire and a railroad track. Keep on walking and don’t look back until you get to the bottomland.

“Wait for me, Montparnasse,” Jehan said, quietly to himself. “I’m coming with you.”

The River Styx is high and wide. Cinder blocks and razor wire, walls of iron and concrete. Hound dogs are howling around the gate; those dogs will lay down and play dead if you have the bones or the bread. But if all you have is your own two legs, just be glad you have them.

With their favourite victim out of the way, the Fates decided on a new person to torment. And the road to Hell was the best place to torment as any.

“Who are you?” Claquesous asked him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” added Babet.

“Why are you all alone?” chimed Gueulemer.

Babet started, "Who do you--"

"--think you are?" Gueulemer continued. "Who are you--"

"--to think that you can walk a road that no one ever walked before?" finished Claquesous.

Jehan closed his eyes for a moment as he felt the wire, "La la la la la la…

La la la la la la la..."

You're on the lam, you're on the run. Don't give your name, you don't have one. Don't look anyone in the eye. That town will try to suck you dry. They'll suck your brain, they'll suck your breath. They'll pluck the heart right out of your chest. They'll dress you up in your Sunday best and stuff your mouth with cotton.

"I'm coming, wait for me," Jehan pleaded. "I hear the walls repeating. The falling of my feet, it... it sounds like drumming. And I am not alone; I hear the rocks and stones echoing my song... I'm coming!”

Chapter Text

There’s not much to do in the Underworld for someone as unwilling, but privileged as Grantaire. Other than causing some trouble, that is.

It had been years since Grantaire and Enjolras started to drift apart and Hadestown was transformed into the hell on earth that is was now. He spent years searching for a safe haven while Enjolras built his iron empire, when one day he found another side to Hadestown. The free real estate was transformed into a small speakeasy: a crack in Enjolras’s wall of solitude and a place for the residents to feel human again.

That day, Grantaire let some workers he didn't recognise into his safe place. He began pitching it to them, “I don’t know about you boys, but if you’re like me then hanging around this old manhole is bringing you down. Six-feet-under is getting under your skin, cabin fever is setting in. You’re stir crazy, you’re stuck in a rut! You could use a little pick-me-up. I could give you what you crave: a little something from the good old days.”

Grantaire opened his suitcase, which, while small in size, had the effect of holding much more than met the eye. “I got the wind right here in a jar,” he said, handing one absentmindedly to a worker behind him. He gestured in front of him, “I got the rain on tap at the bar. I got sunshine up on the shelf.” Grantaire stopped suddenly, “Allow me to introduce myself. My name is--”

“Our Lord of the Underground,” the workers finally replied, knowing better than to invoke the name of the King of the Underworld’s husband.

Grantaire narrowed his eyes in genuine confusion, “Brother, what’s my name?”

“Our Lord of Ways!” they all chimed, as he pulled out a hip flask. “Our Lord of Means!”

Grantaire shook his head, continuing to pour glasses for each of them, “My name is…”

“Our Lord of the Upside Down!”

Handing the glasses to the workers, Grantaire sighed, “You wanna know my name? I’ll tell you my name--it’s Grantaire!”

The workers appeared appreciative for their drink, and from his spot, Grantaire saw the same man he had noticed when he came back. He stood up and carefully excited the safe place. The man appeared hard at work, but Grantaire looped a friendly arm around him anyway.

“Come here, brother,” Grantaire said, good-naturedly, “Let me guess: it’s the little things you miss. Spring flowers, autumn leaves. Ask me, brother, and you shall receive. Or maybe…” he pondered, “these just ain’t enough. Maybe you’re looking for some stronger stuff. I got a sight for the sorest eye, when’s the last time you saw the sky?”

The man began to weep, clutching his pickaxe tightly to support himself. Grantaire’s expression shifted sympathetically. He took out a handkerchief and offered it to the man, his tired face worn with years of hard labour.

“Wipe away your tears, brother,” Grantaire instructed, softly, and he did. He patted the man’s shoulder, “Brother, I know how you feel. I can see you’re blinded by the sadness of it all, but look a little closer and everything will be revealed.” Grantaire directed the man’s attention towards his speakeasy, “Look a little closer and there’s a crack in the wall.”

The man sniffled and Grantaire led him through the crack. He marveled at the hidden asylum that had hid itself from him for nineteen years.

“You want stars?” Grantaire grinned and the group cheered, “I have a sky full. Put a quarter in the slot, you’ll get an eyeful. You want the moon?” Grantaire laughed, “I have her too. She’s right here waiting in my pay-per-view.”

Grantaire lifted himself up and sat on the bar counter, “How long’s it been? A little moonshine ain’t no sin. One at a time, boys, straight line. What the boss doesn’t know, the boss won’t mind.”

Chapter Text

One thing Montparnasse learned upon entering Hadestown as a resident was the three men who followed him around. They were pesky, refused to follow anyone else, and had an unnerving feeling of familiarity that he couldn’t quite place, but he chalked that up to being the doing of that place.

One of these men, who went by the name of Gueulemer, leaned over Montparnasse’s shoulder as he sat in Enjolras’s office. “The deal is signed?”

Montparnasse shifted away from Gueulemer, “Yes.”

“About time,” hummed Claquesous. 

“Get on the line,” Babet nodded.

“I did what I had to do,” Montparnasse snapped back.

“That’s what they did too,” Gueulemer replied, as he pushed him towards the mine and its workers.

Now, in Hadestown, there were a lot of souls working on the wall with all of their might. They kept their heads down low, so you couldn’t see their faces right. But you could hear them singing:

“Low, keep your head, keep your head. Oh, you gotta keep your head low, if you wanna keep your head…”

Swinging their hammers in the cold, hard ground. You can hear the sound of the pickaxe ringing. They called it “freedom.”

“I’m Montparnasse,” he called, but was met with no reply. “Doesn’t anyone hear me?”

“They can hear,” Claqueosus called.

“But they don’t care,” continued Babet, solemnly.

“No one has a name down here,” finished Gueulemer.

“Mr. Enjolras set you free to work yourself into the ground, free to spend eternity--”

“In the factory,” replied a female worker, her clothes torn and her unremarkable face painted.

“And the warehouse,” said an unfamiliar man to Montparnasse, but was in fact the man seen with Grantaire earlier.

“Where the whistles scream,” remarked Babet.

“And the foreman shouts,” added Claquesous. “And you’re punchin’ in.”

“And punchin’ in…”

“And you can’t punch out,” reminded Gueulemer.

Montparnasse tore himself away from the Fates and started searching. He passed by dozens of workers and not a single one paid him any mind.

“Why won’t anybody look at me?” Montparnasse said, frustration seeping in. Then he realised the Fates were right behind him again.

“They can look,” Babet reminded him.

“But they don’t see,” Claquesous added.

“You see, it’s easier that way,” Gueulemer informed him. He pointed at the sullen faces of the workers, “Your eyes will look like that someday down in the river of oblivion.”

“You kissed your little life goodbye,” Clasquesous commented. “And Enjolras gave you that ticket and gave you everlasting life!”

“And everlasting overtime,” the working woman and Babet added, painfully.

“In the mine.”

“In the mill.”

“And the machinery.”

“Your place on the assembly line,” Babet said, grimly, “replaces all your memories.”

“What do you mean I’ll look like that?” Montparnasse snapped at the Fates.

"That’s what it’s like to forget,” Claquesous chimed.

“Forget what…?” Montparnasse asked, wearily.

“Who you are,” Babet replied. “And everything that came before.”

Montparnasse shook his head and pushed past the Fates, “I have to go.”

“Go where?” Gueulemer coyly asked.

“Go back!” Montparnasse snapped.

“Oh?” Claquesous snickered. “And where is that?”

“So, what was your name again?” Gueulemer taunted.

“You’ve already forgotten,” Babet added, solemnly.

You see, it’s like I said before: a lot can happen behind closed doors. Montparnasse was a hungry young man, but he wasn’t hungry anymore. What he was instead, was dead; dead to the world, anyway. He went behind those doors and signed his life away.

“Saw that wheel up in the sky.”

“Heard that big bell tolling.”

“A lot of souls have got to die.”

“To keep the Rust Belt rollin’.”

“A lot of spirits have got to break to make the underworld go ‘round.”

“Way down Hadestown, way down under the ground…”

Montparnasse tried to run, but there was nowhere in Hadestown where he wouldn’t find a worker or where the Fates wouldn’t find him. There was no peace and, more importantly, no rest.

All he wanted was to fall asleep, to close his eyes and disappear, if only for a moment. Enjolras had promised him that he wouldn’t feel a thing when he went down and that nothing could wake him then.

Dreams are sweet, until they’re not. Men are kind, until they aren’t. Flowers bloom, until they rot and fall apart.

“Is anybody listening?” Montparnasse opened his mouth to say, but nothing came out. 

Nothing could come to wake him now.

Flowers. He vaguely remembered a field of flowers soft beneath his heel. He remembered feeling the heat of the sun as he walked.

He remembered someone by his side. Someone who reminded him of those flowers, with hair as warm and bright as the sun. They had turned their face to his, and he had turned away into the shade. He couldn’t seem to remember their face.

He had left someone behind. He hoped that they could forgive him and that, maybe, they could find him if they ever walked this way.

Chapter Text

Time doesn’t work the same on the road to Hell. Jehan had followed Courfeyrac’s instructions and travelled down the back for what felt like days, maybe months. When he arrived in Hadestown, the first thing he noticed was the workers with their worn faces, hammering and slamming their pickaxes down in a synchronised beat. He heard their chants and recognised it as one of the sounds that blocked his song before. He continued on in a desperate search for Montparnasse.

He finally found him, standing in a solitary part of the mine. He followed the same rhythm as the others. Jehan felt a pain in his heart at the sight.

Without thinking, Jehan was already taking a step forward.

“Come home with me,” he didn’t even realise he was holding his breath until he released it, shakily. Montparnasse was considerably taller than him, so it ended up hitting his back.

Montparnasse whipped around, recognising that voice immediately. “It’s you,” he whispered, breathlessly.

Jehan nodded, feverishly. Hot tears stung in his eyes, “It’s me.”

“Jehan.”

“Montparnasse…”

“I called your name before,” Montparnasse said, not accusingly, but hurt.

Jehan looked down, shamefully, “I know…”

Montparnasse looked at him, surprised, “You heard?”

“No…” Jehan replied, honestly. “Mr. Courfeyrac told me so. Whatever happened, I’m to blame.”

Montparnasse shook his head, “No.”

“You called my name--”

“And you came,” Montparnasse smiled, softly. “But how did you get here? On the train?”

“No. I walked,” Jehan answered, “a long way.”

Montparnasse furrowed his brow, “How did you get beyond the wall?”

“I sang a song so beautiful the stones wept and they let me in.” Jehan looked up at Montparnasse, “And I can sing us home again.”

Montparnasse smiled sadly, “No… you can’t.”

“Yes, I can,” Jehan said, confident in his abilities.

“No,” Montparnasse shook his head and turned away. “You don’t understand…”

Jehan tried to reach out for him when suddenly, he tensed up, feeling a looming presence behind him. He turned around slowly, seeing a tall man with the palest features he’s ever seen staring harshly at him.

“Young man, I don’t think we’ve met before,” Enjolras said in a tone that hardly matched his stern expression. “You’re not from around here, son. I don’t know who the hell you are, but I can tell you don’t belong.” He gestured to the workers, still slaving away, “These are working people, son; law-abiding citizens. Go back to where you came from. You’re on the wrong side of the tracks.”

Grantaire, who had watched the scene unfold from his hole in the wall, came up from behind his husband. “Enjolras, I know this boy,” he said, his face furrowing in sympathy for the poet.

He turned to Grantaire, “One of the unemployed?”

Grantaire shrugged, “His name is Jehan.”

Enjolras nodded, “You stay out of this. You hear me, son? You better run.”

“No!” shouted Montparnasse. He turned to Jehan, lips pursed, “Jehan, you should go.”

Jehan was a poor boy. You might say he was naive, but this poor boy raised up his voice with his heart out on his sleeve.

“I am not going back alone,” Jehan said, sternly. “I came to take him home!”

Enjolras laughed, cruelly, “Who the hell do you think you are? Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? He couldn’t go anywhere even if he wanted to. You’re not from around here, son. If you were, then you would know that everything and everyone in Hadestown I own . But I only buy what others choose to sell.” He saw Jehan’s face contort in confusion and he smiled, “Oh, you didn’t know? He signed the deal himself. And now--”

Jehan shook his head in disbelief, “It isn’t true--”

“--He belongs to me.”

“It isn’t true…” Jehan whirled around, “What he said-- Montparnasse--”

“I did--I do,” Montparnasse corrected himself. He couldn’t bear to look at Jehan.

“As for you… Everybody gather ‘round!” Enjolras called to his workers. “Everybody look and see what becomes of trespassers with no respect for property!”

Chapter Text

A handful of Enjolras’s workers approached Jehan, brooding and much larger than him. As they grew closer and closer, Jehan became more and more aware that their intentions were nothing good.

Grantaire watched in horror as the hellish workers beat Jehan bloody. Enjolras compelled Montparnasse to stay out of it, leaving him to watch horrified and helplessly as his lover curled into himself, but never cried out from the pain.

When Enjolras was satisfied, he dismissed them and with a flick of his wrist, they were all back to their work. Jehan heard the footsteps of Montparnasse being beckoned away from him again before he could even place the familiar rhythm of the mining.

He laid there for several moments, holding his stomach carefully and watching a small river of blood trickle down the bridge of his nose. It disappeared and eventually, Jehan managed to pick himself up. Pushing through the initial pain, Jehan got back on his feet and looked at the scene. Grantaire was gone as well and none of the workers from before paid him any mind. Except for three men he hardly recognised, who watched him intently in an odd little formation.

“Why the struggle? Why the strain?” the first man, Gueulemer, asked the broken boy. “Why make trouble trouble? Why make scenes?”

“Why go against the grain? Why swim upstream?” Babet, the second, inquired, a little more sympathetic to him. “It ain’t no use; you’re bound to lose. What’s done is done, that’s the way the river runs.”

“So why get wet?” Claquesous taunted him. “Why break a sweat? Why waste your precious breath? Why beat your handsome brow? Nothing changes anyhow.”

Jehan pushed passed the Fates, wincing slightly as he bumped into two of them. Maybe he couldn't be rid of them completely, but at least he could try to avoid them.

He wiped his face of blood and hot tears, "If it's true what they say, if there's nothing to be done… If it's true, then it's too late and the boy I love is gone..." Jehan sighed, "Is this how the world works? To be beaten and betrayed and then be told that nothing changes? Will it always be like this? If it's true what they say... I'll be on my way."

And the boy turned to go, because he thought no one could hear him. But everybody knows that walls have ears.

The worn Hellion of nineteen years looked to the boy from a distance, "If it's true what they say, what's the purpose of man? Just to turn his eyes away? Just to throw up both his hands?"

The woman with the tired, painted face followed his gaze, "What's the use of his backbone if he never stands upright? If he turns his back on everyone that he could've stood beside?"

The workers heard him with their hammers swinging and they quit their work. When they heard him sing, their hammers stopped swinging and their pickaxes ceased ringing. They stood and listened to the poor boy singing.

"If it's true what they say, I'll be on my way," Jehan repeated, but he stood still. "But who are they to say what the truth is, anyway? Because the ones who tell the lies are the solemnest to swear; and the ones who load the dice always say the toss is fair. The ones who deal the cards are the ones who take the tricks with their hands over their hearts, while we play the game they fix; and the ones who speak the words always say it is the last. And no answer will be heard to the question no one asks." Jehan's face shifted with determination, "So, I'm asking if it's true. I'm asking me and you. I believe our answer matters more than anything they say."

"We stand and listen," whispered the two workers in solidarity. In life, the man and the woman had been known as Valjean and Fantine respectively. But that was long ago.

"I believe if there is still a will, then there is still a way."

"We're standing with him," Valjean announced, the echoes of dozens of his fellow workers in his voice.

"I believe there is a way," Jehan said, determinedly. "I believe in us together more than anyone alone."

"We're standing near him," said Fantine, joined by what seemed like hundreds of her fellow workers.

"I believe that with each other, we are stronger than we know."

"We hear him."

"I believe we are stronger than they know. I believe that we are many and that they are few," Jehan bit with an intensity in his soul.

The workers gradually left their pickaxes and hammers behind, "We're standing."

"And it isn't for the few to tell the many what is true!" Jehan yelled, ignored the heat from his tears and his wounds.

"We understand him," the workers, unified, joined him.

Jehan turned around, shocked to see the numbers that stood before him. Initially, he thought they had come back to finish him off, but he saw the looks on their faces. The glassy look in their eyes was gone. They had distinctive faces now, each and every one of them.

Jehan bit his lip and nodded, "So I ask you: if it's true what they say, I'll be one my way. Tell me what to do. Is it true? Is it true what they say?"

Chapter Text

After taking Montparnasse away to a nearer part of the mine, Enjolras returned to his office. After watching Jehan's speech to the workers from afar, Grantaire did not return to the crack in the wall.

Shutting the office door behind him, Grantaire turned to his husband, "What are you afraid of?"

Enjolras quickly looked up, "What?"

"He's just a boy in love."

Enjolras shook his head and gestured to a set of liquor, "Have a drink, why don't you?"

Grantaire, eyes blazing, shook his head sternly, "No. I've had enough." He abruptly placed his hands on Enjolras's desk, "He loves that boy, Enjolras."

He didn't even look up, "Well that's too bad."

"He has the kind of love for him that you and I once had," Grantaire retorted, his words and his eyes filled with hurt.

Something flashed in Enjolras's eyes, if only for a moment. He tried not to look at him when he said, "That boy means nothing to me."

"I know," Grantaire replied, quietly. "But he means everything to him."

Enjolras finally looked up, "So?"

"Let him go," Grantaire said with finality. He circled around the table towards Enjolras, sitting on the desk, "Enjolras, my husband. Enjolras, my light. Enjolras, my darkness. If you had heard how he sang tonight, you'd pity poor Jehan. All of the sorrow won't fit in his chest. It just burns like a fire in the pit of his chest, and his heart is a bird on a spit in his chest -- how long?"

"How long?" Enjolras repeated. "Just as long as I am king. Nothing comes of wishing on stars and nothing comes of the songs people sing, however sorry they are. Give them a piece, they'll take it all. Show them a crack, they'll tear down the wall. Lend them an ear and the kingdom will fall. The kingdom will fall for a song."

Grantaire knew that when he was away, some terrible things happened. Enjolras, once filled with hope for humanity, watched a group of protesters fall at the hands of an oppressive government. He saw it time and time again until finally, he could bear no longer to hope. He had not been at his side the month a girl died at a barricade and joined their ranks. He was not there when her lover, a man named Marius Pontmercy, begged Enjolras to let him bring her home. Enjolras could no longer recall whether the girl's name was Eponine or Cosette, but he did know that doubt settled into Marius and he broke the one rule he had given him. Marius lost his love and himself in the same moment.

He knew that Enjolras had once been a man full of hope and love like Jehan and that Marius fellow.

"What does he care for the logic of kings?" Grantaire countered, his voice like honey. "The laws of your underworld? It is only for love that he sings. He sings for the love of a boy."

Enjolras shook his head, almost as if he was actively trying not to believe the words his husband said. "You and your pity don't fit in my bed. You just burn like fire in the pit of my bed. How long?"

"How long?" Grantaire almost laughed. "Just as long as I am your husband. It's true the earth must die, but then the earth comes back to life and the sun must go on rising."

"And how does the sun even fit in the sky?" Enjolras asked him. "It just burns like a fire in the pit of the sky and the earth is a bird on a spit in the sky -- How long?"

Grantaire looked sadly at his husband. It was not out of pity as Enjolras so detested, but rather a sadness that he couldn't quite place. He just wanted the lovers and his husband to be alright this time. He wanted to be there for him this time.

Chapter Text

“Is it true?”

Now everybody knows that walls have ears, and the walls had heard what the boy was saying. A million tons of stone and steel echoed his refrain.

Enjolras lifted his head up, “What’s that noise?”

Grantaire looked around, not sure of where it was coming from either.

“Is it true?”

Enjolras stood up abruptly, “It’s the boy!”

Without thinking, Enjolras took Grantaire’s hand in his own and rushed out of his solitary office. Grantaire stumbled a little at first, but he followed him willingly out of curiosity.

“Low, keep your head, keep your head low,” chanted the workers, standing outside Enjolras’s office. “Oh, you gotta keep your head low if you wanna keep your head.”

The man previously known as Valjean emerged from the crowd, “Why do we turn away when our brother is bleeding? “

“Why do we build the wall and then call it freedom?” The woman previously known as Fantine stepped forward and stood beside Valjean.

“If we’re free,” Valjean looked up at Enjolras, “Tell me why I can’t look in my brother’s eye?”

Jehan stepped out of the sea of workers, looking to Enjolras like a man on a mission. 

The king met his eye, looking down on him, “Young man, I have to hand it to you. I guess you don’t scare easily, do you? Are you brave or stupid, son?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “Doesn’t matter which one, because it seems your song made quite a strong impression on my husband.” Enjolras and Grantaire shared a glance. “But it takes more than singing songs to keep a man in your arms.”

Montparnasse, upon hearing the commotion, peaked behind a corner and watched the scene unfold.

With the voices of all the workers, Jehan stood up to Enjolras, “If I raise my voice--”

“If I raise my head,” Montparnasse whispered, clutching the wall of the mine, “Could I change my fate?”

“--If I raise my voice, could I change the way it is?” Jehan took a step forward.

“Why do we turn away instead of standing with him?” Fantine asked. “Why are we digging our own graves for a living?”

“If we’re free, tell me why we can’t even stand up right,” added Valjean. “Tell me when we can stand with our fellow man.”

Enjolras stepped down from his solitary office above the mine and grew closer to Jehan, “Young man, I was young once too. I sang a song of love like you. Son, I too was left behind, turned on one too many times.” He spread his arms wide and gestured to the mine, “Now I sing a different song, one I can depend upon. A simple tune, a steady beat: the music of machinery. You hear that heavy metal sound? That’s the symphony of Hadestown, and in this symphony of mine are power cords and power lines.” When Enjolras finally reached Jehan, he looked him in the eye, “Young man, you can strum your lyre. I have strung the world in wire. Young man, you can sing your ditty; I conduct the Electric City.

“I’ll tell you what, young man,” Enjolras leveled, “Since my husband is such a fan -- and since I’m going to count to three and put you out of your misery -- give me one more song before I send you--

“ Two --to the great beyond where nobody can hear you singing,” continued Enjolras. “ Three . Sing a song for me. Make me laugh, make me weep. Make the king feel young again. Sing for an old man!”

For all his talk of age, Jehan thought pointedly that Enjolras looked no older than twenty, though he knew that the God was much older. But under closer inspection, his face looked so tired; the age was starting to show.

Jehan carefully took his lyre from his back, watching the king of the Underworld wearily. Finally breaking the eye contact, he closed his eyes and taking a deep breath, he strummed his lyre.

“King of shadows, king of shades, Enjolras was the king of the Underworld.”

Enjolras looked around to his workers, cockily, “Oh, it’s about me?”

Go on…

Jehan looked back up at the king, his face serious, “But he fell in love with a beautiful man who walked above in his mother’s green field.”

Enjolras’s face fell.

Jehan didn’t stop, “He fell in love with Grantaire, who was gathering flowers in the light of the sun. And I know how it was, because he was like me; someone in love with a man. Singing, la la la la la la la… La la la la la la la…”

Enjolras tried to step forward, “Where did you get that melody?”

“La la la la la la la…”

Grantaire grabbed Enjolras’s arm gently, “Let him finish, Enjolras.”

“La la la la la la…” Pausing, Jehan looked up again. “And you didn’t know how or why, but you knew that you wanted to take him home. You saw him alone there, against the sky. It was like he was someone you had always known. It was like you were holding the world when you held him. Like yours were the arms that the whole world was in. And there were no words for the way that you felt, so you opened your mouth and you started to sing: La la la la la la la…”

The workers joined him in his singing, “La la la la la la la…”

“And what has become of the heart of that man, now that the man is king?” Jehan posed. “What has become of the heart of that man, now that he has everything? The more he has, the more he holds, the greater the weight of the world on his shoulders. See how he labours beneath that load, afraid to look up, and afraid to let go. So he keeps his head low, he keeps his back bending. He’s grown so afraid that he’ll lose what he owns, but what he doesn’t know is that what he’s defending is already gone.

“Where is the treasure inside of your chest?” Jehan asked him. “Where is your pleasure? Where is your youth? Where is the man with his arms outstretched to the man he loves with nothing to lose? Singing, la la la la la la la…”

And, as if Enjolras had the song with him all along, he softly began to sing too, “La la la la la la la…”

“La la la la la la la…”

Almost involuntarily, Grantaire stepped forward to be by his husband’s side, rather than behind him, and he sang: “La la la la la la la…”

Jehan was a poor boy, but he had a gift to give. This poor boy brought the world back into tune.

Enjolras and Grantaire: they took each other’s hands. And do you know what they did? 

They danced.

“La la la la la

La la la la la la la

La la la la la la la la la

La la la la la la la la la

La la la la la la la la la

La la la la la la la la la

La la la la la…”

Chapter Text

As Enjolras danced with his husband, happy for the first time in a long time, Montparnasse crept away from his place in the mine and to his own love.

“Jehan?” Montparnasse whispered, softly.

Jehan, startled, turned to face him, “Yes?”

A small smile crept on Montparnasse's face. “You finished it,” he said, breathlessly.

“Yes!” Jehan smiled. He then furrowed his brow and lowered his voice, “Now what do I do?”

Montparnasse took Jehan’s hands in his own, “You take me home with you. Let’s go. Let’s go right now!”

Jehan nodded, feverishly, “Okay, let’s go…” He paused. “How?”

Montparnasse smiled softly, “We’ll walk; you know the way. We’ll go back the way you came.”

“It’s a long road,” Jehan warned him. “It’s a long walk back into the cold and dark. Are you sure you want to go?”

Montparnasse nodded, affirmatively, “Take me home.”

Jehan looked away, shyly, “I have no ring for your. I have no banquet table to lay. I have no bed of feathers. Whatever promises I made, I can’t promise you fair sky above. I can’t promise you a kind road below, but I’ll walk beside you, love, any way the wind blows.”

Montparnasse squeezed his hands gently, “I don’t need gold or silver, just bread when I’m hungry and fire when I’m cold. I don’t need a ring for my finger, just a steady hand to hold. Don’t promise me fair sky above or kind road below, just walk beside me, love.”

Jehan looked behind him at the dancing king, “What about him?”

“He’ll let us go,” Montparnasse assured him. “Look at him. He can’t say no.”

Jehan looked to the people who got him this far. Valjean and Fantine, side by side, smiled at him for the first time. “What about them?”

“We’ll show them the way,” Montparnasse promised. “If we can do it, so can they.”

“I don’t know where this road will end,” Jehan admitted. He looked up to his lover, “Do you let me walk with you?”

Montparnasse nodded, smiling lightly, “I do.”

“I do,” Jehan echoed, grinning despite himself.

“And keep on walking, come what will?” Montparnasse added.

“I will,” Jehan confirmed.

“I will.”

Chapter Text

And so, the poor boy asked the king, “Can we go?”

And this is how he answered him:

“I don’t know.”

Enjolras leaned his elbow on his desk, holding his forehead. His answer seemed genuine. 

The Fates crowded around the king of Hell.

“Gotta think quick,” Claquesous reminded him.

“Gotta save face,” added Babet.

“Caught between a rock and a hard place,” chimed Gueulemer. 

“Whatcha gonna do?”

“If you tell him no,” Babet said, as-a-matter-of-factly, “You’re a heartless man and you’re gonna have a martyr on your hands.”

“If you let him go,” Claquesous added, pointedly, “You’re a spineless king and you’re never gonna get ‘em in line again.”

Babet glared at Claquesous, who shrugged in response. 

Gueulemer, having enough of the other two, continued, “Damned if you don’t, damned if you do. Whole damn nation’s watching you. Whatcha gonna do now?”

“Here’s a little tip--”

“Word to the wise--”

“Here’s a little snippet of advice: men are fools,” Gueulemer snapped.

“Men are frail,” Babet corrected him.

“Give them a rope and they’ll--” Babet cupped a hand over Claquesous’s mouth.

Enjolras held his head even more; the voices of the Fates not helping the straining feeling in his brain. He gestured for Jehan and Montparnasse to leave while he thought it through.

Enjolras, being the king of the Underworld for longer than he could possibly remember, had encountered some of the darkest creatures the Gods had to offer. And yet, none had made him feel so conflicted and terrified as this poor boy. When he started to think that Jehan’s act was beautiful and lovely, his defenses threatened to rise again with words like poisonous and deadly plaguing his mind. Dangerous was this jack of hearts. With his kiss… the riot starts.

His workers came to Hadestown poor, clamouring for bed and board. Now they clamoured for freedom.

(It used to be him who pushed for freedom.)

Had he made himself their lord just to fall upon the sword of some pauper’s minor chord? Who would lead them? Who laid all of their best-laid plans? Who made work for idle hands?

(He had only made himself their lord to liberate them, but he had since forgotten that.)

Only one thing could be done: let them go, but let there be some term to be agreed upon, some condition. 

Enjolras emerged from his office, expecting to find the lovers in each other’s company. Instead, he saw an old friend..

“So?” Courfeyrac asked, point blank.

“I’ll let them go, on one condition,” Enjolras told him. “Jehan shall not turn to look behind; he’s out of sight, he’s out of his mind. Every coward seems courageous in the safety of a crowd. Bravery can be contagious when the band is playing loud. Nothing makes a man so bold as a smile and a hand to hold. But all alone his blood runs thin, and doubt--” Enjolras stuttered, “Doubt comes in.”

Chapter Text

Courfeyrac found the lovers sitting on a decent sized ledge on the walls of the mine. Jehan rose upon seeing him, but soon realised that he hadn’t seen Courfeyrac since he left and wasn’t quite sure what he was doing there.

“What is it?” Jehan asked, rushing up to him.

“Well, the good news is, he said that you can go,” Courfeyrac replied, though his face still remained grim.

Montparnasse stood up, “He did?”

“He did,” Courfeyrac confirmed, “but there’s bad news.”

“What is it?” Montparnasse inquired, impatiently.

“You can walk, but it won’t be like you planned.”

Jehan cocked his head, reminiscent of a confused child, “What do you mean?”

“Why not?” added Montparnasse.

“Well, you won’t be hand in hand,” Courfeyrac replied, his lips pressed together thoughtfully. “You won’t be arm in arm, side by side, and all of that. He said you have to walk in front,” he pointed to Jehan and then Montparnasse, “and he has to walk in back.”

Jehan’s brow furrowed gently in confusion, “Why?”

“Because if you turn around to make sure he’s coming too,” Courfeyrac answered, solemnly, “Then he goes back to Hadestown and there’s nothing you can do.”

Montparnasse stepped forward, “But why?”

“Why build walls and  make folks walk single file?” Courfeyrac countered. “Divide and conquer’s what it’s called.”

Jehan shook his head, “It’s a trap.”

“It’s a trial ,” Courfeyrac corrected him. “Do you trust each other? Do you trust yourselves?”

They nodded, “We do.”

“Well listen, brother,” Courfeyrac advised, “If you want to walk out of hell, you’re gonna have to prove it before Gods and men. Can you do that?”

“We can.”

“Time to go then.”

Montparnasse placed a gentle hand on Jehan’s shoulder and nodded to him with a small smile, before he went to say farewell to Valjean and Fantine. Courfeyrac was about to leave when Jehan stepped forward.

“Mr. Courfeyrac?”

He turned around, “Yes?”

“It’s not a trick?” Jehan repeated, his face riddled with worry.

“No,” Courfeyrac assured him, “it’s a test. The meanest dog you’ll ever meet ain’t the hound dog on the street. He bares some teeth and tears some skin, but, brother, that’s the worst of him. The dog you really got to dread is the one that howls inside your head. It’s him whose howling drives men mad and a mind to its undoing.”

Jehan nodded, understanding what he meant. He rushed off to join Montparnasse, where Valjean and Fantine wished him luck and he wished the same to them.

Valjean shook both of their hands, “Show the way so we can see. Show us the way the world can be.”

Fantine couldn’t help but give Jehan and Montparnasse a hug, “If you can do it, so can he.”

Valjean placed a hand on Fantine’s shoulder, “If he can do it, so can we .”

Fantine nodded, “Show the way so we believe. We will follow where you lead.”

From Enjolras’s office up high in the mine, the king and his husband watched the scene through the window.

Grantaire nursed a glass of water as he stared out, “You think they’ll make it?”

Enjolras shrugged, honestly, “I don’t know.”

Grantaire turned to face him, looking more proud of him than he had in years, “Enjolras, you let them go.”

“I let them try,” Enjolras corrected. They weren’t out of the woods yet, and it would be wrong for him to indulge an uncertain hope.

Grantaire was quiet for a moment, considering something as he stared thoughtfully into his cup. “And how ‘bout you and I? Are we gonna try again?”

Enjolras looked to the calendar on his office wall and sighed, “It’s almost spring.” He thought for a moment before looking to Grantaire, “We’ll try again next fall.”

Grantaire nodded, understandingly. Shyly, he held out his hand to Enjolras, “Wait for me?”

Enjolras grasped his hand with a smile, “I will.”

Jehan approached the road ahead of him, stopping for a moment to take it all in. He just needed to trek the walk without looking back and they would be home free. They all would be free.

He was just about to take a step forward when he felt a hand on his arm. He was spun around and suddenly, he felt Montparnasse’s hands cup his face as he kissed him gently. Jehan placed his own hands on Montparnasse’s wrists, brushing them softly with his thumb.

“I’ll see you on the other side?” Montparnasse asked, his eyes finding Jehan’s own, the look was meaningful, but concerned.

Jehan nodded, smiling softly, “I’ll see you on the other side.”

As soon as Jehan started his journey, Gueulemer and Claquesous jumped on the opportunity to scare Jehan straight. It was out of their own fear of losing grip of their prey that they did this.

“Who are you?” Gueulemer followed him close behind. “Who do you think you are?”

“Who are you?” Claquesous got all up in Jehan’s face. “Who are you to lead him?”

“Who are you to lead them?” Gueulemer spat.

“Who are you to think that you can hold your head up higher than your fellow man?” taunted Claquesous, pridefully.

Jehan, on the other hand, did surprisingly well at ignoring the two Fates, to Babet’s pleasant surprise. Gueulemer's antics were easy enough to avoid and Jehan simply pushed past Claquesous’s pestering.

You got a lonesome road to walk, and it ain’t along the railroad track along the black-top bar. You’ve walked a hundred times before. I’ll tell you where the real road lies: between your ears, behind your eyes. That is the path to Paradise. Likewise, the road to ruin.

Though Jehan could not hear him, Montparnasse kept the faith for the both of them, “I’m coming, wait for me. I hear the walls repeating. The falling of our feet, it--it sounds like drumming. And we are not alone. I hear the rocks and stones echoing our song. I’m coming!”

Chapter Text

“La la la la la la la…

La la la la la la la…”

The road from Hell was a long trek; longer than the journey there it seemed. Jehan followed the wire up, his determination only increasing as he went along, but the Fates had other plans.

Doubt comes in and meets a stranger walking on a road alone.

“Where is he?” taunted Gueulemer, feeling them slowly lose their grip on Jehan as he got closer. “Where is he now?”

“Where is he?” Clasquesous repeated, “Where is he now?”

“Who am I? Where do I think I’m going?” Jehan wondered to himself as he continued to walk. “Who am I? Why am I all alone?”

“Doubt comes in,” chimed Babet, solemnly, already unable to communicate with Jehan any longer.

“Jehan?” Montparnasse called from behind him. “Jehan, are you listening? I’m right here -- we’re all right here -- and I will be to the end. The coldest night of the coldest year comes right before the Spring.”

Jehan took a deep breath, “La la la la la la la…” He opened his eyes again and his face fell, “Who am I against him? Why would he let me win? Why would he let him go? Who am I to think that he wouldn't deceive me just to make me leave alone?”

“Doubt comes in…”

“Is this a trap that’s being laid for me?”

“Doubt comes in.”

“I used to see the way the world could be,” Jehan pondered, “but now the way it is, is all I see and--

“Where is he?” Gueulemer echoed Jehan. “Where is he now?”

Montparnasse shook his head, wanting to push that damn Fate away from Jehan. “Jehan, you are not alone. I am right behind you and I have been all along. The darkest hour of the darkest night comes right before the--”

Jehan suddenly stopped. 

“It’s you?”

“It’s me.”

Chapter Text

Jehan and Montparnasse were not the first to make that deal with the devil and Courfeyrac knew that they wouldn’t be the last. 

Many years ago, Courfeyrac had taken a young man by the name of Marius under his wing. They became fast friends and the best of them, too. Courfeyrac, despite being a God of several centuries, was still much chirper back then and the pair was known to participate in many shenanigans, occasionally flirting with the handsome people of Paris.

Then Marius met Eponine Thenardier, a girl who had run away from her pickpocket family to live a somewhat normal life, without consideration of what hardships that entailed. Marius was a friendly fellow and quickly became determined to make her his friend. What Marius did not expect was for Eponine to fall in love with him.

But Marius seemingly only had eyes for another newcomer: a girl named Cosette Fauchelevant, who had come to the district with her father. Eponine was no match.

Marius, however, had another obligation other than being in love with Cosette and friends with Courfeyrac and Eponine: he was to take part in a protest that was to save France from itself. The Les Amis de l’ABC of old were the organisers of the event and fought for it resiliently.

But it all went awry.

Eponine had joined the fight, unknown to most of the other protesters, and was shot saving Marius’s life. She died in his arms, and the next morning, the Amis were gone as well.

(Enjolras, who had gotten more involved in the June fight than he probably should have, was distraught to say the least at the loss. He brought them back to life, ensuring them reincarnation and safety in their new lives. When he had discovered the lot of them had found each other again and that they all were interested in following the path of paganism, he practically begged Grantaire to be the men’s patron. He could hardly say no, seeing how much his husband cared for the humans. Besides, he had grown fond of them as well, despite the fact that he had not been there for Enjolras when they passed the first time.)

Marius barely made it out with his life. He knew he couldn’t possibly go back to Cosette with Eponine and all of his friends gone. He thought she deserved better than a broken man like himself. So, he went to Courfeyrac and begged him to tell him if there was any way he could bring Eponine back. The messenger god willingly told Marius of a way to hell through the back. There he would be able to rescue Eponine, but only if he kept his head low.

Jehan and Montparnasse were not the first to make that deal with the devil and Courfeyrac knew that they wouldn’t be the last. 

Many years ago, Courfeyrac had taken a young man by the name of Marius under his wing. They became fast friends and the best of them, too. Courfeyrac, despite being a God of several centuries, was still much chirper back then and the pair was known to participate in many shenanigans, occasionally flirting with the handsome people of Paris.

Then Marius met Eponine Thenardier, a girl who had run away from her pickpocket family to live a somewhat normal life, without consideration of what hardships that entailed. Marius was a friendly fellow and quickly became determined to make her his friend. What Marius did not expect was for Eponine to fall in love with him.

But Marius seemingly only had eyes for another newcomer: a girl named Cosette Fauchelevant, who had come to the district with her father. Eponine was no match.

Marius, however, had another obligation other than being in love with Cosette and friends with Courfeyrac and Eponine: he was to take part in a protest that was to save France from itself. The Les Amis de l’ABC of old were the organisers of the event and fought for it resiliently.

But it all went awry.

Eponine had joined the fight, unknown to most of the other protesters, and was shot saving Marius’s life. She died in his arms, and the next morning, the Amis were gone as well.

(Enjolras, who had gotten more involved in the June fight than he probably should have, was distraught to say the least at the loss. He brought them back to life, ensuring them reincarnation and safety in their new lives. When he had discovered the lot of them had found each other again and that they all were interested in following the path of paganism, he practically begged Grantaire to be the men’s patron. He could hardly say no, seeing how much his husband cared for the humans. Besides, he had grown fond of them as well, despite the fact that he had not been there for Enjolras when they passed the first time.)

Marius barely made it out with his life. He knew he couldn’t possibly go back to Cosette with Eponine and all of his friends gone. He thought she deserved better than a broken man like himself. So, he went to Courfeyrac and begged him to tell him if there was any way he could bring Eponine back. The messenger god willingly told Marius of a way to hell through the back. There he would be able to rescue Eponine, but only if he kept his head low.

When he got to the Underworld, Marius was met with a distraught Enjolras. With his beloved revolutionaries gone and his husband up above, Enjolras wanted nothing more than to give Marius what he wanted, but he knew that everything came with a price. He couldn’t tell Marius that he could simply have Eponine if he lived the rest of his life doing good for others; that wasn’t how this worked. Eponine had died, fair and square. It was before her time, but she had chosen that path and no one tried to keep her alive to begin with. There had to be a test.

So Marius made a suggestion.

Marius asked the king of Hell if he could lead her back to the surface without any problems, if that would be enough to bring her back. Enjolras thought that sounded reasonable, but Hell is tricky, he said. He presented a compromise: Marius would be allowed to try to guide Eponine back up to the surface, but he would be unable to see or hear her the entire trek. He had to trust that she was behind him and if he ever turned around to check, she would be gone forever.

Marius accepted.

The trek started out just as it did for Jehan. Marius, confident in himself and his friend, started the journey. But the Fates had other plans. It had been so long since they had a human to follow around and toil, and Marius wreaked of potential. They took the form of three of his lost friends, plaguing his mind with doubt and worry. The loud, ever present noises of the barricade crawled back into his mind and poor, traumatised Marius couldn’t take it anymore. He turned around and lost yet another friend to uncertainty.

It’s an old song, a tale from way back when. And that is how it ends.

(He could have come so close.)

Eponine went back to the mine, where she stayed until a hungry young man made a decision no one there would ever choose. While Marius was forced to walk the world above, wallowing over what he had done, after so many years, Eponine was given another chance because of a mysterious young man and his poetic lover.

It’s a sad tale.

Cosette never heard from either of them again and was left to take care of her ailing father. He passed away not long after.

(Valjean might have looked like he had worked in the mines for nineteen years, but he had been there for much longer.)

Cosette had gone to the tavern where Marius and his friends had once met. It was still open for business, but it looked hauntingly empty. She hadn’t been in there for long when a man in green dawned upon the threshold.

He had sat right next to her, “What’s got you down, dear?”

Cosette stared into her glass, absently, “My father’s dead and my lover’s missing.”

“Oh.” The man ushered for the bartender, who seemed to recognise him immediately. “Pour the wine and raise a cup.” He swivelled around to the mostly empty bar, “Drink up, brothers, you know how, and spill a drop for--” He paused and leaned into Cosette, “What’s your boy’s name again?”

“Marius,” Cosette whispered, softly.

He nodded and lifted his glass, “Spill a drop for Marius, wherever he is now. Some birds sing when the sun shines bright -- our praise is not for them -- but the ones who sing in the dead of night, we raise our cups to them.”

He took a large swig of wine.

“Wherever he is wandering,” thought Cosette, “Alone upon the earth…”

“Let our singing follow him,” the man finished, “and bring him comfort.”

Cosette smiled, sadly, at the man in thanks.

“Let me tell you something, dear,” the man said, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder, “Some flowers bloom where the green grass grows, but the ones who bloom in the bitter snow, we raise our cups to them.”

Cosette took her glass and raised it with melancholy, “We raise our cups and drink them up.”

He raised his own, “We raise ‘em high and drink ‘em dry. To Marius,” he added, with a twinkle in his eyes, “and all of us.”

He drank the rest of his cup and stood up, stumbling a little. “Goodnight, sister. Goodnight.”

It’s a tragedy.

But we sing it anyway, because here’s the thing: to know how it ends and still begin to sing it again as if it might turn out this time takes a hope and that two of the Gods in this story have lost sight of.

See, Jehan was a poor boy, but he had a gift to give. He could make you see how the world could be in spite of the way that it is.

Can you see it? Can you hear it? Can you feel it like a train?

Is it coming? Is it coming this way?

On a sunny day, there was a railroad car and a man stepping off a train. Everybody looked and everybody saw that Spring had come again, with a love song.

“Feuilly! Bahorel!” Grantaire called, running up to his disciples. He gave them both a tight hug, before releasing them, looking them over with pride before seeing the others. “Joly, Bossuet,” he greeted with a smile, “Long time, no see.”

“How’s it going, R?” asked Bossuet, grinning from ear to ear.

Grantaire nodded, unsurely, “It’s been… interesting.” He spotted someone else and yelled, “Combeferre! Good to see you.”

Combeferre shook his hand, “Been a while, Grantaire.”

“Yeah,” Grantaire trailed, thoughtfully. He grinned, “I have a feeling that things are going to change around here.”

Feuilly and Combeferre shared an apprehensive look, “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire nodded.

Joly tried looking over the crowd of people, “Hey, R, have you seen Jehan around? We haven’t seen him since you left.”

“Haven’t seen Montparnasse around either,” Bahorel added, suspiciously. He turned to Feuilly, “You don’t think he left, do you?”

Feuilly shook his head, certainly, “No, he couldn’t have.” He turned back to Grantaire, “So have you seen ‘em?”

Grantaire looked around, nervously, “Any of you fellas want a drink? It’s on me.”

“Always, R!” Bossuet whooped.

Joly poked him, “You need to watch your alcohol intake.”

“And you,” Bossuet poked Joly’s cheek, “need to lighten up.”

“Settle down, boys,” Grantaire said. 

They all went down to the tavern and sat down at the bar, Grantaire all ordering them wine to spare.

Combeferre, always the responsible one, nursed his drink, “So what did you mean by you had a feeling that things were going to change around here?”

Grantaire shrugged, taking a small sip, “Enjolras and I talked it out.”

Bossuet nearly did a spit take, slamming his glass down on the counter and almost breaking it, “You what?”

Bahorel chuckled, “Finally got the stick out of his arse, ay?”

Feuilly elbowed him, “Bahorel.”

“Feuilly,” Bahorel mimicked back. “As if you haven’t been criticizing him too as of late.”

“I have,” Feuilly admitted, “but at least I have basis to my argument rather than mindless, overused insults--”

“Boys, please,” Grantaire implored, “I thought I was supposed to be the one in the old married couple here.”

Feuilly shrugged. “I’m with Combeferre on this one, though. What happened?”

Grantaire opened his mouth to say something when he heard laughter from across the room. He turned around in his seat and stood up immediately upon seeing who it was.

“Jehan!”

The man in question turned around, his face lighting up even more, “Mr. Grantaire! You’re back!”

Grantaire rushed over to the table and picked Jehan up in a tight hug. “Jehan, you--” he looked him up and down, speechlessly, “You made it.”

Jehan smiled softly, “Yeah. We did.”

Montparnasse gave a small wave to him, “Hey.”

“Oh, come here, you two,” Grantaire ushered Montparnasse over to give them both a hug. 

Courfeyrac, suddenly at the bar himself, rested his chin on his hand, “I guess it did turn out this time after all.”

Combeferre jumped a little, surprised at his sudden appearance. “What turned out?”

Courfeyrac waved him off as he watched the scene in front of them unfold, “Don’t worry about it, handsome. Just enjoy the tale that finally got its happy ending.”

Chapter Text

Grantaire and Les Amis were so ecstatic to find their friend alive and well with his lover that they insisted that they would plan and execute their matrimony. It was decided: Jehan and Montparnasse would be married in June.

The ceremony was to happen during the afternoon of the special day, and Musichetta made sure she carved out the right amount of time to get Jehan prepared, as his maid of honour. Of course, Musichetta had to enlist some help of her own considering she was several months pregnant at the time, but went through with her duties flawlessly as always.

Joly came into the back of the tavern, holding onto Bossuet for support, who held a small basket.

“I know you said you were feeling a little lightheaded earlier,” Joly said, “So Boss and I got you two a little something to keep up your strength.”

Musichetta smiled at her boys, “Thank you, Joly. You’re too sweet.”

Bossuet grinned at their girlfriend. He opened his mouth to say something, but his eyes settled on Jehan and he instead made a distressed noise, clapping his hands over his eyes.

“What’s wrong, Bossuet?” Jehan mused.

“It’s bad luck to see the bride before the wedding!” Bossuet gawked. “I’m so sorry, Jehan--”

Joly patted Bossuet on the arm, “That’s for the groom , Boss.”

“I saw him too!”

Joly sighed and continued to pat Bossuet’s arm, “Sorry about him, Jehan.”

Jehan shrugged lightly, “No worries, Joly. Boss’s humour always helps with my nerves anyway.”

Joly smiled and nodded, “All right. We will get out of your hair then.”

“Bye, Joly. Bye, Bossuet,” Musichetta called as they left. She was just about to return to her work when she heard another shriek coming from Bossuet.

Montparnasse peaked through the door, “Mind if I come in?”

Jehan looked from Musichetta to Montparnasse, surprised. Musichetta simply stood up and winked at Jehan with that all-knowing Musichetta look of hers, “Sure. I’ll leave you to it.”

Musichetta went out and Montparnasse came in. Jehan stood up and met him halfway. “Montparnasse, we’re not supposed to see each other before the wedding!” Jehan scolded him, lightly.

Montparnasse chuckled faintly, “I know, I know, but I had to talk to you about something.” He paused for a moment before looking Jehan over and grinning, “Is this the surprise you were talking about?”

Jehan picked up the skirt of his wedding dress and smiled coyly to himself, “Maybe.” He looked back up to Montparnasse, “You said you needed to talk to me about something?”

Montparnasse sighed, nodding, “Yes.” He took Musichetta’s chair and gestured for Jehan to sit down. He did, and Montparnasse took Jehan’s hands in his own, “Jehan, my heart is yours; always has been, always will be. I assure you that I have no intention of leaving you again, now or ever. But I need to make sure that you still want to marry me.”

Jehan’s gaze softened, “Of course I do--”

“I know, but just hear me out, okay?”

Jehan nodded.

Montparnasse took a deep breath, “Do you remember those Fates that followed us around? When we were… down there…?”

“Yes,” Jehan nodded again. “They were really mean…”

Montparnasse chuckled slightly, “They were.” His face fell again, “I didn’t realise it immediately, because that place was messing with my head and my memories, but… Jehan, I knew those people. Not the Fates themselves at first, but the people they were mimicking.”

Jehan cocked his head, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I used to work with them, before I came here,” Montparnasse explained, bracing himself. “Their names were Claquesous, Gueulemer, and Babet. We did some… not exactly legal things.” He looked away from Jehan and sighed, “The last time I saw them, we were on a job, and it all went awry quickly. Gueulemer and Claquesous were the first to get caught, and Babet and I almost made it out when the cops…”

Jehan squeezed his hands, causing Montparnasse to regain himself. He shook his head, “Babet was gone and I was stuck, Jehan. I had made it out alive, but at what cost? I decided the only thing for me to do was run away. At that point, I had already ran away from my parents, from my stepfather, and so many other things in my life, I figured why not? As long as I got away and kept on moving, I was safe.

“And I stayed like that for a while. I went to towns and districts, never staying for long, always moving. I was planning not to stay here for longer than I needed to, and then…” He looked up, “Well, then I met you.”

Jehan was quiet, but he was listening intently. Montparnasse wasn’t quite sure what he was thinking.

“I need you to know that I have never lied to you about me or my past,” Montparnasse assured him, desperately. “I wouldn’t be telling you this if I didn’t love you. But I didn’t want you to marry me without knowing my whole truth, because that wouldn’t be fair to you. If you don’t want to marry me, I understand--”

“Who said I don’t want to marry you?” Jehan asked, squeezing Montparnasse’s hands again. “Montparnasse, it doesn’t matter what you were before. What matters to me is that you’re you now . You’re the man I love and nothing you say about your past can make me love you less.”

“You mean it?”

“I do.”

A soft smile formed on Montparnasse’s face. “I love you, Jehan Prouvaire,” he said, breathlessly, leaning in to kiss his lover.

Jehan smiled helplessly, placing a clever finger on his lips, “I love you too, but you’re going to have to wait for the ceremony.”

Montparnasse snapped his fingers playfully, “Damn it, I thought I could get away with that one.”

“Not a chance,” Jehan beamed. “I’ll see you there?”

Montparnasse grinned, “I’ll see you there.”

The venue was stunning. Jehan made no exaggeration when it came to the scene. The nearby river glistened in quiet respect, the surrounding trees leaned to match the space, and the birds atop those trees sang softly to the crowd. In the front by the arbor stood Montparnasse, Musichetta, Bahorel, and the Bishop Myriel, who was officiating the wedding. Bahorel had insisted that as Montparnasse’s (only) friend, he should assume the role of best man. Montparnasse was honestly too worried about not getting into the good graces of the insistent Amis, he had hesitantly allowed it.

Courfeyrac was the one to lead Jehan down the aisle and give him off to Montparnasse. Upon approaching the arbor, he nodded to Montparnasse and smiled at Jehan, before taking his seat next to Combeferre.

(Of course, he would never admit it, but after Jehan requested that he give him away at the wedding, Courfeyrac had cried a little to said man because, “Our little boy is growing up!”)

Grantaire, one of the wedding’s guests, sat a few rows behind, but watched lovingly as Bishop Myriel started to declare the purpose of the ceremony. He watched the ceremony in front of him intently, jumping a little when he suddenly felt a cool hand on his shoulder.

He quickly looked behind him. “Enjolras!” he whispered.

Grantaire looked him over quickly and noticed Enjolras looked brighter than he had in years. The golden glow was back in his hair, his eyes no longer held an icy resentment to them, and his skin looked warm now.

“Sorry I’m late,” Enjolras darted quietly as he took a seat next to him. “I had to take care of something before I left.”

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Grantaire admitted with a grin.

“Is that a bad thing?” Enjolras fretted.

Grantaire took his hand, smiling warmly at him, “Not at all.” He pointed fleetingly up ahead, “Now be quiet, they’re getting married, Enjolras.”

Enjolras flushed, “Right--”

“Do you, Montparnasse, take this person to be your lawfully wedded spouse?” Bishop Myriel asked.

Montparnasse looked at Jehan lovingly and nodded, “I do.”

Bishop Myriel nodded and turned to Jehan, “And do you, Jehan Prouvaire, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?”

Jehan nodded ecstatically, “I do.”

“Then in the power invested in me, I pronounce you both husband and spouse.” Bishop Myriel smiled, “You may kiss one another.”

Applause erupted from the crowd when Jehan lifted himself up and kissed his new husband, who enveloped him in a hug as he kissed him back.

Grantaire cheered from the fourth row, absentmindedly still holding Enjolras’s hand. Enjolras saw that it was plainly written all over his face how happy he was for them. As his husband cheered, Enjolras watched him, pleasantly surprised. He never thought Grantaire could be so soft for something like this, but clearly he cared for these young people a lot.

Grantaire nudged Enjolras playfully, “Look at them, Enjolras! I’m so glad they’re finally happy.”

Enjolras smiled softly and nodded. As a large part of the wedding goers started to filter out, Enjolras himself stood up, his hand slipping out of his husband’s. “I guess I best be leaving then.”

Grantaire, still sitting, looked up to him, “So soon?”

“Spring and Summer are your months to walk above and do what you want away from the Underworld,” conceded Enjolras. “I know that now. It’s okay, love, I’ll be okay this time around.”

Grantaire stood up abruptly and grasped Enjolras’s hands again. “And what if what I want is you?” he asked to his surprise. “Come on, Enjolras, when was the last time you’ve been on Earth just to be here? You can go back to Hadestown if you’d like -- I won’t fault you for it -- but if even the smallest part of you wants to stay for even a small amount of time: I want you to.”

Enjolras’s face shifted from solemn to soft. “Grantaire, I--” he fumbled, “Of course. I would do anything for you.”

“Really?”

“Always.” Enjolras then shrugged sheepishly, “I was actually late because I was asking Monsieur Valjean to take care of Hadestown in the event that my return was… delayed.”

A large grin crept its way onto Grantaire’s face, “Enjolras, you didn’t.”

Enjolras smiled pridefully, “Au contraire. I did.”

And with that, Grantaire kissed his husband for the first time in a very long time.

When they parted, Enjolras’s eyes glimmered, “Things are going to change, Grantaire. I’m going to be a better husband to you and a better boss to them. When I get back to Hadestown, I’m going to restore it to the republic that I intended it to be.”

Grantaire placed another kiss on his lips with a smile, “I know you will.”

And since that day, the world was finally back into tune. Jehan and Montparnasse lived out their lives with each other, each day more poetically and prepared than the last. Courfeyrac and Les Amis de l’ABC continued doing whatever it was that they were doing before while making ends meet. (Musichetta gave birth to a beautiful child who was loved dearly by their three parents and their many companions.) 

Enjolras and Grantaire spent the rest of that June in each other's company. Come July, Enjolras returned to Hadestown to begin the reformation, while taking weekends to visit Grantaire above. It was decided that Valjean and Fantine would run Hadestown from now on seeing as Enjolras saw them as the most fit for the position. Enjolras would still oversee Hadestown as a whole, but he wanted the people to have more representation and control in their afterlife as it should have been all along.

It is unknown what ever became of the lost soul Marius Pontmercy, his abandoned love Cosette, and the now presumably free spirit of Eponine Thenardier. Montparnasse would tell you that Eponine was looking for the ever wandering Marius, while Enjolras would say that he had no way of knowing where either of them were, but that thanks to Valjean and Fantine, Cosette would be welcomed with warm arms when she eventually joins the ranks of Hadestown. No one knows where the Fates went either, but Combeferre had once speculated to a tired Courfeyrac that they probably assumed three other dead souls’ likenesses and moved on from the Parisian district like the wind. ( Courfeyrac would groggily monologue that the Fate formerly known as Babet continued to try to thwart the others, but he was so tired that night, it was mostly incoherent.)

It’s an old song. It’s a tale from way back when. And whether it turns out good or bad, we’re going to sing it again.