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"I've called together this social justice meeting to discuss a very important matter," the blonde haired, looks-like-a god-but-also-a-statue, man said sternly.
His intense blue eyes looked over the room before him, surveying his friends in the only manner he knew possible - seriously.
"What's the matter, Enjolras?" Combeferre asked quietly.
"It has come to my attention," he began, pacing around, "that we're all becoming a bit...predictable, and, dare I say it - OOC."
With the biggest and most dramatic gasp he could muster, Courfeyrac almost fell from the table in shock. "Say it ain't so!"
As was only natural, Bossuet fell off his chair without having made any movement at all. "What do you mean, Enjolras?"
The beautiful man sighed and pinched his nose in exasperation - he often reached the point of exasperation with these idiots he called his friends.
"Isn't it obvious?" he said, pacing again, everyone hung on to his every word. "The fanfiction writers are not using us to our full potential."
The Amis in the room seemed to nod in understanding, but some, mainly Marius, because he is far too slow to understand anything on the first try, looked confused.
"What do you mean, Enjorlas?" he asked innocently, his big puppy dog eyes wide with innocence (fanfic writers are contractually obliged to describe him as an innocent puppy at least three times per fic).
"Well, that for starters," Enjolras said, his angelic features forming a frown. "You just called me Enjorlas."
"Oh I'm sorry. Enlojras?"
"No - Enjolras."
"Enjarlos?"
"Enjolras."
"Enldjjdlslsjras?"
"You're not even making sense anymore - Enjolras."
"Enrasjol?"
"Enjorlas!"
"Um," Combeferre started, about to correct their mighty leader of his mistake, when he was cut off by the man himself.
"-Oh it doesn't even matter anymore! Why are you even in the Musain, Marius? You're not an Ami!"
Marius smiled. "I think fic writers feel guilty for leaving me out."
Enjorlas sighed again. "This is exactly what I mean - we need to stop this madness."
Without much warning, Courfeyrac burst into dramatic tears. "They always make me a hyperactive man whore!" he cried, draping himself across Jehan as he wept - but the poet was too busy braiding flowers into his hair and scribbling poetry on everyone to notice much else.
"Exactly!" Enlorjas turned to face others in the group. "Joly, look at you!"
The man in question, who'd been shaking and cleaning his table with an anti-bacterial wipe, looked up, shocked. "What?"
"You act like you're nothing beyond your hypochondria - if what you're doing can even be described as hypochondria because honestly some of the stuff you get nervous over doesn't even make sense."
Joly sniffled slightly (inwardly fretting about an imminent cold) and said, "I do sometimes wonder if I could add more to the plot than just an occasional doctor."
"Of course you can!" Enrasjol cried. "Joly you're brilliant!" He turned on his fantastically beautiful feminine heel and turned to face Bahorel. "What about you?"
The bulk of a man sighed. "I'm just the fists and brute force."
"You're more than that Bahorel - at least, you should be!" With that Enjagsjslras turned to Bossuet, who, naturally, had just sustained a severe head injury from barely moving. "Bossuet and sometimes Legles- what's happened to you?"
He shrugged. "I suppose I supply the comic relief?"
With that, the roof fell in around him and knocked him out.
"Well," Ensajrol started, but the group had lost interest and immediately turned to Musichetta.
"He also supplies the ethnic diversity with me, because otherwise you'd all look like pricks," she added helpfully, and the group nodded thoughtfully.
"They make me Irish sometimes?" Courfeyrac tried suggesting, but Enhakdkras' mind was elsewhere.
"When did I invite women here?" he asked incredulously, looking round again at Musichetta, Cosette and Eponine with wide eyes.
"This isn't 1832, man," Eponine said, aggressively. "You can't have an all male social justice group."
The blonde frowned. "Wait - it's not 1832?"
"This is a modern au," Cosette told him, in her melodic voice, looking so beautiful that everyone couldn't help think that Marius was punching well above his weight.
"Yeah, no fics are set in canon anymore," a cynical and drunk voice called out from the back.
"Grantaire," Enroljas sighed. "You're not exempt from this either."
"What?" the resident cynic asked (you see, he can only ever be referred to as the resident cynic. Resident drunk is also acceptable). As usual, the man was covered head to toe in paint. Literally. There was no part of him that didn't have paint on. Apparently in fics, paints are either not harmful or the authors don't realise the dangers and permanent nerve damage this could cause Grantaire. Grantaire wasn't sure which instance was true, but he hoped the former - permanent nerve damage didn't sound fun.
"Do you own any other hats than that god damn red beanie?" Enlojars asked.
Grantaire blushed and slipped it into his pocket. "I don't know what you're talking about." He paused. "Don't you own anything other than that red jacket?"
"Dont insult the jacket. Also-" Enjeoruiras did a double take. "-since when were you ridiculously good looking?"
Grantaire, who truly had remarkably become ridiculously handsome, simply shrugged, and Combeferre offered the word of reason as per.
"I think that the idea of Grosstaire isn't very appealing to authors," he argued in the calm, reassuring tone that only Combeferre is capable of.
"Oh - Grosstaire is unappealing, but the nicknames Enjy and Taire aren't?" Grantaire shouted, and every person in the room shuddered. "The Brick literally gives you my nickname," Grantaire muttered sadly, sinking down into his chair.
"Those aren't the only problems," a voice added, and everyone in the room turned in confusion to look at the owner of the new voice.
When they caught sight of a curly haired man in the corner, they all frowned.
"Who are you?" Ensarloj asked sharply - because as the terrible but beautiful statue he is, he has zero people skills. Nilch. Nada.
Feuilly frowned as everyone stared on blankly. "Feuilly?" Nothing. "I make fans? Love Poland?"
Not one flicker of recognition passed across any face in the room.
"Oh come on!" Feuilly shouted, standing up in protest. "Enjolras loves me in the Brick! He respects my opinion and me! You guys remember me, right?"
Courfeyrac frowned. "It rings a bell...?"
"For crying out loud-"
Enjarlos groaned. "Okay, we get who you are. Don't you have some random shifts at one of the three jobs you have to go to so the author doesn't have to address the fact they have no definitive plot or characterisation for you?"
"Fuck this."
Stepping over Bossuet's still unconscious body, Feuilly stormed out of the Musain.
"Guys," Marius muttered, tugging on Cosette's blouse like the pathetic fool he was. "I still don't know who he is?"
Ignoring Marius' pointless blathering as usual, the Amis had already turned their attentions back to their fearless leader (again - obligatory to call him this at least three times per fic).
"What we need," he said forcefully, "is a revolution."
Combeferre, who, unsurprisingly, piped up when a reasonable voice was needed. "Perhaps something a little less extreme?"
The blonde frowned. "A small riot?"
"Less violent?"
"A protest?"
"What about a petition?" his bespectacled friend suggested, but Enjarlos just threw his hands up in the air in frustration.
"God damn it, Combeferre!" Enjolras roared. "Let me cause some anarchy!"
"Have you ever tried solving a problem with reasonable discussion?" his friend asked, unruffled.
At this Enjorlas was silent. "I - I... No?" He shook his head. "That's beside the point - something needs to be done about these monstrosities. Now who's with me?"
There were a few beats of silence before they heard the scraping of a chair, and Courfeyrac rose, raising a glass, "To not being a two dimensional slut!" he cried. "And to not acting like a three year old who's just snorted sugar!"
Enjaolreras nodded in approval, and, unable to stop himself, Grantaire rose too, bottle in hand. "To educating the masses about how Absinthe isn't bottled!"
A small frown. "That's not really what I was going for Grantaire, but-"
Bahorel had already stood up. "To at least some of us having good relationships with our parents!"
"I feel you on that one, Bahorel," Enjalros muttered, and watched as Joly stood up too.
"To helping people understand what hypochondria really is!" he cried. "And to have me portrayed with any other emotion than nervous!"
"To making me more than my unlucky stre-" Bossuet didn't get to finish his sentence as a bottle rolled of the table and knocked him out again.
"To addressing underappreciated characters!" Musichetta shouted.
"To being more than our love interests!" Cosette and Eponine cried together.
"And to addressing that I may or may not be crazy!" Eponine added.
"And to confessing that I'm a natural brunette!" Cosette cried.
Marius made a noise of realisation. "I thought you'd done something different with your hair!" he admitted, before standing up himself. "To me being something other than pathetic, hopeless and stupid!"
At last, Combeferre stood too. "To me not being cold. And to be more than just the sensible one."
"Me too," Enjelrus said with determination. "I refuse to be a cold hearted asshole all the time." He thought for a moment. "Sometimes maybe, but not all the time."
Feuilly popped his head back around the door. "To me being-"
Everyone groaned.
"Literally nobody cares Feuilly," Courfeyrac sighed, and the man in question swore at them and disappeared again.
Finally it seemed, Jehan stood up. "To me living up to my capital R Romanticism."
Everyone paused.
"...Is that it?" Enjalris asked bluntly (again - the man of the people must have no social skill).
"Yeah I mean," Bahorel started, "the poetry on everyone's arms was cute the first time, but now it's just excessive."
Everyone nodded in agreement and they faintly heard Joly mutter something like "ink poisoning".
Jehan thought for a moment. "...I do do that a lot, don't I?"
The group nodded with such fervour that one might think their heads would fall off.
"And the flowers?" Jehan asked. "Cute the first time - now predictable and excessive?"
"Well we're not saying don't do it," Enjolras acquiesced. "Just a bit less, yeah?"
The poet nodded. "To all of us not being predictable and repetitive!"
"Cheers!"
"Hear, hear!"
The room was grinning, and everyone felt a little breathless with the thrill of standing up to the man. You could almost say they were struck to the bone in a moment of breathless delig-
"NO," Bahorel roared.
-Wait, what?
"The author was directly quoting the musical!" Enjorlas cried, and all around him the Amis (and technically non Amis) wailed in frustration.
Fuck.
"This is the time to rebel from the fic writers!" he continued. "To the barricade!"
Uh oh.
At least Bossuet's still unconscious. Small mercies.
Wait no - Marius - Marius put that gunpowder do-