1. "I didn’t think you of all people would be so squeamish," Jehan tells Combeferre. "Aren’t you a man of science? Don’t you dissect things all the time?"

    "Well but I do not RUB BLOOD ALL OVER MY FACE ON A REGULAR BASIS," says Combeferre. "WAS THAT REAL BLOOD, JEHAN? IT SMELLED LIKE REAL BLOOD. WHERE DID YOU GET A REAL HEART?”

    Happy Valentine’s Day, guys! Hope your lives are going well and everything is wonderful! Please insert your own morbid final punchline about the lack of festivities on February 14, 1833 here u__u

     
  2. To everyone peacefully navigating the calm waters of your dashboard, I am sorry for this rude interruption! I just wanted to say that I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox, and also that I now have a catch-all blog over at 16ruedelaverrerie for everything else that doesn’t get posted here.

    More “polished” (HA HA) art will still be the purview of the Sad Trombone blog, so don’t worry about things being hard to keep track of— that other blog isn’t even exclusively for LM fanworks, it is in large part just for unfocused text posts about nothing in particular (and possibly the occasional truly horrendous sketch). And although the Sad Trombone askbox remains closed, LM-related questions like “what is Joly and Bossuet’s manzai duo name” or "why must we continue this charade of pretending that you don’t have a favorite Ami" or "why WAS Azelma tying Courfeyrac’s cravat" or "was Feuilly ever East Asian at any point in time" are welcome at 16ruedelaverrerieSo if you are going through a rough relationship with your own self-esteem and want to punish yourself somehow, head on over!

     

  3. Anonymous said: jsyk "kevin" was listed as a character on the les mis holiday exchange sign up and i totally requested him, so there may be kevin fic forthcoming.

    I don’t want to clutter things up too much around here or on your dashboards, but I think I have to answer this ask if only because the torrential disapprobation is bubbling out of me like a frothy mountain rapid of emotional upchuck. Dear anon this is horrifying and you have made a horrifying decision. I hope that for everyone’s sake you receive some other fic that has nothing to do with this so-called “Kevin” and that you do not mar your holiday season in this horrifying manner

    But in the event that you truly are a horrifying person who wants horrifying things for themselves, I have written you this fic to assuage your horrifying demands:

    […] never realized that the air in the land of the living tasted so bright, tasted clean and sharp and cutting as a knife. Grantaire sucked in a thirsty lungful of it, letting it quench him from the inside out. It’s over, he thought, I did it, I won, and the absurdity of it made him laugh— a shaky exhale at first because he couldn’t quite remember how, still a little too strangled and a little shy of the sun. I did it. Wasn’t that funny? Had he ever really done anything before?

    But the air was clean and the streets were dry and next to him, Enjolras touched his palm to the cobblestones, like he didn’t know where they were. Or like he knew exactly where they were, and exactly how preposterous it was that they were there again, back with the soil and mud and flesh. Grantaire saw him clench his hand, a shallow fistful of god only knows what filth. Paris was a shithole and as beautiful as the rest of the entire fucking world, and he was the most beautiful thing in it, twenty-six, unbroken. Made again of blood and bones.

    "We’ll do it better," said Grantaire, warding off the bullets. "This time, we’ll make it count."

    He covered Enjolras’ hand with his own, just to feel the flutter of his pulse. Before Enjolras could do something stupid like thank him or apologize — because he definitely was going to do at least one of the two, that idiot — Grantaire leaned his head into the crook of Enjolras’ neck, and yeah, that felt like the ending he’d been waiting for. The sulfur and smoke still lingered on their skin, but that would wash away. It was over.

    "Who’s Kevin?" asked Enjolras.

    "What?" asked Grantaire.

     
  4. "But that’s just another way of saying mad, bad, and dangerous to know, isn’t it?” asks Courfeyrac. “You think I’m Byronesque! You think I’m cool! You want to make me happy! Marius Pontmercy, you like me!

    (Yup.)

    Sad Trombone checking in on the holiday season, mistlecock jokes and all! Actually, just with the one mistlecock joke. That’s the only thing I brought to the party. I’m sorry. I… please don’t send me back home. All I have there are jokes about wrapping Enjolras up in a bedsheet and tying him to the apex of a Christmas tree while he glitters with radiant fury… or jokes about manzai duo Joly and Bossuet on a location shoot at the Gasu Kurobikari Barricades for the 2013-2014 No Laughing 19th Century Student Revolutionary Batsu game SO DON’T SEND ME BACK HOME. NO ONE NEEDS JOKES ABOUT BAHOREL SINGLEHANDEDLY GETTING SANTACON OUTLAWED FOR GOOD.

    —but all jokes of questionable taste aside, mistlecock or not, I hope you have a great end of the year and ring in the new one with reckless abandon! Trombone out!

     
  5. Hi there, Sad Trombone checking in on Barricade Eve with an ABRUPT AND UNWARRANTED NEON GENESIS MISERABLES PUNCHLINE. I hope everyone’s been as well as I have been! The hiatus-absence here is still ongoing, but of course I couldn’t resist the chance to make a bunch of death jokes ღ(˘⌣˘ღ

    Have a hilarious 181st Barricade Day— and when you feel like the body count and the June gloom are getting you down, you just show Hugo who’s boss (no pun intended) by refusing to let him have the last word!

     
  6. Improbably enough, my friends, today is the 100th day since Sad Trombone first launched. This blog wasn’t meant to be anything worth anyone’s time; I was adrift between fandoms, tired of writing, curious to see if drawing every day would help me become a little better at art. This house wasn’t built to be shown, but somehow, you found it. You found me here. You’ve made the past 100 days absolutely surreal, and it’s all thanks to your generosity that Sad Trombone got this far (100 drawings, 85 ask doodles!).

    I wish I could keep at this forever, but— well, you know how it goes. I’m meandering toward a crowded sort of period in my life right now, and an update a day has become a bit difficult, especially when there’s traveling to be done. I’m really very reluctant to walk away — because I love LM as much as I ever did through all these years, because I won’t be here to make AND THEN THEY ALL DIED jokes for Barricade Day, because there are so many prompts I want to fill (The Magic School Bus! Lord of the Rings! Les Amis and the Holy Grail! Sex Pistols Fruits Basket!), and most of all because you make it so fun for me to be here —  but 100 days was a good run, wasn’t it? I think it was. And now is perhaps as good a time as any for me to bow out.

    I’m not sure if there will be less regular art updates here in the future, but que será será, you know! There’s nothing to worry about. The blog itself isn’t going anywhere, and I’ll still be able to respond privately to any questions or messages you happen to toss my way. Maybe I’ll wander back in when things are quieter on my end, or maybe we’ll run into one another in some different fandom, or maybe something else, or maybe something else— but ten years from now, I’ll still have LM tucked away in the same old corner of my heart, and I’ll still remember how much fun this was, and I still won’t understand why Azelma was helping Courfeyrac tie his cravat. It’s rather nice, that small assurance of constancy.

    Anyway, I hope that you’ll all love this fandom for a long time to come. Please be happy, be kind, dry-hump Wilbour’s leg, and tell stories if you get sad (it’s what keeps the dead alive). Thank you for everything, malcontents. I hope I’ll see you around, and until then, it’s lights out at 16 Rue de la Verrerie.

    Bisous—

     
  7. geraniumrabbit:

    I drew this for http://playthatsadtrombone.tumblr.com/

    Unfortunately I am not very skilled when it comes to drawing on a tablet and the result is less than satisfactory.

    “Grantaire, be serious!” yelled coxswain Enjolras

    “I am wild” bow seat replied

    “Why must I always be the centre?” complained Courfeyrac

    “For the love of France, JUST ROW!” Enjolras exclaimed in an exasperated tone

    *AKSJDLK!! I FORGOT TO COLOR JOLY’S OAR AND GRANTAIRE’S BOTTLE OF WINE!!!! AND WHERE ARE THE BLADES?!

    From geraniumrabbit's additional comments: Marius would have been in the bow, but he didn’t show up to practice, why even be surprised. flk;dlkfhdl;g HOW IS THAT SO PERFECT. Like fifty different things are killing me about this picture, the tricolor uniforms, Grantaire’s ~relaxed lean~, omg thank you so much for this and thank you for being so brilliant :’) !!

    EASY OARRRRRrr

    (Source: salem-pitch-trials)

     
  8. Do you recall our innumerable joys?

    [full-size]

     
  9. Hey, says Courfeyrac, later. About the— I mean, I was just teasing, I didn’t— I didn’t hurt your feelings, did I?

    No, says Enjolras.

    All right, that’s good, says Courfeyrac, not entirely satisfied. It’s only when he’s shrugged on his coat and turned toward the door that he feels something jerk him back; Enjolras’ hand, a grip around his sleeve.

    But for future reference, says Enjolras, I do have feelings.

    …How can you even say that with a straight face, asks Courfeyrac.

     
  10. It’s funny because Bahorel is the least immortal of them all RIGHT? THAT’S WHY IT’S FUNNY? I… THIS IS FUNNY, RIGHT??

    WELL SONNETEERING WISDOM HAS IT THAT IMMORTALITY CAN BE ACHIEVED POSTHUMOUSLY, SO THERE, LONG LIVE BAHOREL, LONG LIVE THE RECKLESSLY EPHEMERAL

    (The “young Lallemand” debacle is 1822 in Hugo and 1820 everywhere else!)