Disclaimer: Um.... the friends of the ABC are not mine. I wish they were...;-) but they're not. And I have to live with reality. Sometimes.

Apologies: To Victor Hugo, for obvious reasons. To anyone who has deep respect for these characters, also for obvious reasons. To Arrhae, for exploiting her obsession with M. Prouvaire, for telling the whole internet that she's really a blob of orange goo, and for dropping my unabridged hardcover edition of Les Miserables on her foot. To Mr. Bromley, my esteemed physics teacher, for finding humor in his catch phrases- "Do some good physics- not fast physics" and "I will break your face."

 Jean Prouvaire opened his eyes. "I am going to the barricades today." he thought. "And in all probability, I will die there. What can I do about this?" With the logic of the very tired, (since he had pulled an all nighter doing a physics paper for M. Bromley) he decided to go back to sleep.

 June 5th, 1832. 7:30 AM.

 Once again, Jean Prouvaire opened his eyes. "I am still tired." he thought. "And I am going to the barricades, and in all probability, I will die there. In any case, I will not get any sleep tonight. If I fall asleep at the barricade, I will be shot. More importantly, everyone will laugh at me. Joly will say I should go home to bed. Since there is still one hour before physics class, I should probably go back to sleep now." So he did.

 June 5th, 1832. 1:30 PM.

 "Ack!" Prouvaire awoke suddenly. His hair was dripping with water. So were the blankets, the pillow, and his mattress. For that matter, so were Joly and Grantaire, and the bucket of water they'd just poured over his head. "What did you do that for?!?" he yelled. Then he looked at his watch. "Ack!" he yelled again. "Ack ack ack ack ack!"

Joly giggled. "I think he has something stuck in his throat." he said. "Grantaire, whack him one for me."

"Ow!" yelped Prouvaire, as Grantaire obliged. "Getoutgetoutgetout!!!"

Still laughing, Joly and Grantaire left. Jean Prouvaire toweled his hair dry with a corner of his blanket and walked over to the window. It was raining, and his houseplant was wilted. "It is raining, and my houseplant is wilted. And furthermore, I am going to the barricades today, and in all probability, I will die there. Houseplant, we shall meet again in the afterlife." he thought as he walked to his wardrobe.

 June 5th, 1832. 1:45 PM.

 All his clothes were spread all over the floor. "I am going to the barricades, and in all probability I will die there. The least I can do is look good, but I don't have anything proper for dying in." After several minutes of deliberation, he decided to wear all his favorite clothes. Quickly, he pulled on a shirt and trousers, tied his cravat, jammed a red cap onto his head, grabbed his best coat, and ran out the door, leaving his drenched lab report bleeding ink onto his sheets.

 June 5th, 1832. 2:30 PM.

"Prouvaire, you are six hours late." M. Bromley growled. "Where is your lab report?" Everyone else had handed theirs in, and M. Bromley was desperate for someone to flunk. Prouvaire confidently opened his physics book. No report was in evidence. He checked his Latin book, then frantically began checking all his pockets.

"It does not matter." he thought. "I am going to the barricades tonight, and in all probability I will die there. At least I look good." He turned around and started for the door.

M. Bromley blocked his path. "You sit down and start writing that report," he said, "or I will break your face." He pointed to a lab bench. "Let's do some good physics. Not fast physics."

 June 5th, 1832. 6:45 PM.

"Here I am!" Prouvaire burst into the Corinth bistro. The rest of the students stared. While Prouvaire was never fashionable, this was quite possibly the worst he'd ever looked. His trousers were pale lavender. His coat was dark blue, with a sea green lining. He was wearing a bright yellow waistcoat and an orange cravat. The whole ensemble was topped with a ridiculous red cap. The students burst out laughing, except for Grantaire, who was unconscious, and Enjolras, who wasn't looking, and never laughed at anything anyway.

"What's so funny?" Prouvaire asked oblivously. They only laughed harder. "What?" he pleaded. "What is so funny?" At this remark, Enjolras, who had been studying a map of Paris, looked up and splorted his wine. "Are you laughing at.. me?" Prouvaire was near tears.

"No," snickered Bahorel. "We are laughing at your clothes."

Grantaire raised his head from the table. "Pretty rainbow Prouvaire" he slurred, and passed out again.

Feuilly almost fell out of his chair laughing. "We could put him on a pole," he gasped, "and wave him as a battle flag!"

"That would frighten the National Guard away, and viola! A bloodless coup!" crowed Lesgle.

"And even if they dare fight back," giggled Joly, "They would be blinded by the colors!"

Now crying, Jean Prouvaire ran out of the bistro. "I am going home." he thought. "And in all probability, I will not die there. But at least I will be away from my evil friends, who don't know a good outfit when they see one."

 Epilogue:

So Jean Prouvaire didn't go to the barricades that night. Instead, he went out and bought some new clothes that were quite nice looking, and not quite as colorful. And on the way back to the barricades, he met a girl named Arrhae who, like him, played the flute, but unlike him, never wore bright clothes at all. They decided not to go to the barricades, because in all probability, they would die there. So they did not die, but instead, they went to dinner and then to Prouvaire's place, where they played flute duets, and Arrhae threw out all of his ugly clothes and bought him new clothes, with Prouvaire's money, of course. And they lived together happily ever after until he found out she was a blob of orange goo and asked for a divorce.