A/C: I've been both meaning to use poetry in my fanfiction and write a fluff for Bahorel/Jehan so when this plot bunny appeared I was very pleased. A very short fic, with both the chapter sizes and in general. Anyways, I hope you all still enjoy it.
Third person/Present
The day has a distinct nip in the air as Bahorel leaves the Musain cafe, starting down the busy Paris road. Usually he won't leave so early; in fact, he's almost positive he'll be returning to the cafe in a half an hour or so, but he needs to make sure that he puts enough care into this opportunity, not stumble and waste it as he's done countless times before. Who knows? Maybe if this succeeds, it could still be considered a waste, because it's too cheesy or artificial or silly and doesn't capture the intention put into the idea. Bahorel can't force himself to turn back, though; he wrote the damn poem so he might as well completely this freaking task. This isn't something that he usually does, and somehow it's suppose to become a regular-just for a little while, and for a worthy cause. Well, that's if this works. Bahorel's tried many things on this particular quest and nothing good has come of it yet, just the inability of people taking him seriously. Not just people, though; generally, he doesn't care so much about them, but a person in specific is very different.
The chill has affected the citizens on the street even more than they change the way that Bahorel moves about the pavement. There are less people about now, and those that are do so with a quick foot that flies them across to where they'll be nice and warm. Of course, there are those who don't have a place to go back to, poor souls cast about the world with less than a blanket to shield them from this misery. They huddle in the corners of the buildings, bundled together to make up for the coat. If this winter is going to be as cold as it's promising so far, most of them won't survive the bitter months later in the season, cutting away at the population in the hundreds. This, of course, is all being discussed by Enjolras and the rest back at the cafe, along with ways to show the unaware this injustice. Bahorel's pretty certain that Grantaire is right about this one being a doozy, and therefore feels better about skipping out for just a breath of time. Chances are no one will miss him for this amount of time. Out here, even though the wind is fierce and gusty, the sun is managing to blaze within a clear sky, giving one source of warmth to the Saturday afternoon.
Bahorel walks through the streets, turning sharply to one of the apartments located on this main street, where he knows Jehan Prouvaire spends most of his dwellings within, on the third floor, first door to the left of the staircase. The flowery man claims he likes it there, that it gives him a good view of the streets, but Bahorel has seen that the place can often stress him out as do many places in this city. After all, it's not possible to plant a proper garden while living in such a place. Of course, now Jehan's apartment is empty, as he is with the rest back at the Musain. This is what Bahorel expects, this is what he counts on. He walks up through the front door of the building, and marches over to the landlady, his mind twisting with nervousness.
"Hello, madame," Bahorel greets, feeling slightly sheepish about this whole process. It's a dumb idea, it really is, and he has no idea why he's going through with it. "I have a letter to Monseiur Prouvairem but I need it to be delivered to him without it being known that I was the one to give it. Could that be done?"
"Yes, I imagine so," was the wary nod that responds to his inquiry. She takes the letter he has clasped in his hands, tightly folded and sealed within an envelope labeled with the singular name Jehan Prouvaire.
"Thank you so much, Madame," Bahorel bids, before turning on his heels and exiting the building without another word. He needs to be well gone from this place by the time Jehan shows up to receive his present.
By the time Jehan is heading home from the meeting, darkness has fallen and the temperatures has as well. The first snow is beginning to fall as he steps outside, since clouds had managed to blow in during their meeting and was now letting out it's steam in this chill. He gazes around for a moment, taking in the calm scene before him. Paris is never quite silent, always rocking back and forth with the noises of the people and the hum of the poor with the buzz of the rich. That's what Jehan loves about this city, because although he enjoys the pure silence of the country or a smaller town immensely, the ebbing flows of movement that scatter about Paris contain more magic and inspiration for the young poet, filling his life with far more opportunities than a small town or the country could ever provide. It's also because of this that he quite enjoys his walk home, listening to the soft lullaby of horse hooves against the ground that's somewhat softened by the incoming snow. He loves the snow, too, how it wavers and dances in the air, flying upon the wind in such a haze and a flutter, before melting so briefly into either the warm ground or amongst the cover of snow that already lurks there.
When he enters the apartment, it's with weary legs that are anxious to carry him into bed, where he can bundle into the sleepiness and properly enjoy the cold haze. He almost sweeps directly up the stairs to his room, and completely passing his landlady by.
"Monsieur Prouvaire!" she shouts out, catching him already half way up the stairs. "You have received a letter during your absence."
"Really?" He yawns, almost falling down the stairs in his efforts to get back down the steps and to her outstretched hand. "Thank you, Madame. I hope you sleep well and that you had a good day." He doesn't even think to ask for who left it, since he's fairly sure that it must be mentioned somewhere on the paper, an assumption he regrets later.
"Of course, goodnight, Prouvaire," she responds, before exiting into her own quarters.
He doesn't bother opening his letter right away, but instead brings himself back up the steps, to the third floor, and casts himself upon the bed so that he's splayed out enough to relax on top of his covers. His eyes slightly glazed with his exhaustion, he easily opens the sealing, allowing his nimble hands to fish the paper out that's lurking inside. There isn't any signature across any surface of the parchment, but instead a poem, with lettering that has been purposely written so neatly that it disguises the hand writing Jehan would have otherwise been able able to identify.
If I
Keep writing
Like this
It may seem
Like poetry
And if I italicize
It might even
Hint at
Love
A smile spreads across Jehan's face at this poem. The whole thing is teeming with unmentioned sarcasm, as it obviously makes fun of the art that is so close to Jehan's heart, but it's an endearing sarcasm, one he's sure was done with good intentions and thought. Perhaps it might even hint at a love poem. Unwilling to do anything else in this tired state, Jehan puts the poem aside, onto his bed stand, and crawls beneath his covers to fall into a lovely, deep sleep.