short little thing written for Les Mis Fantasy Week on tumblr.
He didn't exactly remember how old he was when he started to draw. He could guess he was around eight, maybe nine years old; a scrawny, underfed little thing, with bony wrists and dust on his nose. At the time, he lived with a few other children, all orphans or runaways that came and went like the seasons, in a dingy basement apartment covered in the rough rugs l'Oncle had brought back from his travels and nailed to the walls to hide the crumbling plaster.
(Feuilly actually suspected the rugs were actually scraps from the factory down the river – l'Oncle's stories became more and more implausible as he grew older, and by the time to old man had died, he figured l'Oncle hadn't really swam to Greenland just to find the wool blanket Feuilly usually slept on. But then again, l'Oncle had a knack for getting his hands on things without anyone seeing him.)
Despite the harsh conditions, living with l'Oncle had been good while it lasted: there was a roof above his head, enough heat in the winter, at least a meal every day, and he was free to roam the streets whenever he wanted.
And as soon as Feuilly started to draw, he made friends.
Oh, at first it was a little muddled, of course, but it came naturally to him. He would pick up a dead tree branch and draw a shape in the dirt: a round body and an even rounder head, noodle legs and noodle arms, beady little eyes, and, of course, a smile. Then, Feuilly only needed to concentrate a little, and a shadow would rise from the dust, with its round body, its noodle limbs, its little eyes and its smile, and sit with Feuilly until the wind or rain swept it away.
He'd draw as often as he could: cat-shaped, mouse-shaped, human-shaped, temporary companions to pass the hot summer days and cold autumn nights. Nobody seemed to noticed the friends Feuilly made - that is, until Jehan.
"What are you doing?" he asked Feuilly one day, looming over him while Feuilly was sitting on the ground. Feuilly looked up at the other boy. He looked about Feuilly's age, but he had dark skin and long, sweet-smelling hair.
"Drawing," Feuilly answered, as if it wasn't evident enough. "Who're you?"
"I'm Jehan," the boy introduced himself. "What kind of drawing? And shouldn't you draw with a pencil and paper instead?"
"Stuff," Feuilly closed the final line of his drawing, watching the dust creature - a ferret, maybe, or a raccoon, although Feuilly's only ever seen raccoons in books he sometimes found at the shelter - rise from ground and scurry around to hide behind his legs.
"My name's Feuilly, and I don't have any paper."
The wind blew and the little raccoon disappeared in a cloud of dust; Feuilly expected Jehan to leave, too, but the other laughed and sat down besides him. Only then did Feuilly notice how nice and bright his clothes were, next to Feuilly's own dirty hand-me-downs from l'Oncle's granddaughter.
"That was adorable, Feuilly," Jehan said, looking at him with bright, excited eyes. "Can you teach me how to do that?"
Feuilly scratched the back of his head.
"I'm not sure," he said. "I've never taught anybody before."
"That's alright. Can I draw with you, then? After that I can get paper from my house, if you want, and maybe some hot chocolate."
Feuilly shrugged.
"Sure."
(Little flowers bloomed on the dead piece of wood as soon as Jehan touched it; Feuilly kept his own hand on the branch, and together they drew a bird, a snake, a tiny elephant, creatures that Jehan described that Feuilly had no idea could even exist. And later, with the paper and pens from Jehan's house, belly full of sweet, warm chocolate, Feuilly discovered the friends he made would not always disappear with next gust of wind or fall of rain.)