Disclaimer: Kanashimi: *glowers* I am so underpaid for doing these disclaimers for every single story Korin writes, when it should be obvious she owns absolutely nothing at all! Underpaid, you hear?? I demand recompense!! I -- *you know how they say lightening never strikes the same place twice?* Itai...my back...
Another Heaven, Another Earth
The first time Phillipe saw the boy, it was in the Luxembourg. He couldn't have been a day over twenty, with pale grey-brown hair tied back loosely by means of a strip of purple cloth. He wore clothes that fit well and were excellently made, but were the most absolutely tasteless outfit Phillipe had ever seen. He stood over a rosebush, hands clasped behind his back, face turned up to the sun, which was just emerging after a light rainfall. At that moment he was beautiful.
The second time Phillipe saw him was at one of Michel's speeches in a café near the Barrière du Maine. Michel was making one of his highly inspirational addresses against the monarchy, and the boy watched him intently, dark eyes observing everything, flickering from Michel's golden hair to his crimson vest. He cocked his head, and began to write in a little notebook, scribbling furiously, a pleased smile turning his lips gently upward.
Third time lucky, they say, and the third time Phillipe saw him, it was in the back room of café Musain, on a day when only one person had remained as it grew later. He sat at one of the empty tables, clutching the notebook to himself, looking around uncertainly. His hair was tousled and damp and his manner self-conscious. He looked around himself, and his eyes alighted on Phillipe at last. His mouth opened as if to speak and he put out his hand shyly to draw attention to himself.
Instantly Phillipe went to him.
"Bonjour. What is your name?"
"Jehan Prouvaire, poet. At your service."
Jehan smiled brightly at him, offering the hand. Phillipe smiled back and shook it.
"Welcome to café Musain." He paused. "I saw you at the Barrière. You had that book then," he offered.
"I was writing about your leader, about Enjolras. He looked like a statue I'd seen once. He speaks so well, and he showed me things around me I hadn't noticed. The state things are in. So I wanted to join you. To be part of your cause." He took a deep breath and looked hopeful. It caused him to draw upon an anxious smile, and his face glowed with it.
"We don't keep men out." As he spoke, Phillipe knew it was an invitation, for he wanted this poet to continue on at the café.
"Then I'll stay." Jehan beamed and then frowned as though something had occurred to him. "...A moment ago, you asked me my name, but I forgot to ask yours..."
"Phillipe Combeferre. A philosopher."
"Philosophy? That's glorious! Do you only speak of the revolution here, or will I be able to talk to you about it?"
"Of course. As Courfeyrac could tell you, we don't spend all that much time planning. Much to Michel's - Enjolras' - disgust, I'm afraid."
"Tomorrow, then? When...?"
"Any time you desire, Jehan. Any time."
"I'll be sure to come!" He rose. "I'll see you."
"You too." Phillipe watched him leave, feeling his eagerness for the next day to bring the poet back.
~~~The Next Day~~~
Enjolras looked around the back room, scanning the faces. There was a new one in the crowd of familiar men.
"Combeferre. That boy, there. Who is he?"
"He came last night. His name is Jehan." Catching Enjolras' look he added, "Prouvaire. Jehan Prouvaire."
"Prouvaire. What does he do?"
"He's a poet. He saw you at the café near the Barrière. He chose to join. He's enthusiastic, and he believes you utterly. It was a good speech." Phillipe spoke just as he normally did, interested and all knowing about each of Les Amis. However, he breathed a silent sigh of relief when Enjolras nodded.
"All right. Are you going to tell him about things?"
"Of course," he replied mildly, standing and moving away from Enjolras' sceptical look.
Later, when Enjolras looked over, he found both poet and philosopher deep in conversation. He smiled, pleased and went back to his speeches, writing diligently.
~~~At Jehan's Table~~~
"Yes, I can see how the beauty of the flowers at the Luxembourg would inspire one to verse. I don't write poetry, of course, but...may I read some of your work?"
Jehan blushed and flipped through his notebook, offering it to Phillipe. It was taken readily, and their fingertips brushed. Phillipe seemed to take no notice as he began to read in his affably intrigued fashion.
"Jehan, this is lovely!"
Quietly, laughing a little, Jehan refused the compliment. "Oh, never. Have you ever read anything by the great poets? Or even tried to write a few lines yourself? I'm sure you could. But that book's never half so good as some things I've read!"
"All right, don't believe me." Phillipe smiled and looked at the young poet over the rims of his spectacles. "But it's true."
"Merci, then..." Jehan ducked his head, but looked up in moment to meet his companion's eyes. "It's kind of you."
"No less than you deserve. We need a poet here, and you're the best we could have gotten, mon ami."
"You're crazy," he quirked a grin, "And are you going to keep my notebook? I can't write sonnets to praise your benevolent insanity if you take it from me."
"You'd write about me?"
"Of course. There's no better than a philosopher. It's almost as inspiring as this cause -"
"So you do care about the cause at least a little. I'm pleased to know that." Enjolras loomed over the surprised poet, blue eyes scanning him. "Combeferre, I thought you said you were explaining things and telling him about la Republique."
"I...I was...I just became sidetracked. My apologies, Michel. I'll stay to my task this time. You're frightening the boy. Leave off him," Phillipe suggested gently.
Enjolras gave him a reproving glare. "Don't become sidetracked. This is important." He turned abruptly and walked back to his table.
Jehan looked cowed and murmured, "Maybe you could come by my flat sometime, and have a discussion with no fear of interruption. He's right. It is important, and we oughtn't to take his time for our conversations."
Phillipe smiled. "You're the one who's right. What shall I tell you of first? I suppose you know most of it from his speech? There's still more, of course. You see, this society exists so that..."
~~~As The Days Passed~~~
They became friends. Phillipe knew it, and rejoiced in it. He came to visit Jehan, and Jehan came to him. They walked together, and spoke together. The poet wrote for him, and he discussed in return. He explained ideals and introduced men. He shared dreams and hopes. He offered unspoken to understand, and in return Jehan gave it all back to him in his own way, with verses and meters.
Once he wrote a poem, and Jehan kept it, though it was only a few lines complimenting a purple pansy in his window box.
And it was love, in its own tender, poetic way.
Kisses sometimes shared upon meeting in the privacy of a flat, the beautiful long talks in the Luxembourg or instead at one's home, the way they took pleasure in each other's company: the affection of a poet and philosopher, partaking of the same vision.
Therefore Phillipe was happy.
~~~June 6, 1832~~~
Phillipe felt his body explode with pain, and the world was suddenly awash with red. He looked up at the sky and took in the light once more before he closed his eyes to block out the blood that harshly clouded his vision. He felt tears leak out from under closed lids, sliding down his cheeks, and despair cloaked him.
Then he felt a burst of joy. It wasn't hell - it was heaven. The pain was abruptly glorious. Even as his blood poured away in a bright crimson river, he realized that he would no longer be in a world without Jehan.
Soon he would join the poet in death. When he had heard Jehan cry out earlier, his last dying words, he had felt a part of himself die as well. He fought because his living part loved this cause, because it was his cause, because it was for France, for something Jehan also believed in, but it was lonely to fight without the person who meant most. Now, now that his life ebbed away steadily, it would be all right again.
He looked up one last time, defying the red that obscured everything he could just barely see. He forced himself to sit up, and he held out his arms, murmuring with ecstasy to the sky, "Jehan, I missed you."
Then his body became limp, and he fell back to the ground, dead, the blood still flowing from his motionless corpse. But on his face there was a smile.
Owari ~ End
Another Heaven, Another Earth
The first time Phillipe saw the boy, it was in the Luxembourg. He couldn't have been a day over twenty, with pale grey-brown hair tied back loosely by means of a strip of purple cloth. He wore clothes that fit well and were excellently made, but were the most absolutely tasteless outfit Phillipe had ever seen. He stood over a rosebush, hands clasped behind his back, face turned up to the sun, which was just emerging after a light rainfall. At that moment he was beautiful.
The second time Phillipe saw him was at one of Michel's speeches in a café near the Barrière du Maine. Michel was making one of his highly inspirational addresses against the monarchy, and the boy watched him intently, dark eyes observing everything, flickering from Michel's golden hair to his crimson vest. He cocked his head, and began to write in a little notebook, scribbling furiously, a pleased smile turning his lips gently upward.
Third time lucky, they say, and the third time Phillipe saw him, it was in the back room of café Musain, on a day when only one person had remained as it grew later. He sat at one of the empty tables, clutching the notebook to himself, looking around uncertainly. His hair was tousled and damp and his manner self-conscious. He looked around himself, and his eyes alighted on Phillipe at last. His mouth opened as if to speak and he put out his hand shyly to draw attention to himself.
Instantly Phillipe went to him.
"Bonjour. What is your name?"
"Jehan Prouvaire, poet. At your service."
Jehan smiled brightly at him, offering the hand. Phillipe smiled back and shook it.
"Welcome to café Musain." He paused. "I saw you at the Barrière. You had that book then," he offered.
"I was writing about your leader, about Enjolras. He looked like a statue I'd seen once. He speaks so well, and he showed me things around me I hadn't noticed. The state things are in. So I wanted to join you. To be part of your cause." He took a deep breath and looked hopeful. It caused him to draw upon an anxious smile, and his face glowed with it.
"We don't keep men out." As he spoke, Phillipe knew it was an invitation, for he wanted this poet to continue on at the café.
"Then I'll stay." Jehan beamed and then frowned as though something had occurred to him. "...A moment ago, you asked me my name, but I forgot to ask yours..."
"Phillipe Combeferre. A philosopher."
"Philosophy? That's glorious! Do you only speak of the revolution here, or will I be able to talk to you about it?"
"Of course. As Courfeyrac could tell you, we don't spend all that much time planning. Much to Michel's - Enjolras' - disgust, I'm afraid."
"Tomorrow, then? When...?"
"Any time you desire, Jehan. Any time."
"I'll be sure to come!" He rose. "I'll see you."
"You too." Phillipe watched him leave, feeling his eagerness for the next day to bring the poet back.
~~~The Next Day~~~
Enjolras looked around the back room, scanning the faces. There was a new one in the crowd of familiar men.
"Combeferre. That boy, there. Who is he?"
"He came last night. His name is Jehan." Catching Enjolras' look he added, "Prouvaire. Jehan Prouvaire."
"Prouvaire. What does he do?"
"He's a poet. He saw you at the café near the Barrière. He chose to join. He's enthusiastic, and he believes you utterly. It was a good speech." Phillipe spoke just as he normally did, interested and all knowing about each of Les Amis. However, he breathed a silent sigh of relief when Enjolras nodded.
"All right. Are you going to tell him about things?"
"Of course," he replied mildly, standing and moving away from Enjolras' sceptical look.
Later, when Enjolras looked over, he found both poet and philosopher deep in conversation. He smiled, pleased and went back to his speeches, writing diligently.
~~~At Jehan's Table~~~
"Yes, I can see how the beauty of the flowers at the Luxembourg would inspire one to verse. I don't write poetry, of course, but...may I read some of your work?"
Jehan blushed and flipped through his notebook, offering it to Phillipe. It was taken readily, and their fingertips brushed. Phillipe seemed to take no notice as he began to read in his affably intrigued fashion.
"Jehan, this is lovely!"
Quietly, laughing a little, Jehan refused the compliment. "Oh, never. Have you ever read anything by the great poets? Or even tried to write a few lines yourself? I'm sure you could. But that book's never half so good as some things I've read!"
"All right, don't believe me." Phillipe smiled and looked at the young poet over the rims of his spectacles. "But it's true."
"Merci, then..." Jehan ducked his head, but looked up in moment to meet his companion's eyes. "It's kind of you."
"No less than you deserve. We need a poet here, and you're the best we could have gotten, mon ami."
"You're crazy," he quirked a grin, "And are you going to keep my notebook? I can't write sonnets to praise your benevolent insanity if you take it from me."
"You'd write about me?"
"Of course. There's no better than a philosopher. It's almost as inspiring as this cause -"
"So you do care about the cause at least a little. I'm pleased to know that." Enjolras loomed over the surprised poet, blue eyes scanning him. "Combeferre, I thought you said you were explaining things and telling him about la Republique."
"I...I was...I just became sidetracked. My apologies, Michel. I'll stay to my task this time. You're frightening the boy. Leave off him," Phillipe suggested gently.
Enjolras gave him a reproving glare. "Don't become sidetracked. This is important." He turned abruptly and walked back to his table.
Jehan looked cowed and murmured, "Maybe you could come by my flat sometime, and have a discussion with no fear of interruption. He's right. It is important, and we oughtn't to take his time for our conversations."
Phillipe smiled. "You're the one who's right. What shall I tell you of first? I suppose you know most of it from his speech? There's still more, of course. You see, this society exists so that..."
~~~As The Days Passed~~~
They became friends. Phillipe knew it, and rejoiced in it. He came to visit Jehan, and Jehan came to him. They walked together, and spoke together. The poet wrote for him, and he discussed in return. He explained ideals and introduced men. He shared dreams and hopes. He offered unspoken to understand, and in return Jehan gave it all back to him in his own way, with verses and meters.
Once he wrote a poem, and Jehan kept it, though it was only a few lines complimenting a purple pansy in his window box.
And it was love, in its own tender, poetic way.
Kisses sometimes shared upon meeting in the privacy of a flat, the beautiful long talks in the Luxembourg or instead at one's home, the way they took pleasure in each other's company: the affection of a poet and philosopher, partaking of the same vision.
Therefore Phillipe was happy.
~~~June 6, 1832~~~
Phillipe felt his body explode with pain, and the world was suddenly awash with red. He looked up at the sky and took in the light once more before he closed his eyes to block out the blood that harshly clouded his vision. He felt tears leak out from under closed lids, sliding down his cheeks, and despair cloaked him.
Then he felt a burst of joy. It wasn't hell - it was heaven. The pain was abruptly glorious. Even as his blood poured away in a bright crimson river, he realized that he would no longer be in a world without Jehan.
Soon he would join the poet in death. When he had heard Jehan cry out earlier, his last dying words, he had felt a part of himself die as well. He fought because his living part loved this cause, because it was his cause, because it was for France, for something Jehan also believed in, but it was lonely to fight without the person who meant most. Now, now that his life ebbed away steadily, it would be all right again.
He looked up one last time, defying the red that obscured everything he could just barely see. He forced himself to sit up, and he held out his arms, murmuring with ecstasy to the sky, "Jehan, I missed you."
Then his body became limp, and he fell back to the ground, dead, the blood still flowing from his motionless corpse. But on his face there was a smile.
Owari ~ End