Paintbrush
A/N: This story wasn't done in one sitting, so forgive me if it lacks energy. So do I.
Anyway, in case of confusion using first names in the following story, here are the full names (as of now) of Les Amis:
1. Corin Enjolras
2. Zacharie Grantaire
3. Philippe Courfeyrac
4. Justin Dessín Combeferre
5. Lucas Joly
6. Fabien Bossuet
7. Jean Étienne Prouvaire
8. Mathis Feuilly
9. Julien Bahorel
(I understand if you happened to name your Mizzie the same, but if I find you "just happened" to name 4 or 5 of your Mizzies the same, I won't buy it. You must give me evidence of the fact, otherwise you will pay…)
…And on that note, on with the show:)
I sigh.
Jehan, sitting with an expression of utter dullness, watched as, yet again, Enjolras spoke optimistically of their "great crusade of the proletariat, for the proletariat." As much as the young poet agreed with the cause, at times the café was rather monotonous.
Quill in hand and ink at side, Jehan was prepared to write. But he had no muse; no inspiration.
And this is why he began to sulk at the very back-corner table.
For the thousandth time, he sat up and looked at his surroundings, scoping out some sort of inspiration.
Ah… There is always Corin. Perfect.
He dipped his feather into the blue-black ink and put it to the parchment before remembering the many poems of Their Fearless Leader in his desk drawer in his apartment. Searching for his runaway muse once more, Jehan centered his vision on another of their group.
Julien? The man in question turned around and winked in jest in the poet's general direction.
Jehan shook his head. No... Now that I think of it, the rhymes for "Julien" aren't the most…flattering. Surname? No, I doubt anything rhymes with Bahorel either.
Joly? Possibly… "The unfortunate one, coughing in his…" No. No. Too depressing. Jehan scrunched up is nose and tried again.
Grantaire? No, will only depress readers more…should there be any readers…
Courfeyrac? Jehan smiled. Yes, the one subject free of any of history's clichés. "Yes, the man whose brilliant smile in lux could only be compared to his number of…mis…tress…es…" No, I believe I have changed my mind on that one…
…or possibly Fabien? Or Mathis? Both are incredibly talented: one living in life harmoniously, though his…well…bad luck follows him, and one creating such works of beauty amongst the street rats of the era! That's it! I shall write of our dear Feuilly!...
…And yet I still cannot think of the words to follow. I suppose I shall have to return to such an idea at a later date…
Let us see here: Who is left?
Mon dieu, that would leave…Justin. Feeling his failure as a poet, Jehan put is head on the table and sighed, slightly annoyed.
Justin Combeferre, as Jehan had known before, was next to impossible when it came to being a muse. He was a philosopher, of course, prepared to fight with strength and not the mind itself or the pen, which was rather ironic, but… There was just something about him: some distinctly abnormal aura, but Jehan could not figure it out. He loved the man like a brother but hated the uninspirational shadow in the presence. Justin was not an angel, nor was he the stuff of nightmares. He was just…present. Present as always, sitting in his usual chair at the café, in front of Enjolras and between Courfeyrac and Grantaire.
At the thought of it all, Jehan began to bang his head on the table repeatedly. It would have been slightly conspicuous if, by the second head-bang, a storm hadn't begun to brew.
CRACK!
Enjolras looked up and through the café window to see a huge lightning bolt tearing up the sky, followed by a steady pour of rain. He groaned.
"Men, I am afraid we must cut our meeting short," he said between thunder booms.
Bahorel laughed and replied, "Why should we? Is it not just a little rain?"
Enjolras jumped from the chair he was standing upon and gave Bahorel a look. "Indeed, it is rain, as well as wind and residency in a café with brittle windows. Come now." He forced everyone out of their seats with a few strong hand movements, and everyone began to file out the door. Jehan complied and followed gradually.
Any other day the sound of wind and the patter of rain on his face would awaken the poet's muse greatly and make him smile. However, that day his muse was in hibernation, and Jehan didn't even show so much as a grin.
"Jehan! Jehan!"
He turned to the sound of his nickname and saw Justin Combeferre running towards him. Remembering his muted muse in the café, he moaned to himself.
"Jehan!" Justin was almost in arm's reach.
The poet turned from the voice and began to walk away, leaving a confused Justin where he once stood.
"Jean Étienne Prouvaire, come back!"
Jehan stopped in his tracks, more confused than anything else. Of all the people in the world, Justin had just called him by his full name. That could mean two things, ultimately: either his friend was trying to tell him something important, or he was just really stubborn. Either way, Jehan couldn't keep walking away.
"…What is it, Ju- Combeferre?" he said, still not facing his friend.
There was silence on the other end. Apparently he is just really stubborn, Jehan thought.
"Please, Jehan, you may call me Justin. If I am to scream your full name in the middle of the street, the least you can do is to call me by mine."
With a small sigh, the aforementioned poet turned to meet his friend, who had a windswept look about him, which was to be expected, but he had a smile.
"So…Justin," he started. "What is…was…is it that you wished to talk to me about?"
The philosopher's smile widened a bit. "I saw you in the back of the café. You seemed…rather depressed; distraught. It was unlike you."
"So why do you smile?"
The smile widened even more. "Because I know how to cure it."
Jehan became confused again. His churning thoughts mixed with the spatter of raindrops on his head. "…What?"
Before he could ask more, Justin grabbed his wrist and ran down the street, Jehan in tow.
A loose stone in the street hit Jehan's ankle as he was dragged full-force down the road. He winced slightly. Justin, on the other hand, didn't seem to notice. The poet got his balance back and began to run at the same pace as his friend.
"Com… Justin! Where on Earth are we going?" exclaimed Jehan as they turned a corner at a quick speed.
"No questions, just follow me!" The philosopher turned another sharp corner and was out of sight. Jehan followed as best he could; the rain was coming down even harder, and it was limiting his vision.
"Jehan! Come quick!" Justin had stopped in front of an abandoned cart on the side of the road. The street was void of any life, thanks to the storm. Jehan sighed, shook his head of stray raindrops, and complied by fitting as best he could next toJustin under the annoyingly small canopy of the cart.
He shivered and turned to his friend. "So… What was so important to have me cold and wet under the canopy of this…wagon?"
Justin began to explain. "You see, hardly anyone comes down this street, and therefore no one would bother to look inside the cart for valuables worth taking, as it is common."
"Yes, but that doesn't explain much, now does it?"
"…No… No, not really," Justin thought out loud. He sighed. "Let me try again..." Another sigh. ".. I had nothing to do one day. Actually, it was a day a lot like the current: wet and harsh. I believe you had a cold that day and couldn't come to Enjolras' meeting at Le Café Musain…"
Jehan nodded. He vaguely remembered that day, although it had been a while ago.
"… Well, more to the point, he let us go home early. Because no plans had been made and no assignments had been given, I was left with nothing to do." Justin let out an almost nervous chuckle. "I have no idea what I was thinking when I made this, but it still uplifts me when I see it. I just hope it does the same for you." He looked away from the cart and to Jehan. "It honestly pains me to see you like this." Another chuckle. "Forgive me if you think this to be…well…over-the-top."
Finally, Jehan smiled lightheartedly. "Justin, you can finish your monologue."
"As you wish," the philosopher shrugged. He reached for an object wrapped in what Jehan recognized as one of Justin's cravats. The poet was even more surprised when Justin handed the wrapped object to him.
"I hope it helps," Justin whispered.
Gingerly, Jehan untwisted the cravat from around the object and handed it to his friend. He looked at the unveiled object and gasped.
"Justin… Did you make this?"
Justin nodded.
Jehan laughed. "I didn't know you were an artist." He became mesmerized in the object.
It was a painting.
Many residents in Paris had dreams of becoming an artist of some sort, but Jehan never thought of Justin – logical, concise Justin – as one of those to express himself without words.
Whatever the poet thought of Justin, it was a painting nonetheless. Jehan found with more surprise that it was rather good, in fact. It was a cloud: a cloud more pure and white than anything any of them had ever seen. It was surrounded by dark storm clouds covering a once-blue sky, and below was a patch of flowering green. The entire work had a depressing aura, and yet there was another of sheer optimism Jehan never thought would come of his friend.
He turned to his friend who was half-heartedly trying to avoid the poet's gaze by folding his cravat. Jehan had never seen Justin like that; it was so…unlike him.
"…Justin?"
The philosopher looked up from his cravat, an inquisitive look upon his face. "Yes?"
Jehan took another look at the painting. "Thank you… I am feeling better already."
"You can keep it, if you wish…" Justin stopped but quickly explained. "I really don't have any use for it."
Jehan nodded. "Yes… Thank you." He turned to face the street. The rain was gradually diminishing. "Well," he turned back to Justin, "I must be off. Thank you again."
Justin smiled, "You are most welcome, Étienne," and began to walk away.
Jehan smiled, but he abruptly sobered and shouted back to Justin, "Wait!"
The philosopher stopped walking and gave another inquisitive look to his friend. "Yes, Jehan?"
"I just thought of this, but… What, if anything, is your own middle name?"
Justin thought for a second and furrowed his brow in partial disgust. "Dessín," he said. "I never really liked it."
Jehan gave a short laugh. "No, it suits you," he said, and he walked away, quietly chuckling at Justin's slightly annoyed expression.
Jehan closed the door to his apartment, sat down at his worn, wooden desk, and began to write. About ten minutes later, he stopped. The poem wasn't perfect, but it wasn't complete rubbish. With a sigh of relief, he decided it was sufficient. He went to leave, but he stopped to position his precious painting by his window. With that he retreated from his apartment into the uncovered sun once more.
"The mind clears;
The air cools
As the rain drops,
And drops,
And drops
Into little ponds and pools,
No longer tears
For the living or dead.
The birds sing their songs:
One a soft, clicking metronome
As the others exclaim their
Joy,
No longer pain
From above and below.
The wind chills,
And the remaining rain splatters
From its grey, cloudy domicile
Like something from a picture book
Of grey paint speckles with white a blue
Over red bricks and green grass.
But I can see a cloud in the distant horizon:
One pearl white cloud of silk,
And in my mind
The paintbrush has laid its head down
From that cloud
To form a single multicolored ray of hopeful dreaming,
And the dreaming needn't cease.
Peace at last.
Jean Étienne Prouvaire, April 5, 1831"
Fin
A/N: 1. Yes, I wrote that poem (based on my own little cloud after the rain). It may be a piece of garbage to you, but…wait… I really don't think it's that good either. So whatever.
2. The characters are insanely out of character, so I don't need that as constructive criticism. I already know that.
3. I might make the cloud painting from the story and put it on my dA page. If I do so, I'll put a link to it on my user page. If, by some weird occurrence, you decide to do so, please give me the link; I would love that.
Well, see you around, and:
(drumroll)
"Solongsolongsolongsolongsolongsolongsolongsolongsolongsolongsolongsolong, and thanks for all the fish!"
Tee hee. That is one addicting song.
Sirius Orion Black II