Hey, everyone! I'm (hopefully) getting back the rest of "Cheurs Folles" when my friend's brother gets done looking at my hard drive (which, with any luck, will be tonight), so I should be updating that story soon. In the meantime, I offer another Jehan/Feuilly cute story, where a still-traumatized-from-his-disastrous-affair-with-Courfeyrac (It's explained in the second chapter of "Cheurs", if you're interested) Feuilly meets Jehan for the first time, and, well, things happen…
Disclaimer: Just checked my birth certificate; it does not, in fact, say Victor Hugo.
A First Encounter
Feuilly still remembered the first time he'd met Jehan. The soft-spoken poet had sparked his interest from the first, if merely by the dreamy glaze in his eyes, the oddest balance of warmth and sadness in his face.
Feuilly'd finally come back to Les Amis, but only after Enjolras had shown up at his new flat-the one he'd thought no one would find-, and demanding flatly to know why Feuilly had disappeared. Feuilly had tried to explain, as best he could, without mentioning Courfeyrac, or that horrible night, or how hurt he'd been. Enjolras had merely listened to Feuilly's horribly convoluted and confused explanations with polite coldness, then had made it quite clear that now that the lost lieutenant had been found, he should damn well stay found.
So Feuilly had come back, been greeted with bright smiles and warm embraces from all except Courfeyrac, who simply shot horrible, pleading looks over at him-which Feuilly ignored, feeling coldly bitter still when he even thought of the man-, and Les Amis' newest member, the poet. Jehan had simply glanced dreamily in his direction as the others greeted him, then blushed at seemingly nothing, curled a strand of his long hair for a moment, and scribbled a few words on a scrap of paper. Feuilly, just seeing him in that flash, had been absolutely fascinated.
Later, after he'd listened to Combeferre and Enjolras explain in exceptionally thorough detail where the Republic now stood, he'd gone over to the poet's table-carefully avoiding Courfeyrac's pleading eyes, let him plead, Feuilly would have nothing more to do with him!- and introduced himself.
"Martin Feuilly." Plainly stated, holding out his hand for the poet's soft one.
Jehan had smiled up at him, "Jean Prouvaire. Jehan." A long pause. "Won't you sit?"
He'd sat, asked the poet what he was writing, expecting an article for a Revolutionary paper, a speech for a rally, a satirical degradation of the monarchy, anything but what Jehan had answered.
"Poetry," the poet had said quite simply, then, blushing a bit, "Though it's not at all good. I like to write it, though."
He'd smiled at Jehan gently then, something about the poet's manner told him Jehan's poetry wasn't a bit as bad as the poet considered it to be.
"I like to make sketches," Feuilly had said, "I'm afraid they aren't at all decent. But I still like to sketch."
Jehan's eyes had lit up in a pleasant way then, as if he'd realized that Feuilly truly understood, and they'd had one of most fascinating conversations Feuilly'd ever taken part in. They'd discussed art, philosophy, politics, religion, anything and everything. Whether it was better to sketch or to be sketched, to write or to be written about, to worship or be worshipped, to fight or be fought over, to be free or to free others.
Then they'd talked of what they believed, of what they loved.
Jehan was enthralling, weighing evenly love, beauty, and art with freedom, justice, and the future. He spoke of God and the future as one and the same. He stated he believed art in all forms to be freedom in its truest form, as it was not only freedom of men's minds, bodies, and lives, but of their souls. He referenced great works of poetry and drama, paintings, music, myths, antique gods, even the passing of the clouds in the heavens above, as he spoke. He spoke of love and justice and beauty and freedom and truth in such a fascinating and honest way that Feuilly would've been content to let to let the poet speak the night away, just listen to the rise and fall of his sometimes delicate, sometimes strong voice.
Jehan, however, interjected between his lovely speeches questions to Feuilly, looking absolutely absorbed when Feuilly answered them. Jehan's eyes were continually lit up as Feuilly explained how he believed no man should be without a mother land, how the worst form of oppression possible was to take a man's native land, to divide and conquer, to strangle man's nationality and to rip it from him, as if removing the initials from a handkerchief. Man can never be free, he explained, if his homeland is conquered, destroyed, divided; his nationality repressed and ripped apart. He stated the rape of Poland by Russia, that of Venice by Austria, those of Thessaly and Greece by Italy, as examples to his thesis, those examples he'd read about only a few years ago, but still felt so enraged at the thought of the injustice of. Man could never be free, he concluded, if this injustice against the human race, the worst form of injustice, the trampling of man's nationality and his mother land, were never stopped. And stopped it must be. There was no motherland without man, but there was no man without nationality.
Jehan looked at him in almost awe as he concluded his speech. The poet called him a philosopher, one of the most brilliant thinkers and most passionate Republicans Jehan had ever had the privilege of knowing. Feuilly'd looked down at the table. Immensely flattered, but also exceptionally embarrassed by the poet's praise, he'd told Jehan that he found his thoughts fascinating, that the poet was quite brilliant himself, understanding freedom and justice and love and beauty and life itself on a plane to which Feuilly could never even aspire.
Jehan blushed fiercely and looked down at the table, quickly changing the subject. Was Feuilly a student? He'd asked, looking back at Feuilly with genuine interest.
Feuilly hesitated the way he always did before answering that question, hoping that this fascinating, marvelous young poet, who was most likely quite rich, would not spurn him for his workman status.
He need not have worried. Jehan was elated to learn his new comrade was a fan maker. He'd always loved the beauty and delicateness of the painted fans, he'd said. Perhaps Feuilly could show him one or two he'd painted?
Jehan's reaction made Feuilly happy enough that, before he'd noticed what he'd said, he'd offered to bring the fan he was working on currently to the next meeting. In retrospect, that probably wasn't the best offer, he'd have a hell of a time sneaking the fan out of the workshop without gaining his boss's attention; but Jehan had looked so excited to see the fan that he hadn't had the heart to revoke his offer.
Courfeyrac had come over then, telling Jehan it was time to go home, and ruining their perfect evening. Feuilly had immediately stood and retreated, hating himself for the look of shock on Jehan's face when the poet caught a glance of the look of pure hatred he'd given Courfeyrac in answer to the man's pitying, pleading look.
He'd left, that pleasant, warm feeling Jehan had evoked in him fading back into the cold, bitter anger he associated with Courfeyrac. He hated Courfeyrac even more than before then.
He'd been almost out of the passageway leading away from the backroom of Le Musain when he'd heard the footsteps behind him, and turned, expecting to have a quiet, cold conversation with Courfeyrac, but seen Jehan instead. Jehan beamed at Feuilly, told him how lovely it had been to meet Feuilly, and flung his arms around Feuilly in an impulsive, affectionate embrace before running off to find Courfeyrac and go home.
Feuilly had felt dazed, half thankful that Jehan had not mentioned his odd behavior when Courfeyrac had appeared, and half afraid he might be falling in love with this gentle, affectionate, bright young poet. But he would not fall in love with one of these students again, not after Courfeyrac. He'd gone home in a disturbed state that night.
Feuilly brought the promised fan to the next meeting, smiled broadly at Jehan's delighted exclamations over it. "Why do you doubt the quality of your sketches," Jehan had asked, looking up at him, "When this fan is so lovely?"
Jehan had blushed and looked down shyly after handing the fan back to Feuilly, then handed the fan maker a poem he'd written. A poem about Feuilly, he'd said,
"He walks in Justice, like a dream,
Thinking of, praying, dying for
The day man will be free.
He hears their shouts, he hears their cries,
The beating of a distant drum
Begging him, calling him, forcing him to fight,
To defend Justice, Freedom, and Light.
For Freedom he will brave the darkest path,
For Justice he will traverse the dankest Hell,
Seeing only his Mother before him,
Knowing only behind him oppressors dwell.
He hears the call of Justice, Her guardian will he be,
For what She whispers to him, he must always believe:
Man must have his country,
Man must be free."
He pressed the poem carefully in his sketchpad, thanked Jehan for it. He paused for a moment, hesitating before pulling a sketch from his pad, one he'd made of Jehan from memory, where Jehan looked both dreamy and earnest, as if he were considering some great cosmic question
He smiled over at Jehan, pulled out his pencil, and wrote 'Do not doubt the quality of your poetry, it is far too beautiful' on the edge of the paper before handing it to Jehan. Jehan gave the sketch a long, careful look, smiling slightly, and blushed when he read Feuilly's note. Jehan placed the sketch carefully into one of his books, then thanked Feuilly with the widest smile he could manage.
Perhaps Feuilly was falling in love with Jehan. Perhaps the poet loved him. Perhaps it would not matter.
That's all for now. I do have a slight note on the poem, I know it sounds like it could be describing Enjolras, but Hugo calls Feuilly "The Guardian of Justice" (or Teacher, depending on the translation) and definitely, in my opinion, makes Feuilly out to be one of the most devoted Amis.
Please, please, please review. It makes Feuilly happy when you do. And we all like a happy Feuilly.
Thanks for reading!