Hey everyone! Please enjoy this chapter, and please, please, please, please, please review. I'll have the rest of this story up as soon as I finish editing it. Also, if you need happy Jehan/ Feuilly after reading this stuff, I have three fairly fluffy one shots (hint, hint). Thank you for reading!
Disclaimer: If I were Hugo, I'd likely be a much more brilliant person, and a far better writer.
Chapter 10
Weeks passed, and Martin did not return. Weeks passed, and Jehan tried to convince himself that he was not responsible for Martin's disappearance. Weeks passed, and Jehan tried to convince himself he did not love Martin. Weeks passed, and Jehan no longer talked during meetings, not even when Courfeyrac insulted de Chenier nor when Bossuet accidently read one of Jehan's poems aloud. Weeks passed, and Combeferre worried about Jehan more and more. Weeks passed, and Courfeyrac tried literally everything he could think of (even spending time with Agnes) to cheer Jehan up. Weeks passed, and Enjolras became more and more annoyed with Jehan, and less and less lenient with him during meetings. Jehan did not seem to notice neither his friends' concern nor Fearless Leader's annoyance with him. Jehan didn't seem to notice much of anything.
Jehan was still feeling quite depressed, distraught, diminished, when Enjolras called that night's meeting to order. He had made sure to spread his usual mess of papers across the table in his corner, and hunched into himself to assure he would be left alone for the meeting. He could never do with talking to anyone anymore, not when all they wanted to do was cheer him up. As if he deserved to be cheered up, didn't deserve this heartbreak.
Jehan had been doodling sadly into a scrap of paper-doodling made him feel as if Martin were still here, sketching everyone at his usual corner table, as if he just doodled enough, Martin would reappear, and all would be right- for about half of the meeting when Enjolras realized one of his lieutenants wasn't exactly concentrating on the map he was presenting of liberal gatherings in Paris.
"Prouvaire!" Enjolras said his name incredibly sharply, causing Jehan to jump and scramble to hide the doodled-upon scrap, "Would you care to pay attention?"
Jehan could feel himself blushing as he gazed down at the table. In that moment, he wasn't really so sure why he bothered coming to meetings anymore. Enjolras had become far less tolerant of him the longer his horrid heartbreak lasted, and everyone else simply tried too hard to make him happy. Every meeting hurt more, Jehan thought to himself, knowing that he couldn't tell anyone why he was so sad, why he deserved to be so sad.
"Well, Prouvaire, are you going to pay attention, or would you be happier to be excused from this meeting?" Enjolras sounded distinctively cold, displeased as Jehan gazed down at the table again. Jehan felt himself to be one of the worst disappointments in the world as Enjolras gave him a long, coldly angry glare. And Jehan knew, in a way, he truly was.
Combeferre decided he ought to intercede before the poet was yelled at, "Perhaps we ought to pause for a few moments, Julian? Let everyone have a break." He shot Fearless Leader a 'Let me go talk to him' glance.
Enjolras nodded his consent and went over to Bahorel's table to discuss gathering the Polytechnicians. Combeferre made his way over to Jehan's table quickly.
"Jehan," Jehan did not look up at the sound of Combeferre's voice. He hated talking to any of them anymore. Another try, "Jehan?"
Jehan looked down still, not wanting to answer, murmuring, "Ettiene?"
Combeferre cleared his throat in that way that implied this would be a long, serious conversation. Jehan did not want have to a serious conversation. "Jehan, what ever is wrong? I know we've not mentioned it to you, but something is clearly wrong and we are all concerned. Everyone has been trying so hard to cheer you up, and yet you've still been so subdued, so sad lately. I feel it's time to hit the nail on the head now, Jehan. Tell me what's wrong." Combeferre sat, and adjusted his glasses in his most serious manner.
Jehan looked down at the table again. What was wrong? Everything! He'd driven Martin away, most likely made Martin homeless, he'd most likely never see Martin again, and his damnably stupid, fragile heart was broken into more pieces than he could ever possibly count. But he couldn't tell Combeferre that, couldn't admit his crime to these men. He blinked his eyes slowly, willing the lie to come easier this time, then glanced up at Combeferre, "Nothing. I'm just… not feeling well."
Combeferre looked at him rather disbelievingly, re-adjusting his glasses and sinking into his chair as if readying himself for a particularly difficult debate, "So nothing at all is wrong, besides your health?" A long pause. "Jehan, when will you stop with the lies?" Jehan still wouldn't look at Combeferre, he would never stop the lies; if he did, if he admitted what had happened, he felt as if he would truly lose Martin. "Jehan, what is wrong?"
Jehan began gathering his things rather resolutely instead of answering, there was no way he would ever tell Combeferre what'd really happened, "I think I'll go. I don't believe I'll be able to pay any further attention tonight."
Combeferre nodded to himself and re-adjusted his glasses, "Jehan, ignoring the problem will not make it disappear. We all want to see you happy again, but you must help us."
Jehan turned away, not wanting help from his friends and feeling as if he were far past it in any sense. He stood and walked slowly out of the cafe, ignoring Courfeyrac's friendly shout as he reached the door.
Feuilly had been sitting restlessly in the back alley where he'd been living in the weeks since Ma'am Brajeux had kicked him out of his flat when he coughed in that horrible, wracking way he developed after that rain-storm for what felt like the thousandth time that day. The rain storm had been a week ago- or was it three days? He'd began to lose a solid sense of time as he acquiesced to life on the streets. Time didn't particularly matter when one was always starving, better to ignore it, not count the days since he'd last had a meal, last slept indoors.
He felt always hot-and-cold since that rain storm-however long ago it had been-, as if he were feverish and freezing at the same time, or maybe just feverish? It was all too confusing when all he wanted was food, a place to sleep. Maybe he had been stupid to break off with Les Amis, refuse all offers of help. Maybe he should just go back, ask them to- No, no, no.
Feuilly coughed again, the violent movement of his hacking coursing through his body and making everywhere ache a thousand times more. Perhaps he really was sick. Was he really sick? If he were truly sick, he would go see Joly or Combeferre- no, he would not see Joly or Combeferre or any of them. It had been weeks since he'd permanently broken off contact with the group of students, and his anger had faded a bit since then.
Perhaps he was being an idiot, a prideful fool; perhaps Jehan had only meant a true affection, love, by that kiss, had not meant to seduce him. Perhaps Jehan was not a bit like that bastard Courfeyrac. Perhaps- No, no, no. All those students were the same, even the poet who had seemed so gentle and honest.
Feuilly coughed again, and realized he had a headache that made thinking nearly impossible.
Maybe he ought to just go back and- No, no, no. He would never go back. They didn't really want to help him; he tried to remind himself, they just wanted to feel like they were helping the poor by giving a little money to one poor fan maker. This phrase, the one he'd been repeating to himself over and over again over the past few weeks, when he'd been contemplating going back to Les Amis, asking them for help, telling them he'd been an idiot, was beginning sound a bit stupid, even to him.
Perhaps he just ought to go back- No, no. Never. Besides, he likely wasn't welcome back anyway, not after what he'd said to Enjolras, not after what he'd done to Jehan. They likely all thought he was an ungrateful upstart who had never been a true revolutionary.
No, Feuilly'd never go back, never would admit he'd been far too proud for not only his own good but for his class in life. But when he had nothing else in the world, shouldn't he be allowed to cling to his pride? The one thing he didn't need francs or a position in a workshop to have?
Feuilly coughed again. Damn. He was sick. He was sick; he was utterly alone in the world, having nothing, no one, but his pride. He'd made his choice, however damnable it seemed to him now, and he would never go back, he would die on the streets first. And, the ways thing had been going, he would probably die sooner than he'd ever expected.
Hope you enjoyed it! Please, please, please review. Reviews will make Feuilly feel much, much better.