"Between The Shadows"
It was rather late, about eleven.
Combeferre had stayed behind at the café to discuss a speech, which Enjolras had been unsure about. Enjolras always liked that, Combeferre could tell.
The man liked discussing things, even if his friend enjoyed things like poetry, which was useless.
The day had been good and normal, classes, Enjolras, café…
His days were always like that.
There were the Amis. Each unique.
Courfeyrac who was useless and an awful bother to Enjolras, Bossuet who was bald and had no luck, Joly who was always with him and carried a cane, which made him look slightly foppish, Bahorel who was enthusiastic and faithful, Feuilly who made fans and loved the idea of freedom, especially for his homeland…
And there was Grantaire too.
A drunk cynic, Combeferre often thought to himself. How useless. He had been particularly annoying today and had clearly made Enjolras nervous.
Now Combeferre walked home, thinking of all the Amis.
They were a strange group, he supposed. But it wasn't as though anything was missing from them, for they each had the characters they needed.
Now he glanced about him and was ashamed that he had a wealthy family. There were a few beggars clawing at his cloths. All his life he'd been a little frightened by these people. He had always lived in warm houses and he never knew how to treat them.
There had been another beggar, not crouching and groveling like the others, but standing and looking prouder. In one hand he held a beautiful flute.
Combeferre paused from trying to avoid the urchins.
The man looked at him, too. Then smiled.
That really frightened Combeferre.
When these people wailed it hurt his soul. But when they smiled…
He took a quick step back but the man eagerly came foreword.
He held the flute back a little, but still so Combeferre could see it clearly, as though this would make Combeferre want the flute.
Combeferre looked at him distrustfully. The man straightened a little and cleared his throat.
"Would you play the flute?"
Combeferre had the feeling that the beggar was trying to be bourgeois.
"No."
He shifted uneasily.
The man looked faintly angry.
"Well," he said. "I was going to sell it at a pawn shop. But I'll let you have it for less."
"It's only a wooden flute. Why would I want it?"
"It's a good thing to play. You could learn."
Combeferre had no desire whatsoever for the flute. He did not want it. He did not want the smell of the man; he did not want to be here.
"Oh, all right."
He pushed coins into the man's hands then hurried off carrying the flute. He didn't wait to hear weather the man was pleased or angry or anything. He escaped to the building where he stayed in a rather nice room.
At first he had planned to study.
However he felt rather intrigued by the flute now he was where he was comfortable and instead sat on the bed and examined it.
It was a smooth flute.
Small holes.
Combeferre had never played a flute but had once played a recorder. He knew they were different, one side-blown and the other forward. He supposed eventually he might try to learn to play it.
Eventually.
He turned it over and over then found carved in it a signature.
Actually two signatures.
The first he supposed was the maker's.
The second was another man's. Perhaps the man who played it.
"Prouvaire".
He thought he knew the name.
Somewhere in the back of his memory.
He quickly looked away.
Prouvaire…
He really *did* know that name.
Somewhere.
He sat there and tried to play the flute.
But he couldn't and he only succeeded in making himself very dizzy and lightheaded.
He thought of poets.
A poet…
With brown hair.
Who had once kissed him.
And…
He felt confused. Somehow he also remembered a life. That must have been his. And yet he didn't recognize the memories. At least not for a while.
A poet with brown hair whom he had loved.
And they had lived right here, too.
In this room.
Jehan, he remembered.
Jehan.
Where was he now, he wondered. What had happened to him?
He didn't even know if it was real.
If it wasn't, that was certainly reasonable.
After all, men don't wear women's dresses. Jehan had liked that, Combeferre thought.
He always remembered him sitting on the bed, writing poetry, dressed in some dress with bright colours and lots of lace.
Only lovers like Jehan and Combeferre could have afforded to live like that.
Poetry and philosophy. They were both rather useless.
He stroked the flute and wondered helplessly where the man was now.
He remembered nights.
And mornings.
And days.
He wondered where it had all gone, that love. Where Jehan had gone. He knew, somehow that Jehan wouldn't leave him.
Then he was thinking of the man who had sold the flute.
How did he have Jehan's flute?
Jehan…
He felt more and more fondness as he thought back.
And bewilderment.
He thought of the last day he remembered, the day when Jehan had told Combeferre the thing he wanted most in the world was a necklace with green stones. Combeferre had said that purple would look nicer. Jehan had said that he didn't have anything green and that he needed at least something. Combeferre knew but didn't say why Jehan had nothing green. Combeferre had never liked green anyway.
Or at least not the green he knew Jehan referred to.
And he knew also that it wouldn't look nice on Jehan.
Purple, like he'd said, would've, though.
Then Jehan had said he wanted to go out.
Combeferre offered to accompany him, but Jehan wanted to go alone. Combeferre wouldn't argue.
It had been two years since Jehan had come to live with him.
Combeferre had grown up in the city, a rather well known family.
When he was sixteen he began living here.
Jehan came five years after that.
They had met in the gardens.
They became part of the Amis together.
Everyone loved Jehan's poetry except for Enjolras.
Though not all of them respected it, Courfeyrac said it was useless. But he liked it anyway.
Bossuet had been bitter because he couldn't write poetry. He used to try then had given up.
But they all loved it.
And Jehan wrote poetry for Combeferre. He was more careful and wasted more time with these poems than the others.
He'd write very late sometimes then realize and apologize unhappily. And Combeferre would laugh and take the silly poet into his arms and tell him that he didn't mind at all, even when he was tired.
Jehan had been everything.
And one doesn't even forget someone who was only a friend. A friend from years ago.
And one never forgets someone one loved.
Not when he loved him *that* much.
And why did the flute bring it back?
He gazed at the flute. He felt helpless. He felt bewildered.
He wanted Jehan back.
And the Amis. Did they remember Jehan?
How could they not after reading so much of his poetry? But they hadn't asked the day Jehan disappeared.
Combeferre didn't sleep that night. Instead he searched everywhere for the poetry. There had to be some. Jehan had always written so much. It had to be somewhere.
So he kept searching.
And searching.
But he gave up in the morning and went to the café in search of someone who might remember Jehan. Someone had to.
Besides, there was a meeting there.
Grantaire and Courfeyrac destroyed most meetings. The real war was not so much between Enjolras and poverty as it was Enjolras and disruption. But the meeting went smoothly and nicely and absolutely nothing got done, except Enjolras and Bahorel did end the discussion on what to build the barricade from.
Combeferre went to Bossuet first.
Jehan had always written poetry for Bossuet.
He'd taken a liking to the man with no luck who couldn't write poetry.
Bossuet always asked for poems about women with long flowing hair. Dark red hair like Feuilly and gold hair like Enjolras and dark, rich brown hair like Bahorel. He wanted the women combing their hair and braiding it. He wanted other women with long hair stroking another's hair. Sometimes Jehan would worry that he couldn't write about long silky hair another time and still make it different from the one before, but he always managed.
So Combeferre went to Bossuet first.
The man was standing alone, another reason for Combeferre to ask him.
Combeferre approached nervously.
"Er… Bossuet"
Bossuet turned to look at him.
"Yes?"
"Do you have Jehan's poetry?"
Bossuet shrugged.
"I don't know who 'Jehan' is."
"He wrote poetry for you."
"I don't remember a Jehan."
"He wrote… don't you remember? He came to the café. He wrote poetry for everyone."
Bossuet looked amused.
"It must be my memory. I don't remember. Jehan's a strange name. Is it like Jean?"
Combeferre felt confused.
Why didn't Bossuet remember? It was true.
He shrugged unhappily.
"Yes, It's exactly like Jean."
He quickly turned away.
Joly might remember.
But he doubted it.
He knew Jehan wrote poetry for all of them.
He remembered.
He remembered what type of poems Jehan wrote for each.
Joly liked poetry about the ocean. He used to live by it before he came to Paris. Jehan had never seen the ocean except in paintings, but it wasn't hard to write about. Jehan's poetry was romantic and that made it easy.
Courfeyrac said he liked ballads. Jehan didn't write for him until he understood exactly how to write a ballad. Then for the next few months that's all he wrote. He enjoyed the rolling pattern, the story you could tell, everything about ballads. So Jehan had written many ballads.
Courfeyrac always enjoyed them, reading out loud, and loud, so the whole café could hear. Jehan would cringe and plead with Courfeyrac not to read them to everyone, but the man didn't care.
Bahorel liked poetry about deaths. He liked poetry describing a dead person then describing her entire life then her death. Jehan hadn't liked the idea at first. At first he didn't want to write about a dead person. Then he found out what he could do with the idea and he loved it. He often wrote that way.
Feuilly liked poems that made you pause and shiver. Jehan wrote these the least. They were the hardest.
It was hard to write so that people felt awful or overjoyed or wondering. So that something was said then something else was and the second thing made you shiver.
Enjolras didn't like poetry.
Jehan sometimes wrote poetry for him anyway. He wrote poetry about how Enjolras looked when he stood on tables and said his speeches. Those poems were just as beautiful as the rest.
But Combeferre asked everyone if they remembered Jehan. And no one did.
Combeferre might have known it was hopeless after Bossuet, but he wished so much he convinced himself that possibly one might remember Jehan.
Which might be why when he remembered that Jehan once wrote poetry for Grantaire, he decided to ask him.
It had been early.
When Jehan was first writing.
He'd written a poem for Grantaire.
The poem was about burning leaves.
It was a beautiful poem.
Jehan had showed it to Combeferre first and Combeferre hadn't the heart to tell him that Grantaire wouldn't care.
When Jehan gave it to Grantaire, Grantaire told him he couldn't read. That had hurt Jehan. But Jehan offered to read it to him. When he did Grantaire had laughed at it and told him it was useless. He told him that all poetry was useless.
Just lies to hide the fact that life isn't like poems.
So Jehan didn't write for him after that.
Combeferre told him how much he liked the poem so Jehan gave it to him instead. So Grantaire ought to remember Jehan. Or at least he might remember Jehan. It didn't matter, it was a possibility.
He went to Grantaire.
He was nervous and worried; he had never liked the man. It was always awful approaching drunk people. Ones that can't read. He never knew how to treat them. He wanted to be polite but Grantaire would think him condescending.
He sat in the chair across from Grantaire.
The man looked darkly at him.
Combeferre shifted uneasily.
"Do you remember Jehan Prouvaire?"
"No."
"He wrote a poem for you."
"No, he didn't."
"You remember him?"
"No."
But somehow, in the way Grantaire said it, Combeferre was sure he did.
"Yes, you do."
Grantaire eyed him.
"Why do you care?"
"He's gone."
"I know. Why do you care? You didn't before."
Combeferre quivered.
"You know, don't you?"
"Mmhm. Of course. I'm evil, drunk, cynic Grantaire."
"You did it!"
"Mmhm."
"Where is he?? I want him back!"
Feuilly looked up from where he was talking with Bahorel, and then returned to conversation almost bemused.
Grantaire smiled.
"Quiet, Philosopher, wouldn't want you turning into Apollo, shouting at me that was."
Combeferre was quieter.
"You took him away!"
"What does it matter? You didn't care for the last year."
"That's your fault too."
Grantaire smirked.
"Yes, yes, it is…"
"How do I get him back??"
Grantaire was suddenly serious.
"You don't."
"Why not??"
"He distracted you."
Combeferre paused.
"From what?"
"Apollo."
Luckily, it was late and most of the Amis were leaving. Enjolras had already left.
Combeferre looked confused.
"I don't understand."
Grantaire grinned.
"You don't, do you?"
Then he looked sad.
"Don't you ever look at him? Don't you ever study his face and hair or the way he stands? Why can't you love him and please him? That's what he wants. Why can't you see that? Why do you have to be so blind?"
"I don't-" Combeferre muttered.
"He loves you. He's always loved you. Why can't you look around? He'd try to ask you about yourself and your life because he loved you and wanted to know you, and all you ever did was talk on and on about your lover. 'Jehan wrote this' and 'Jehan said that'. You never treated him as you should have. He needs you, but you didn't pay attention. You just thought about *Jehan* all the time. It was always Jehan. Don't you see his eyes? Don't you see the way he moves? Can't you see how hurt he is? Oh, yes, he does a good job of hiding it, but you're his best friend. You should see those sorts of things."
He looked tired.
"How can you say that I shouldn't have taken Jehan away? I want Enjolras to be pleased. And he is. More than before, at least."
Combeferre felt furious and startled and frightened and amazed.
He wouldn't have dreamed Enjolras loved him.
Or anyone, really.
He'd thought that Enjolras didn't need anyone.
That's how it seemed to be.
But even if it was that way, it didn't give Grantaire any right to just eradicate someone.
To just wipe away a mind and a soul.
It was killing someone.
It might have been, too.
It was repulsive and awful and unjust.
The boy had parents, the boy had a lover.
The boy might be a great poet.
But the boy was gone.
In a way it wasn't like killing because everyone had forgotten, so no one hurt.
But to the rest of the world, to the world that hadn't met him yet and could never, that was like death.
If they heard about him dead and read his poetry, they might love it.
But they couldn't ever love him.
He was dead.
And it was Grantaire's fault.
Really, though, Combeferre had the feeling that it was his own fault.
If he had seen that Enjolras loved him. And treated him right.
Then Jehan would be here.
Smiling, and laughing and writing poetry.
Combeferre remembered the poem Jehan had written about the river Seine.
He had written beautifully.
About the darkness.
And the oldness and tiredness of the river.
He'd written so you were part of the river.
And in a way you were anyway.
You go through the beautiful things in life, the countryside, but you pick up the bad things in life as well as the good things. And you see so much. And in the end you just flow out to the sea.
Jehan wasn't sure if the Seine flowed to the sea, but he knew other rivers did, and it sounded right.
He'd smiled a little and said "Poetic License".
Then Combeferre asked him how he was so wise.
Jehan said he wasn't and that he just guessed and kept what sounded right.
Combeferre said it was like the meadows that he was flowing through.
Jehan reminded Combeferre that he still had the city to flow through.
But neither minded.
The city was a far way off.
But not so far now.
"'How can I say you shouldn't have taken Jehan away'?? How can you actually ask that? He was a person! How can you take that away? You *killed* a person, then his memories! You erased him! No man has the right to do that!"
Grantaire stood.
"What? To kill people? If you don't kill people you'll never be free. There are always people to be killed. Always kings to kill. Always criminals to execute. Always wars to be fought at the price of souls and minds. My mind? Worthless. But your mind. Someday you'll be dead. What if the world misses you? They can't get you back. What if the revolution succeeds and you're still alive? What if you need an army to fight England? What if you're part of that army? What if you're killed in battle? What if he were still here to be killed in battle? No one would care. It's not your mind that people care about. It's how long you last. Jehan wouldn't have lasted long anyway."
"But you've no right to kill people!"
"If you did go to battle, wouldn't you kill people?"
Combeferre looked angrily at Grantaire.
"I respect that other men have lives. I wouldn't kill them."
"You would."
"Only if they were my enemies. Enemies of the revolution."
"Jehan was my enemy."
"Tell me what you did with him! Why did you kill him??"
"I did not kill him."
Grantaire wasn't looking at Combeferre. He was looking at the bottle on the table.
"What then?"
"*I* shant tell you"
"Grantaire."
"No. No more. I told you as much as I will. Go to hell."
Combeferre felt angry and hurt.
"But you already told me so much!"
"Yes. I told you enough to get you interested so I could then stop and make you miserable. You don't think I like you, do you?"
Combeferre stepped back.
"You…"
"I. I am awful. And now I'm going to drink, so you may leave."
Combeferre didn't know why.
Normally he might have stayed and asked more, because, really, he wanted Jehan back and he needed Jehan back.
But he left the back room of the café feeling sad and alone.
And he almost walked into Bahorel.
It was rather late, about eleven.
Combeferre had stayed behind at the café to discuss a speech, which Enjolras had been unsure about. Enjolras always liked that, Combeferre could tell.
The man liked discussing things, even if his friend enjoyed things like poetry, which was useless.
The day had been good and normal, classes, Enjolras, café…
His days were always like that.
There were the Amis. Each unique.
Courfeyrac who was useless and an awful bother to Enjolras, Bossuet who was bald and had no luck, Joly who was always with him and carried a cane, which made him look slightly foppish, Bahorel who was enthusiastic and faithful, Feuilly who made fans and loved the idea of freedom, especially for his homeland…
And there was Grantaire too.
A drunk cynic, Combeferre often thought to himself. How useless. He had been particularly annoying today and had clearly made Enjolras nervous.
Now Combeferre walked home, thinking of all the Amis.
They were a strange group, he supposed. But it wasn't as though anything was missing from them, for they each had the characters they needed.
Now he glanced about him and was ashamed that he had a wealthy family. There were a few beggars clawing at his cloths. All his life he'd been a little frightened by these people. He had always lived in warm houses and he never knew how to treat them.
There had been another beggar, not crouching and groveling like the others, but standing and looking prouder. In one hand he held a beautiful flute.
Combeferre paused from trying to avoid the urchins.
The man looked at him, too. Then smiled.
That really frightened Combeferre.
When these people wailed it hurt his soul. But when they smiled…
He took a quick step back but the man eagerly came foreword.
He held the flute back a little, but still so Combeferre could see it clearly, as though this would make Combeferre want the flute.
Combeferre looked at him distrustfully. The man straightened a little and cleared his throat.
"Would you play the flute?"
Combeferre had the feeling that the beggar was trying to be bourgeois.
"No."
He shifted uneasily.
The man looked faintly angry.
"Well," he said. "I was going to sell it at a pawn shop. But I'll let you have it for less."
"It's only a wooden flute. Why would I want it?"
"It's a good thing to play. You could learn."
Combeferre had no desire whatsoever for the flute. He did not want it. He did not want the smell of the man; he did not want to be here.
"Oh, all right."
He pushed coins into the man's hands then hurried off carrying the flute. He didn't wait to hear weather the man was pleased or angry or anything. He escaped to the building where he stayed in a rather nice room.
At first he had planned to study.
However he felt rather intrigued by the flute now he was where he was comfortable and instead sat on the bed and examined it.
It was a smooth flute.
Small holes.
Combeferre had never played a flute but had once played a recorder. He knew they were different, one side-blown and the other forward. He supposed eventually he might try to learn to play it.
Eventually.
He turned it over and over then found carved in it a signature.
Actually two signatures.
The first he supposed was the maker's.
The second was another man's. Perhaps the man who played it.
"Prouvaire".
He thought he knew the name.
Somewhere in the back of his memory.
He quickly looked away.
Prouvaire…
He really *did* know that name.
Somewhere.
He sat there and tried to play the flute.
But he couldn't and he only succeeded in making himself very dizzy and lightheaded.
He thought of poets.
A poet…
With brown hair.
Who had once kissed him.
And…
He felt confused. Somehow he also remembered a life. That must have been his. And yet he didn't recognize the memories. At least not for a while.
A poet with brown hair whom he had loved.
And they had lived right here, too.
In this room.
Jehan, he remembered.
Jehan.
Where was he now, he wondered. What had happened to him?
He didn't even know if it was real.
If it wasn't, that was certainly reasonable.
After all, men don't wear women's dresses. Jehan had liked that, Combeferre thought.
He always remembered him sitting on the bed, writing poetry, dressed in some dress with bright colours and lots of lace.
Only lovers like Jehan and Combeferre could have afforded to live like that.
Poetry and philosophy. They were both rather useless.
He stroked the flute and wondered helplessly where the man was now.
He remembered nights.
And mornings.
And days.
He wondered where it had all gone, that love. Where Jehan had gone. He knew, somehow that Jehan wouldn't leave him.
Then he was thinking of the man who had sold the flute.
How did he have Jehan's flute?
Jehan…
He felt more and more fondness as he thought back.
And bewilderment.
He thought of the last day he remembered, the day when Jehan had told Combeferre the thing he wanted most in the world was a necklace with green stones. Combeferre had said that purple would look nicer. Jehan had said that he didn't have anything green and that he needed at least something. Combeferre knew but didn't say why Jehan had nothing green. Combeferre had never liked green anyway.
Or at least not the green he knew Jehan referred to.
And he knew also that it wouldn't look nice on Jehan.
Purple, like he'd said, would've, though.
Then Jehan had said he wanted to go out.
Combeferre offered to accompany him, but Jehan wanted to go alone. Combeferre wouldn't argue.
It had been two years since Jehan had come to live with him.
Combeferre had grown up in the city, a rather well known family.
When he was sixteen he began living here.
Jehan came five years after that.
They had met in the gardens.
They became part of the Amis together.
Everyone loved Jehan's poetry except for Enjolras.
Though not all of them respected it, Courfeyrac said it was useless. But he liked it anyway.
Bossuet had been bitter because he couldn't write poetry. He used to try then had given up.
But they all loved it.
And Jehan wrote poetry for Combeferre. He was more careful and wasted more time with these poems than the others.
He'd write very late sometimes then realize and apologize unhappily. And Combeferre would laugh and take the silly poet into his arms and tell him that he didn't mind at all, even when he was tired.
Jehan had been everything.
And one doesn't even forget someone who was only a friend. A friend from years ago.
And one never forgets someone one loved.
Not when he loved him *that* much.
And why did the flute bring it back?
He gazed at the flute. He felt helpless. He felt bewildered.
He wanted Jehan back.
And the Amis. Did they remember Jehan?
How could they not after reading so much of his poetry? But they hadn't asked the day Jehan disappeared.
Combeferre didn't sleep that night. Instead he searched everywhere for the poetry. There had to be some. Jehan had always written so much. It had to be somewhere.
So he kept searching.
And searching.
But he gave up in the morning and went to the café in search of someone who might remember Jehan. Someone had to.
Besides, there was a meeting there.
Grantaire and Courfeyrac destroyed most meetings. The real war was not so much between Enjolras and poverty as it was Enjolras and disruption. But the meeting went smoothly and nicely and absolutely nothing got done, except Enjolras and Bahorel did end the discussion on what to build the barricade from.
Combeferre went to Bossuet first.
Jehan had always written poetry for Bossuet.
He'd taken a liking to the man with no luck who couldn't write poetry.
Bossuet always asked for poems about women with long flowing hair. Dark red hair like Feuilly and gold hair like Enjolras and dark, rich brown hair like Bahorel. He wanted the women combing their hair and braiding it. He wanted other women with long hair stroking another's hair. Sometimes Jehan would worry that he couldn't write about long silky hair another time and still make it different from the one before, but he always managed.
So Combeferre went to Bossuet first.
The man was standing alone, another reason for Combeferre to ask him.
Combeferre approached nervously.
"Er… Bossuet"
Bossuet turned to look at him.
"Yes?"
"Do you have Jehan's poetry?"
Bossuet shrugged.
"I don't know who 'Jehan' is."
"He wrote poetry for you."
"I don't remember a Jehan."
"He wrote… don't you remember? He came to the café. He wrote poetry for everyone."
Bossuet looked amused.
"It must be my memory. I don't remember. Jehan's a strange name. Is it like Jean?"
Combeferre felt confused.
Why didn't Bossuet remember? It was true.
He shrugged unhappily.
"Yes, It's exactly like Jean."
He quickly turned away.
Joly might remember.
But he doubted it.
He knew Jehan wrote poetry for all of them.
He remembered.
He remembered what type of poems Jehan wrote for each.
Joly liked poetry about the ocean. He used to live by it before he came to Paris. Jehan had never seen the ocean except in paintings, but it wasn't hard to write about. Jehan's poetry was romantic and that made it easy.
Courfeyrac said he liked ballads. Jehan didn't write for him until he understood exactly how to write a ballad. Then for the next few months that's all he wrote. He enjoyed the rolling pattern, the story you could tell, everything about ballads. So Jehan had written many ballads.
Courfeyrac always enjoyed them, reading out loud, and loud, so the whole café could hear. Jehan would cringe and plead with Courfeyrac not to read them to everyone, but the man didn't care.
Bahorel liked poetry about deaths. He liked poetry describing a dead person then describing her entire life then her death. Jehan hadn't liked the idea at first. At first he didn't want to write about a dead person. Then he found out what he could do with the idea and he loved it. He often wrote that way.
Feuilly liked poems that made you pause and shiver. Jehan wrote these the least. They were the hardest.
It was hard to write so that people felt awful or overjoyed or wondering. So that something was said then something else was and the second thing made you shiver.
Enjolras didn't like poetry.
Jehan sometimes wrote poetry for him anyway. He wrote poetry about how Enjolras looked when he stood on tables and said his speeches. Those poems were just as beautiful as the rest.
But Combeferre asked everyone if they remembered Jehan. And no one did.
Combeferre might have known it was hopeless after Bossuet, but he wished so much he convinced himself that possibly one might remember Jehan.
Which might be why when he remembered that Jehan once wrote poetry for Grantaire, he decided to ask him.
It had been early.
When Jehan was first writing.
He'd written a poem for Grantaire.
The poem was about burning leaves.
It was a beautiful poem.
Jehan had showed it to Combeferre first and Combeferre hadn't the heart to tell him that Grantaire wouldn't care.
When Jehan gave it to Grantaire, Grantaire told him he couldn't read. That had hurt Jehan. But Jehan offered to read it to him. When he did Grantaire had laughed at it and told him it was useless. He told him that all poetry was useless.
Just lies to hide the fact that life isn't like poems.
So Jehan didn't write for him after that.
Combeferre told him how much he liked the poem so Jehan gave it to him instead. So Grantaire ought to remember Jehan. Or at least he might remember Jehan. It didn't matter, it was a possibility.
He went to Grantaire.
He was nervous and worried; he had never liked the man. It was always awful approaching drunk people. Ones that can't read. He never knew how to treat them. He wanted to be polite but Grantaire would think him condescending.
He sat in the chair across from Grantaire.
The man looked darkly at him.
Combeferre shifted uneasily.
"Do you remember Jehan Prouvaire?"
"No."
"He wrote a poem for you."
"No, he didn't."
"You remember him?"
"No."
But somehow, in the way Grantaire said it, Combeferre was sure he did.
"Yes, you do."
Grantaire eyed him.
"Why do you care?"
"He's gone."
"I know. Why do you care? You didn't before."
Combeferre quivered.
"You know, don't you?"
"Mmhm. Of course. I'm evil, drunk, cynic Grantaire."
"You did it!"
"Mmhm."
"Where is he?? I want him back!"
Feuilly looked up from where he was talking with Bahorel, and then returned to conversation almost bemused.
Grantaire smiled.
"Quiet, Philosopher, wouldn't want you turning into Apollo, shouting at me that was."
Combeferre was quieter.
"You took him away!"
"What does it matter? You didn't care for the last year."
"That's your fault too."
Grantaire smirked.
"Yes, yes, it is…"
"How do I get him back??"
Grantaire was suddenly serious.
"You don't."
"Why not??"
"He distracted you."
Combeferre paused.
"From what?"
"Apollo."
Luckily, it was late and most of the Amis were leaving. Enjolras had already left.
Combeferre looked confused.
"I don't understand."
Grantaire grinned.
"You don't, do you?"
Then he looked sad.
"Don't you ever look at him? Don't you ever study his face and hair or the way he stands? Why can't you love him and please him? That's what he wants. Why can't you see that? Why do you have to be so blind?"
"I don't-" Combeferre muttered.
"He loves you. He's always loved you. Why can't you look around? He'd try to ask you about yourself and your life because he loved you and wanted to know you, and all you ever did was talk on and on about your lover. 'Jehan wrote this' and 'Jehan said that'. You never treated him as you should have. He needs you, but you didn't pay attention. You just thought about *Jehan* all the time. It was always Jehan. Don't you see his eyes? Don't you see the way he moves? Can't you see how hurt he is? Oh, yes, he does a good job of hiding it, but you're his best friend. You should see those sorts of things."
He looked tired.
"How can you say that I shouldn't have taken Jehan away? I want Enjolras to be pleased. And he is. More than before, at least."
Combeferre felt furious and startled and frightened and amazed.
He wouldn't have dreamed Enjolras loved him.
Or anyone, really.
He'd thought that Enjolras didn't need anyone.
That's how it seemed to be.
But even if it was that way, it didn't give Grantaire any right to just eradicate someone.
To just wipe away a mind and a soul.
It was killing someone.
It might have been, too.
It was repulsive and awful and unjust.
The boy had parents, the boy had a lover.
The boy might be a great poet.
But the boy was gone.
In a way it wasn't like killing because everyone had forgotten, so no one hurt.
But to the rest of the world, to the world that hadn't met him yet and could never, that was like death.
If they heard about him dead and read his poetry, they might love it.
But they couldn't ever love him.
He was dead.
And it was Grantaire's fault.
Really, though, Combeferre had the feeling that it was his own fault.
If he had seen that Enjolras loved him. And treated him right.
Then Jehan would be here.
Smiling, and laughing and writing poetry.
Combeferre remembered the poem Jehan had written about the river Seine.
He had written beautifully.
About the darkness.
And the oldness and tiredness of the river.
He'd written so you were part of the river.
And in a way you were anyway.
You go through the beautiful things in life, the countryside, but you pick up the bad things in life as well as the good things. And you see so much. And in the end you just flow out to the sea.
Jehan wasn't sure if the Seine flowed to the sea, but he knew other rivers did, and it sounded right.
He'd smiled a little and said "Poetic License".
Then Combeferre asked him how he was so wise.
Jehan said he wasn't and that he just guessed and kept what sounded right.
Combeferre said it was like the meadows that he was flowing through.
Jehan reminded Combeferre that he still had the city to flow through.
But neither minded.
The city was a far way off.
But not so far now.
"'How can I say you shouldn't have taken Jehan away'?? How can you actually ask that? He was a person! How can you take that away? You *killed* a person, then his memories! You erased him! No man has the right to do that!"
Grantaire stood.
"What? To kill people? If you don't kill people you'll never be free. There are always people to be killed. Always kings to kill. Always criminals to execute. Always wars to be fought at the price of souls and minds. My mind? Worthless. But your mind. Someday you'll be dead. What if the world misses you? They can't get you back. What if the revolution succeeds and you're still alive? What if you need an army to fight England? What if you're part of that army? What if you're killed in battle? What if he were still here to be killed in battle? No one would care. It's not your mind that people care about. It's how long you last. Jehan wouldn't have lasted long anyway."
"But you've no right to kill people!"
"If you did go to battle, wouldn't you kill people?"
Combeferre looked angrily at Grantaire.
"I respect that other men have lives. I wouldn't kill them."
"You would."
"Only if they were my enemies. Enemies of the revolution."
"Jehan was my enemy."
"Tell me what you did with him! Why did you kill him??"
"I did not kill him."
Grantaire wasn't looking at Combeferre. He was looking at the bottle on the table.
"What then?"
"*I* shant tell you"
"Grantaire."
"No. No more. I told you as much as I will. Go to hell."
Combeferre felt angry and hurt.
"But you already told me so much!"
"Yes. I told you enough to get you interested so I could then stop and make you miserable. You don't think I like you, do you?"
Combeferre stepped back.
"You…"
"I. I am awful. And now I'm going to drink, so you may leave."
Combeferre didn't know why.
Normally he might have stayed and asked more, because, really, he wanted Jehan back and he needed Jehan back.
But he left the back room of the café feeling sad and alone.
And he almost walked into Bahorel.
