He slept late, too, later then he ought. And when he woke up he had to be quicker than usual at getting up and going to school. Classes went well, though. Somehow. Somehow they went well. And Combeferre was tired.
And Combeferre wanted to get Jehan back.
So at the end of the day when classes were done and everyone drifted to the café, Combeferre went to Grantaire's table.
He sat in the chair across from Grantaire.
He waited.
Grantaire didn't notice him.
He cleared his throat.
Grantaire blinked and looked up.
"Back, are you?"
He sounded amused.
"Yes. How do I get Jehan back?"
"I told you. You don't."
"Grantaire."
"You wouldn't, though. If you had him. You wouldn't want him."
Combeferre glowered a little.
"Why not?"
"You just wouldn't."
"How do I get him back?"
"You *don't*."
"Yes. I want him back."
"Fine, fine, you play the flute."
Combeferre paused.
"I what?"
"You play the flute."
He felt puzzled.
"Just that?"
"Mmhmm. But you won't want him when you have him. When you're ready to get rid of him again, get him to play the flute. It might be a little hard. He's been stuck in it the last year. Since '30. He'd make young wine."
Combeferre felt he ought to be grateful although he wasn't in the least.
"…Thank you…"
Grantaire laughed.
"Oh, you won't *thank* me!"
Combeferre botheredly turned to leave.
"You're just mad…"
Grantaire smirked.
"It's not me that's mad."
Combeferre left quickly.
He didn't want to be there.
He did go to Feuilly, though.
They went back to Feuilly's again and practiced playing flutes.
They used the ones Feuilly had carved.
Combeferre was not the least talented at it and had no ear for music.
Also Feuilly had gotten the impression Combeferre wanted to learn a particular tune and that didn't help.
It was hard enough for Combeferre to get it to actually play (short of hitting himself with it and listening to the resounding thump, which he seemed to do rather often) and putting notes together into a melody was almost impossible.
It was clear Feuilly enjoyed his company, so he stayed longer than he intended to.
Between trying to learn they would pause and talk and it was good conversation and philosophic.
But eventually Combeferre did go home.
He sat on the bed and though about Jehan.
Was it possible he wouldn't want Jehan back when he had him?
He didn't think so.
He took the flute and brought it to his lips.
However he had no luck in playing it. For the first half hour, that is. Eventually he got it right and haltingly played the tune. Then he sat back and wondered if Grantaire had told the truth.
Not that he knew what to expect.
But then he heard a sound outside the door.
The sound of someone talking to himself.
He went to the door and opened it.
And froze.
A young man stared at him.
His eyes were grey blue.
His brown hair was coming down.
"Je-ehan…"
The man looked slightly insane.
"W-who are you?"
He backed up against the wall across from Combeferre's door.
"What do you want? I shan't write for you. I've done enough of that. Too bourgeois… Well I'm not now!"
Combeferre felt worried.
"Jehan… Come in? It's Combeferre. I'm Combeferre."
"*Y-you*? You had gold hair last time I saw you… You were a statue… Made out of paper..."
"Jehan… shush… please, it's all right…"
He felt helpless.
He felt confused.
Why did Jehan say these things?
Why was he acting like a madman?
He reached out to touch Jehan's shoulder.
The boy flinched back.
"No- don't touch- too close- it smells smoky and woody-"
Combeferre stared in confusion.
"Jehan…"
All of a sudden Bahorel was there too.
He stood by Jehan.
"*Combeferre*??"
"He- he's- something's wrong-"
"Damn right: the boy's mad!"
"I'm not mad! It's just- too close-"
Combeferre met Bahorel's eyes.
"How did you get him back? I just came to see you."
Combeferre had a feeling that 'come to see you' was only a bare definition, but he wasn't concerned with that.
"I-I played the flute…"
"Well, how the hell do you get rid of him?"
"I don't want to…"
He looked unhappily at Jehan, pressed to the wall with a look of terror.
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't. 'Get rid of him'? I… love him…"
"Yes."
"You're turning into Grantaire. You don't get rid of people just because they're mad. You… you do something else…"
"What?"
Combeferre looked up.
"Something else. A place where he'd be all right…"
Jehan whimpered.
"You'd put him out of his misery."
"No. Never."
He looked at Jehan.
"I understand now. He's been trapped in this damn flute for the last year. Would you trap him there for the rest of eternity?"
"Maybe he wouldn't be trapped."
"Coward."
They looked angrily at each other.
"You're just lying to yourself."
"So are you."
"Perhaps I am. But he'd be living hell."
"Now you really do sound like Grantaire! You're so thoughtless! He just wanted me for Enjolras and you just want me for yourself!"
Bahorel blushed.
"I do not…"
"You did yesterday."
Now Bahorel looked helpless.
"All right, all right. But I don't want you to be miserable. You will be too. You've just wanted him back so badly you convinced yourself that this is all right. You'll go mad, too. You'd be miserable. He'll ruin your memories. You're lying to yourself."
"*You* could be a little less subtle."
"No, I couldn't. You wouldn't see."
"Bahorel, have you ever noticed that when one insults someone whilst trying to convert him one never can convert him, even if the cause is better, just because one has put the other on the defensive?"
"But if you'll acknowledge that, why not this?"
"I love him."
"No, you don't."
"Lying to yourself."
"Combeferre!"
"Bahorel!"
"Please?"
"Good god, I don't want to do this."
"You'd be sparing his memory. You remembered him as a wistful, laughing poet, but now all you remember him as is this insane man. You can't love that memory of him. No one could. Just spare his memory."
Combeferre wouldn't have listened. He would have argued. But he knew Bahorel was right. Ever since he'd seen the man, he'd known it was wrong.
He didn't remember him with wild eyes. He remembered the things the boy had said to be gentle and quiet and special. Things that made sense. Only often they didn't. But when they didn't it was that funny way poets never do make sense. Talking about muses and figments and how they did what they wanted. Now…
He sighed.
"He'd have to play the flute."
They both looked at Jehan but Combeferre looked quickly away.
"Well, you're his lover."
"Be quiet, you idiot. I don't want to. It wouldn't be right."
"Yes, it would."
"*How*?"
"He shouldn't have to suffer. He shouldn't shame his memory."
They stared at each other a moment; then Combeferre nodded.
Combeferre glanced back to Jehan then stepped toward him, holding the flute.
"Will you play for me?"
But Jehan flinched back violently.
"Don't get that near me! I never want to see it again! It hurts!"
Combeferre sighed.
"But you can play it beautifully…"
He quickly wiped at tears.
He felt awful.
And angry under that.
This wasn't how *Grantaire* felt while he killed Jehan.
"Please?"
"No."
"Please, Jehan?"
"Don't call me that! My name is Jean."
Bahorel stepped in.
"Goddammit, boy, it's not your name that matters! Just do it!"
"Bahorel!"
"I won't do it."
Bahorel snatched the flute from Combeferre's hands.
"Do it!"
Just then Combeferre's landlady appeared in the hall. She was a wiry woman whom Combeferre had often seen. He didn't overly dislike her, as most seem to dislike their landladies. He just didn't like her.
She didn't overly like him, either. Though it was really the noise she didn't like.
"Would messieurs like to take this into the street?"
She was eyeing Jehan in particular, trying to figure out where she'd seen him before.
Combeferre felt uncomfortable.
"That… er… won't be necessary. We'll just take it from the hall."
Bahorel was busy nudging Jehan into Combeferre's room, which amazingly easy.
"All right. But be quieter. Monsieur from room one would like quiet to sleep."
Combeferre felt rather surprised.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late. We shall be much quieter."
And he quickly followed Bahorel and Jehan into his room.
He glanced at them.
Bahorel was sitting demurely on Combeferre's bed while Jehan sat on floor and ran his hands through his long brown hair.
Combeferre heard him murmur 'Bossuet' and it made his chest ache.
He carefully sat beside him.
"I love you, Jehan…"
He heard a rustle as Bahorel quickly picked up a book.
Bahorel would try to read instead of listening.
"I don't know who you are."
"I'm Combeferre."
Jehan raked at his hair.
"I don't know a Combeferre."
Combeferre touched Jehan's hand, gently moving it from his hair.
"We were lovers."
This time he just ignored Bahorel.
"I remember now."
He sounded almost sane.
"It was all your fault. That's why I was trapped. I hate you."
Combeferre shivered.
"Jehan-"
He stroked the boy's hair.
But only once.
"Don't touch me!"
Combeferre quickly drew back.
"Grantaire was right."
"He's always right. He was right about you. You wouldn't know it. He says Apollo's the god, but it's really him. He's just not beautiful. You can go follow Apollo. I hate you all."
Bahorel cleared his throat.
Combeferre burst into tears.
Jehan stood unsteadily and looked at Bahorel.
"Where did you come from?"
"I was here all along."
"No, you weren't."
"Yes, I was. I've been."
"No, you haven't. I've never seen you before."
"You're insane."
"No, I'm not!"
"Bahorel!"
"Quiet, Combeferre. You're supposed to be quiet."
And they were all quiet a while.
It had started raining.
It was cold rain.
Cold October rain.
So they just listened to the sound of that.
Jehan began whistling a tuneless song that grew unbearable.
Finally Bahorel told him so and he stopped.
Combeferre fell asleep against a wall for a short while, miserable and wretched.
He awoke to Jehan having started a chant.
When he realized it was one of the ballads Jehan had written for Courfeyrac he burst into tears again.
Bahorel told him to stop again and he did.
The rain finally stopped.
The gas lamp lit them all with a golden sort of glow.
Jehan now sat crouched over in the window.
The sky was black behind him and the roofs weren't visible against it, but when he looked into the street he could see street lamps with their own golden glow.
Bahorel was propped up on the headboard. His eyes were closed and his long eye lashes cast shadows across his face. By now his hair was coming undone and it appeared black.
Combeferre stood now. There were tracks from when he'd cried, tracks that went under his spectacles. He felt terrible. He'd never felt this wretched or self-pitying or disgusting.
How could anyone be heartless enough to do what he wanted to do?
He loved Jehan.
Jehan had once loved him.
Before whatever Grantaire had told him.
Grantaire…
Why did he have to do this?
Oh, yes, he'd said it was for Enjolras, but was it?
Did he just want it so if he couldn't be happy no one could?
Misery loves a companion.
He glanced at Jehan.
And everyone *needs* a companion.
You ought not to fall in love.
It hurts too awfully.
But to think of never falling in love.
That reminded him of what Feuilly and he had said about Emotions.
About just giving someone your Emotions instead of painting them or writing them.
You could never paint love.
And wasn't love one of the most important things?
It would be a perfectly insane world without love or art.
Combeferre looked at Jehan, then away.
Even if he hadn't loved Jehan as a lover it would have hurt. It would have if he had been a friend. Even if Combeferre had barely known him.
He knew he could take him to a place for insane people.
Really, he ought.
Instead of trapping him forever.
He tensed.
"Bahorel. Bahorel, would Grantaire be awake?"
Bahorel looked sleepily at him and Jehan turned a restless glance at him.
"Probably not."
"Would he be in a café?"
"Probably."
"Would he be asleep or drunk?"
"Good god, I don't know."
Combeferre quickly moved to the door.
"He'll be in Musain, right?"
"Well, yes. Do you think he could move? Good lord, he was drunk. Why?"
But Combeferre was all ready gone and stumbling through puddles to get to Musain. By then it had started raining again and quite unmercifully, too.
He pushed into Musain soaking wet. Not that he cared.
In the back room was Grantaire, draped over a table, sleeping.
Combeferre poked him in the shoulder.
When he didn't wake from that, Combeferre stabbed him in the ribs.
This didn't get him to stir either.
Finally he dragged Grantaire up and pushed him out of the café into the rain.
Grantaire coughed and sputtered a while, crouching, balanced on his feet.
"Christ, man…"
Combeferre gave him a hand up which he accepted, standing unsteadily.
They stood there in the rain a while, not talking until Combeferre spoke.
"Would it kill him?"
"Oh, *that's* what you dragged me out here for? Good god. Yes. Yes it would. What did you think?"
"I thought it might trap him again."
"Well, you were wrong, weren't you? Now leave me alone."
And he began to stumble back into the café.
Combeferre was nervous.
"Ought I?"
Grantaire glanced back shortly.
"Yes."
Combeferre watched him go back in, soaking.
He felt a little bad now.
He sighed and started home.
Ought he, though?
Was Grantaire right?
Was it better to let Jehan live, insane, where he'd be safe, or kill him?
It wasn't fair that he had to choose.
It wasn't fair that anyone had to choose.
So much killing and death weren't a choices.
War…
The soldiers that fought.
The soldiers that they fought.
That wasn't choice.
Not like this, at least.
And sickness wasn't choice.
There was nothing one could do about that.
So why was it that one man who hated to kill was the one who had to make this choice?
He didn't know if Jehan could ever be happy. He didn't think the boy could. He would always be haunted by the walls of the flute.
And the lover who betrayed him.
Or was it that Combeferre didn't want Jehan to hate him?
Was he just trying to defend himself?
Was he being selfish?
He hoped he wasn't dripping too much on the hall carpet. He pushed open the door.
Bahorel was still on the bed. Jehan was sitting against the bed and letting Bahorel stroke his hair. Bahorel looked rather sad. He looked up as Combeferre came in.
"I can't believe it…" he murmured and he had tears in his eyes. "He was… before, he was…"
Combeferre nodded a little and went over. He sat beside Bahorel. He still felt uncomfortable talking in front of Jehan.
"It's right to do it…" he whispered.
Bahorel nodded.
Combeferre reached down to stroke Jehan's hair, but the boy jerked away.
Combeferre's shoulders shook.
Bahorel gently put an arm around him, making Combeferre sure again that emotions can be felt. He pushed his back gently into Bahorel's shoulder feeling lonely and cold.
Bahorel tensed a little.
"You're sopping."
Combeferre laughed a little.
"Really?"
"Yes. Now you put on dry clothes."
Combeferre glanced at Bahorel's face shortly, smiling crookedly.
"I won't. Not in front of you."
Bahorel mumbled something botherdly and looked at the wall away from Combeferre, who smirked a little before he went and changed into dry clothes.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
"I'm not God to choose whether a man lives or dies."
Bahorel looked over at him.
"Actually, that's more the place of a doctor."
Combeferre cast a bothered, amused look at him.
"You're horrible."
"Yes, I know."
Bahorel stood and stretched.
"It's light outside."
Combeferre glanced out the window then turned off the gas lamp.
"It's all slippery down there."
He went over to Bahorel.
"I'm scared to do this."
"We could just put him in an institution."
"Would that be right?"
"I don't know."
They stood there a while, Combeferre's head tilted back a little so he could see Bahorel.
Then, suddenly, he left the room and left Bahorel gazing at where he'd been.
He went to Feuilly's place. Feuilly would know what was right. The fact that he didn't hurt him. But even if they did decide to… kill Jehan… how would they ever get him to play the flute? He hated it and he was scared of it.
Combeferre knocked on the door, which he supposed was Feuilly's. He'd been there twice, but he wasn't sure.
It was, though and Feuilly came to the door and opened it.
They stared at each other.
Maybe Combeferre stared more.
He felt bewildered almost.
Feuilly was rumpled and his hair wet from tears.
His eyes were bloodshot from crying.
He forced a smile, but suddenly burst into tears.
Combeferre carefully put his arms around him.
"Sh. What's happened?"
Feuilly had never been like this before.
He gulped back tears a little.
"I-it's nothing… I'm just being… stupid… what did you want your fan-maker for…?"
Combeferre squeezed his shoulders comfortingly.
"It's nothing."
"Is too. You're all pale."
He hooked his hands into Combeferre's waistcoat so that he wouldn't fall down.
"No, no-"
"Yes. Tell me." He sniffed a little. "I seem to be the one who can answer these things. Bring all your bloody problems to me."
And Feuilly burst into tears again.
Combeferre did his best to comfort him.
Yes, you could convey emotion through touch.
But it was so hard.
Finally Feuilly wiped the traces of tears away and stood straight again.
He smiled a little.
"I was just tired."
Combeferre didn't really believe him.
"Now what's the question? I know you have one."
But he gave up worrying.
Not that he should have.
It wasn't right to place his problems before Feuilly's.
But he told himself it was Feuilly who had placed the problems.
Good excuse.
"You'd have to see."
Feuilly managed a smirk.
"About your Jehan, is it?"
Combeferre felt hurt.
"You'd have to see."
"All right. I shall. Let me look respectful…"
He began smoothing his hair.
"All right. I'll come."
"Thank you."
They walked in the morning wet to Combeferre's.
Neither spoke going there.
Combeferre knew there was something wrong but didn't want to ask, and it was clear Feuilly didn't want to tell.
Feuilly looked around Combeferre's room. First he noticed Bahorel and looked wryly amused. Then he saw Jehan and tilted his head to one side. Then he looked surprised. Then he stepped forward.
"Jehan! Poet!"
Jehan looked up with an air of being haunted.
"Not you too. Stay away from me. He made flutes. Stay away. Get away from me!"
Feuilly paused.
Feuilly shivered.
"Aaah."
Combeferre quickly explained.
"Grantaire trapped him in a flute for the last year. When I played it he came back. But he's insane. I can't stand it. G- Grantaire told me he has to play the flute to… g-get rid of him… to kill him…"
"Oh."
Feuilly suddenly turned.
"Don't kill him. No one deserves to die. And no one has the right to chose death for others."
At that moment Bahorel made a startled sound.
It was an unintelligible cry that sounded like 'Prouvaire'.
Feuilly and Combeferre both whipped about to see Jehan.
The flute was lifted to his lips.
Feuilly looked horrified.
"No, Jehan, don't-"
Jehan began to play.
They all watched and listened to the lilting melody.
When Jehan was done, he smiled, then walked to the door and left.
And was gone.
Bahorel stood there horrified.
Combeferre looked as though he would cry.
Feuilly looked tired.
Jehan was just gone.
There would never be him and his soft laugh again.
No more poet.
No more ballads.
No one moved for a while, then Feuilly went to the door.
"This morning I got a letter. There was an uprising in Poland. My family were revolutionaries. This September the Russian army killed them, all of my family. One of my friends wrote to me."
Then he was gone.
Bahorel and Combeferre stared at each other.
Combeferre burst into tears.
Bahorel took him into his arms and rocked him until he finished crying.
"Good god, Bahorel," he whispered. "Why are we killing people?"
The End.
And Combeferre wanted to get Jehan back.
So at the end of the day when classes were done and everyone drifted to the café, Combeferre went to Grantaire's table.
He sat in the chair across from Grantaire.
He waited.
Grantaire didn't notice him.
He cleared his throat.
Grantaire blinked and looked up.
"Back, are you?"
He sounded amused.
"Yes. How do I get Jehan back?"
"I told you. You don't."
"Grantaire."
"You wouldn't, though. If you had him. You wouldn't want him."
Combeferre glowered a little.
"Why not?"
"You just wouldn't."
"How do I get him back?"
"You *don't*."
"Yes. I want him back."
"Fine, fine, you play the flute."
Combeferre paused.
"I what?"
"You play the flute."
He felt puzzled.
"Just that?"
"Mmhmm. But you won't want him when you have him. When you're ready to get rid of him again, get him to play the flute. It might be a little hard. He's been stuck in it the last year. Since '30. He'd make young wine."
Combeferre felt he ought to be grateful although he wasn't in the least.
"…Thank you…"
Grantaire laughed.
"Oh, you won't *thank* me!"
Combeferre botheredly turned to leave.
"You're just mad…"
Grantaire smirked.
"It's not me that's mad."
Combeferre left quickly.
He didn't want to be there.
He did go to Feuilly, though.
They went back to Feuilly's again and practiced playing flutes.
They used the ones Feuilly had carved.
Combeferre was not the least talented at it and had no ear for music.
Also Feuilly had gotten the impression Combeferre wanted to learn a particular tune and that didn't help.
It was hard enough for Combeferre to get it to actually play (short of hitting himself with it and listening to the resounding thump, which he seemed to do rather often) and putting notes together into a melody was almost impossible.
It was clear Feuilly enjoyed his company, so he stayed longer than he intended to.
Between trying to learn they would pause and talk and it was good conversation and philosophic.
But eventually Combeferre did go home.
He sat on the bed and though about Jehan.
Was it possible he wouldn't want Jehan back when he had him?
He didn't think so.
He took the flute and brought it to his lips.
However he had no luck in playing it. For the first half hour, that is. Eventually he got it right and haltingly played the tune. Then he sat back and wondered if Grantaire had told the truth.
Not that he knew what to expect.
But then he heard a sound outside the door.
The sound of someone talking to himself.
He went to the door and opened it.
And froze.
A young man stared at him.
His eyes were grey blue.
His brown hair was coming down.
"Je-ehan…"
The man looked slightly insane.
"W-who are you?"
He backed up against the wall across from Combeferre's door.
"What do you want? I shan't write for you. I've done enough of that. Too bourgeois… Well I'm not now!"
Combeferre felt worried.
"Jehan… Come in? It's Combeferre. I'm Combeferre."
"*Y-you*? You had gold hair last time I saw you… You were a statue… Made out of paper..."
"Jehan… shush… please, it's all right…"
He felt helpless.
He felt confused.
Why did Jehan say these things?
Why was he acting like a madman?
He reached out to touch Jehan's shoulder.
The boy flinched back.
"No- don't touch- too close- it smells smoky and woody-"
Combeferre stared in confusion.
"Jehan…"
All of a sudden Bahorel was there too.
He stood by Jehan.
"*Combeferre*??"
"He- he's- something's wrong-"
"Damn right: the boy's mad!"
"I'm not mad! It's just- too close-"
Combeferre met Bahorel's eyes.
"How did you get him back? I just came to see you."
Combeferre had a feeling that 'come to see you' was only a bare definition, but he wasn't concerned with that.
"I-I played the flute…"
"Well, how the hell do you get rid of him?"
"I don't want to…"
He looked unhappily at Jehan, pressed to the wall with a look of terror.
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't. 'Get rid of him'? I… love him…"
"Yes."
"You're turning into Grantaire. You don't get rid of people just because they're mad. You… you do something else…"
"What?"
Combeferre looked up.
"Something else. A place where he'd be all right…"
Jehan whimpered.
"You'd put him out of his misery."
"No. Never."
He looked at Jehan.
"I understand now. He's been trapped in this damn flute for the last year. Would you trap him there for the rest of eternity?"
"Maybe he wouldn't be trapped."
"Coward."
They looked angrily at each other.
"You're just lying to yourself."
"So are you."
"Perhaps I am. But he'd be living hell."
"Now you really do sound like Grantaire! You're so thoughtless! He just wanted me for Enjolras and you just want me for yourself!"
Bahorel blushed.
"I do not…"
"You did yesterday."
Now Bahorel looked helpless.
"All right, all right. But I don't want you to be miserable. You will be too. You've just wanted him back so badly you convinced yourself that this is all right. You'll go mad, too. You'd be miserable. He'll ruin your memories. You're lying to yourself."
"*You* could be a little less subtle."
"No, I couldn't. You wouldn't see."
"Bahorel, have you ever noticed that when one insults someone whilst trying to convert him one never can convert him, even if the cause is better, just because one has put the other on the defensive?"
"But if you'll acknowledge that, why not this?"
"I love him."
"No, you don't."
"Lying to yourself."
"Combeferre!"
"Bahorel!"
"Please?"
"Good god, I don't want to do this."
"You'd be sparing his memory. You remembered him as a wistful, laughing poet, but now all you remember him as is this insane man. You can't love that memory of him. No one could. Just spare his memory."
Combeferre wouldn't have listened. He would have argued. But he knew Bahorel was right. Ever since he'd seen the man, he'd known it was wrong.
He didn't remember him with wild eyes. He remembered the things the boy had said to be gentle and quiet and special. Things that made sense. Only often they didn't. But when they didn't it was that funny way poets never do make sense. Talking about muses and figments and how they did what they wanted. Now…
He sighed.
"He'd have to play the flute."
They both looked at Jehan but Combeferre looked quickly away.
"Well, you're his lover."
"Be quiet, you idiot. I don't want to. It wouldn't be right."
"Yes, it would."
"*How*?"
"He shouldn't have to suffer. He shouldn't shame his memory."
They stared at each other a moment; then Combeferre nodded.
Combeferre glanced back to Jehan then stepped toward him, holding the flute.
"Will you play for me?"
But Jehan flinched back violently.
"Don't get that near me! I never want to see it again! It hurts!"
Combeferre sighed.
"But you can play it beautifully…"
He quickly wiped at tears.
He felt awful.
And angry under that.
This wasn't how *Grantaire* felt while he killed Jehan.
"Please?"
"No."
"Please, Jehan?"
"Don't call me that! My name is Jean."
Bahorel stepped in.
"Goddammit, boy, it's not your name that matters! Just do it!"
"Bahorel!"
"I won't do it."
Bahorel snatched the flute from Combeferre's hands.
"Do it!"
Just then Combeferre's landlady appeared in the hall. She was a wiry woman whom Combeferre had often seen. He didn't overly dislike her, as most seem to dislike their landladies. He just didn't like her.
She didn't overly like him, either. Though it was really the noise she didn't like.
"Would messieurs like to take this into the street?"
She was eyeing Jehan in particular, trying to figure out where she'd seen him before.
Combeferre felt uncomfortable.
"That… er… won't be necessary. We'll just take it from the hall."
Bahorel was busy nudging Jehan into Combeferre's room, which amazingly easy.
"All right. But be quieter. Monsieur from room one would like quiet to sleep."
Combeferre felt rather surprised.
"I'm sorry. I didn't realize it was so late. We shall be much quieter."
And he quickly followed Bahorel and Jehan into his room.
He glanced at them.
Bahorel was sitting demurely on Combeferre's bed while Jehan sat on floor and ran his hands through his long brown hair.
Combeferre heard him murmur 'Bossuet' and it made his chest ache.
He carefully sat beside him.
"I love you, Jehan…"
He heard a rustle as Bahorel quickly picked up a book.
Bahorel would try to read instead of listening.
"I don't know who you are."
"I'm Combeferre."
Jehan raked at his hair.
"I don't know a Combeferre."
Combeferre touched Jehan's hand, gently moving it from his hair.
"We were lovers."
This time he just ignored Bahorel.
"I remember now."
He sounded almost sane.
"It was all your fault. That's why I was trapped. I hate you."
Combeferre shivered.
"Jehan-"
He stroked the boy's hair.
But only once.
"Don't touch me!"
Combeferre quickly drew back.
"Grantaire was right."
"He's always right. He was right about you. You wouldn't know it. He says Apollo's the god, but it's really him. He's just not beautiful. You can go follow Apollo. I hate you all."
Bahorel cleared his throat.
Combeferre burst into tears.
Jehan stood unsteadily and looked at Bahorel.
"Where did you come from?"
"I was here all along."
"No, you weren't."
"Yes, I was. I've been."
"No, you haven't. I've never seen you before."
"You're insane."
"No, I'm not!"
"Bahorel!"
"Quiet, Combeferre. You're supposed to be quiet."
And they were all quiet a while.
It had started raining.
It was cold rain.
Cold October rain.
So they just listened to the sound of that.
Jehan began whistling a tuneless song that grew unbearable.
Finally Bahorel told him so and he stopped.
Combeferre fell asleep against a wall for a short while, miserable and wretched.
He awoke to Jehan having started a chant.
When he realized it was one of the ballads Jehan had written for Courfeyrac he burst into tears again.
Bahorel told him to stop again and he did.
The rain finally stopped.
The gas lamp lit them all with a golden sort of glow.
Jehan now sat crouched over in the window.
The sky was black behind him and the roofs weren't visible against it, but when he looked into the street he could see street lamps with their own golden glow.
Bahorel was propped up on the headboard. His eyes were closed and his long eye lashes cast shadows across his face. By now his hair was coming undone and it appeared black.
Combeferre stood now. There were tracks from when he'd cried, tracks that went under his spectacles. He felt terrible. He'd never felt this wretched or self-pitying or disgusting.
How could anyone be heartless enough to do what he wanted to do?
He loved Jehan.
Jehan had once loved him.
Before whatever Grantaire had told him.
Grantaire…
Why did he have to do this?
Oh, yes, he'd said it was for Enjolras, but was it?
Did he just want it so if he couldn't be happy no one could?
Misery loves a companion.
He glanced at Jehan.
And everyone *needs* a companion.
You ought not to fall in love.
It hurts too awfully.
But to think of never falling in love.
That reminded him of what Feuilly and he had said about Emotions.
About just giving someone your Emotions instead of painting them or writing them.
You could never paint love.
And wasn't love one of the most important things?
It would be a perfectly insane world without love or art.
Combeferre looked at Jehan, then away.
Even if he hadn't loved Jehan as a lover it would have hurt. It would have if he had been a friend. Even if Combeferre had barely known him.
He knew he could take him to a place for insane people.
Really, he ought.
Instead of trapping him forever.
He tensed.
"Bahorel. Bahorel, would Grantaire be awake?"
Bahorel looked sleepily at him and Jehan turned a restless glance at him.
"Probably not."
"Would he be in a café?"
"Probably."
"Would he be asleep or drunk?"
"Good god, I don't know."
Combeferre quickly moved to the door.
"He'll be in Musain, right?"
"Well, yes. Do you think he could move? Good lord, he was drunk. Why?"
But Combeferre was all ready gone and stumbling through puddles to get to Musain. By then it had started raining again and quite unmercifully, too.
He pushed into Musain soaking wet. Not that he cared.
In the back room was Grantaire, draped over a table, sleeping.
Combeferre poked him in the shoulder.
When he didn't wake from that, Combeferre stabbed him in the ribs.
This didn't get him to stir either.
Finally he dragged Grantaire up and pushed him out of the café into the rain.
Grantaire coughed and sputtered a while, crouching, balanced on his feet.
"Christ, man…"
Combeferre gave him a hand up which he accepted, standing unsteadily.
They stood there in the rain a while, not talking until Combeferre spoke.
"Would it kill him?"
"Oh, *that's* what you dragged me out here for? Good god. Yes. Yes it would. What did you think?"
"I thought it might trap him again."
"Well, you were wrong, weren't you? Now leave me alone."
And he began to stumble back into the café.
Combeferre was nervous.
"Ought I?"
Grantaire glanced back shortly.
"Yes."
Combeferre watched him go back in, soaking.
He felt a little bad now.
He sighed and started home.
Ought he, though?
Was Grantaire right?
Was it better to let Jehan live, insane, where he'd be safe, or kill him?
It wasn't fair that he had to choose.
It wasn't fair that anyone had to choose.
So much killing and death weren't a choices.
War…
The soldiers that fought.
The soldiers that they fought.
That wasn't choice.
Not like this, at least.
And sickness wasn't choice.
There was nothing one could do about that.
So why was it that one man who hated to kill was the one who had to make this choice?
He didn't know if Jehan could ever be happy. He didn't think the boy could. He would always be haunted by the walls of the flute.
And the lover who betrayed him.
Or was it that Combeferre didn't want Jehan to hate him?
Was he just trying to defend himself?
Was he being selfish?
He hoped he wasn't dripping too much on the hall carpet. He pushed open the door.
Bahorel was still on the bed. Jehan was sitting against the bed and letting Bahorel stroke his hair. Bahorel looked rather sad. He looked up as Combeferre came in.
"I can't believe it…" he murmured and he had tears in his eyes. "He was… before, he was…"
Combeferre nodded a little and went over. He sat beside Bahorel. He still felt uncomfortable talking in front of Jehan.
"It's right to do it…" he whispered.
Bahorel nodded.
Combeferre reached down to stroke Jehan's hair, but the boy jerked away.
Combeferre's shoulders shook.
Bahorel gently put an arm around him, making Combeferre sure again that emotions can be felt. He pushed his back gently into Bahorel's shoulder feeling lonely and cold.
Bahorel tensed a little.
"You're sopping."
Combeferre laughed a little.
"Really?"
"Yes. Now you put on dry clothes."
Combeferre glanced at Bahorel's face shortly, smiling crookedly.
"I won't. Not in front of you."
Bahorel mumbled something botherdly and looked at the wall away from Combeferre, who smirked a little before he went and changed into dry clothes.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
"I'm not God to choose whether a man lives or dies."
Bahorel looked over at him.
"Actually, that's more the place of a doctor."
Combeferre cast a bothered, amused look at him.
"You're horrible."
"Yes, I know."
Bahorel stood and stretched.
"It's light outside."
Combeferre glanced out the window then turned off the gas lamp.
"It's all slippery down there."
He went over to Bahorel.
"I'm scared to do this."
"We could just put him in an institution."
"Would that be right?"
"I don't know."
They stood there a while, Combeferre's head tilted back a little so he could see Bahorel.
Then, suddenly, he left the room and left Bahorel gazing at where he'd been.
He went to Feuilly's place. Feuilly would know what was right. The fact that he didn't hurt him. But even if they did decide to… kill Jehan… how would they ever get him to play the flute? He hated it and he was scared of it.
Combeferre knocked on the door, which he supposed was Feuilly's. He'd been there twice, but he wasn't sure.
It was, though and Feuilly came to the door and opened it.
They stared at each other.
Maybe Combeferre stared more.
He felt bewildered almost.
Feuilly was rumpled and his hair wet from tears.
His eyes were bloodshot from crying.
He forced a smile, but suddenly burst into tears.
Combeferre carefully put his arms around him.
"Sh. What's happened?"
Feuilly had never been like this before.
He gulped back tears a little.
"I-it's nothing… I'm just being… stupid… what did you want your fan-maker for…?"
Combeferre squeezed his shoulders comfortingly.
"It's nothing."
"Is too. You're all pale."
He hooked his hands into Combeferre's waistcoat so that he wouldn't fall down.
"No, no-"
"Yes. Tell me." He sniffed a little. "I seem to be the one who can answer these things. Bring all your bloody problems to me."
And Feuilly burst into tears again.
Combeferre did his best to comfort him.
Yes, you could convey emotion through touch.
But it was so hard.
Finally Feuilly wiped the traces of tears away and stood straight again.
He smiled a little.
"I was just tired."
Combeferre didn't really believe him.
"Now what's the question? I know you have one."
But he gave up worrying.
Not that he should have.
It wasn't right to place his problems before Feuilly's.
But he told himself it was Feuilly who had placed the problems.
Good excuse.
"You'd have to see."
Feuilly managed a smirk.
"About your Jehan, is it?"
Combeferre felt hurt.
"You'd have to see."
"All right. I shall. Let me look respectful…"
He began smoothing his hair.
"All right. I'll come."
"Thank you."
They walked in the morning wet to Combeferre's.
Neither spoke going there.
Combeferre knew there was something wrong but didn't want to ask, and it was clear Feuilly didn't want to tell.
Feuilly looked around Combeferre's room. First he noticed Bahorel and looked wryly amused. Then he saw Jehan and tilted his head to one side. Then he looked surprised. Then he stepped forward.
"Jehan! Poet!"
Jehan looked up with an air of being haunted.
"Not you too. Stay away from me. He made flutes. Stay away. Get away from me!"
Feuilly paused.
Feuilly shivered.
"Aaah."
Combeferre quickly explained.
"Grantaire trapped him in a flute for the last year. When I played it he came back. But he's insane. I can't stand it. G- Grantaire told me he has to play the flute to… g-get rid of him… to kill him…"
"Oh."
Feuilly suddenly turned.
"Don't kill him. No one deserves to die. And no one has the right to chose death for others."
At that moment Bahorel made a startled sound.
It was an unintelligible cry that sounded like 'Prouvaire'.
Feuilly and Combeferre both whipped about to see Jehan.
The flute was lifted to his lips.
Feuilly looked horrified.
"No, Jehan, don't-"
Jehan began to play.
They all watched and listened to the lilting melody.
When Jehan was done, he smiled, then walked to the door and left.
And was gone.
Bahorel stood there horrified.
Combeferre looked as though he would cry.
Feuilly looked tired.
Jehan was just gone.
There would never be him and his soft laugh again.
No more poet.
No more ballads.
No one moved for a while, then Feuilly went to the door.
"This morning I got a letter. There was an uprising in Poland. My family were revolutionaries. This September the Russian army killed them, all of my family. One of my friends wrote to me."
Then he was gone.
Bahorel and Combeferre stared at each other.
Combeferre burst into tears.
Bahorel took him into his arms and rocked him until he finished crying.
"Good god, Bahorel," he whispered. "Why are we killing people?"
The End.
