I'm sad.
Jehan stared at the five letters he had penned onto the blank page before him.
He wrote it again.
I'm sad.
Sad.
Three letters.
Three strong, meaningful, helpless, agonizing, lonely letters.
He couldn't cry here, not at the cafe, not with his friends around him, laughing, joking, preaching, living.
He wasn't living. Not really.
The lines beneath his sleeves helped him remember that.
Jehan's not a whole person, not a real soul. He doesn't have real happiness.
Just fills up with pretty words and empty promises.
Grantaire slings an arm around the back of his chair, laughing loudly and jostling his friend. Jehan blinks.
"I'm sad." He whispers, breathes to the page. It doesn't respond.
Courfeyrac is across from him, grinning at something Grantaire said, eyes flicking to Jehan, hoping that the poet had thought it had been amusing as well.
Jehan doesn't look up from his paper.
"I'm sad." The poet tells his notebook again, softer. He was alone, so alone in the crowded room.
Courfeyrac's brows furrow, and he turns to make eye contact with Combeferre. He nods his head subtly at the ginger haired boy. Combeferre's eyes flicker between them, and his smile strains, but he nods, turning to excuse himself from Enjolras's rant of the night.
"I'm lonely." Jehan mouths. His poems offer him no help. A new presence appears at his side.
Combeferre sits beside him silently for a moment, looking at the page over Jehan's shoulder.
"Walk with me?" The philosopher finally says quietly. Jehan bites his lip to keep it from wavering, and nods frantically. They stand together, and Grantaire shoots Combeferre a meaningful look.
The air is warm and humid when they exit the cafe.
The poet hugs his notebook to his chest, looking up at the star ridden sky.
"I'm sad." He whispers again, hoping the heavens will hear him.
"Hm?" Combeferre asks. Jehan's eyes finally fill with the tears he'd been restraining all day, and he turns to his partner, shivering despite the warmth.
"I'm sad." He says louder. They stop. Jehan stomps his foot. "I'm sad! I'm sad I'm sad I'm sad I'm-"
His voice cracks and dissolves into a quiet sob.
"I'm sad." He cries, loudly, looking hopeless and angry. Locks of hair had pulled themselves loose from his braid and hung in his face, sticking to his tear trails. "I'm sad! I don't want to be sad! Why am I sad!" He tugs furiously at his braid, sobbing dryly.
Combeferre studies the other for a moment, then wraps a comforting arm around the sweater clad boy.
"That's okay, you can be sad." He whispers. Jehan feels like he's breaking, melting into the philosopher's warmth, burying his face into the other's neck, inhaling the familiar aftershave, crying quietly. Combeferre rubs his arm.
"It's okay, that's okay, you're sad. You know what's always nice to do when you're sad?"
Jehan sniffles.
"What." He croaks. Combeferre laughs through his nose. Jehan hits his shoulder lightly.
"Ice cream. We should get ice cream. And watch a shitty movie."
Jehan laughs wetly, and Combeferre smiles, something inside of him breaking a little too.
"Yeah." The poet says after a moment. "Yeah, ice cream, and we should watch Wayne's World."
"Excellent."
And so sometimes Jehan gets sad.
Poets need sadness in their lives.
But Combeferre always makes him smile again.
Because philosophers are there to think about life, and how we can improve the way we live it.