Flutters of unheard words
Drifting into sight
Flutter of unseen sparks
Ready to set light
Mysteries of riddles with unattached strings
But the faint beat of the heart
Ready to bleed again
J.
You scatter about words
With such grace
You make me wish I could find rhymes
As easily as your face?
-Your Anonymous lover
"And you have no idea who's sending you these poems, Jehan?" The words can be heard across the Musain cafe, and Bahorel perks up his head in response. He hasn't really heard Jehan talk about the poems, and, despite the fact that he's been answering them with his own more swiftly driven poems, it's hard to tell if he's actually enjoying Bahorel's attempt at poetry. The words spur from Courfeyrac's lips, who now sits across from Jehan.
"I have my suspicions, of course, but nothing's definite," Jehan's light voice sprank out, so soft that Bahorel can barely make him out. That's how he communicates, how Bahorel prefers it, as though the words could be blown away by the faintest of breezes, as articulate and well thought-out as they are.
"Anonymous poetry, does it speak the words of love?" Grantaire leans over on their table, laughter upon his lips and his face red with the liquor he's already consumed that night. He's obviously there for the tease, and yet Bahorel still wants to just be sitting there beside Jehan, making sure they don't give him too much of a hard time over it.
"It does indeed," Jehan murmurs, a faint smile upon his lips. He doesn't say more, though, even though it's clear from Grantaire's pause that the others are waiting for details.
"Look at your face glow such a ruby red," Grantaire chuckles, clasping a rough hand over Jehan's shoulder. "You must know who it is. Some lucky lady who has it in for you." He pauses, his smile widening. "Or man. Aha, yes, you do think it's a man, don't you, Jehan?" He coos the words out, still laughing, before consuming another swig of alcohol. It's true that the smaller man's face grew brighter after his later words, but he still says nothing to confirm or deny Grantaire's assumptions.
"Who do you think it is, little lover?" Grantaire questions, standing up completely and looking about the cafe. His eyes shift about to everyone, and rests on a few, Bahorel not amongst them. Of course it wouldn't cross his mind that Bahorel is writing poetry-it's doubtless that Jehan has not bothered to mention that each poem has clearly been written by an amature.
"I would rather not say," Jehan reveals carefully, and at his words Bahorel notices that the young man's eyes cast about to fall on him, meeting his gaze for a fraction of a second. "I am positive that whoever it is, they will come and tell me who they are themselves. Until then, I can guess who the mysterious lover is, and continue to respond with my own form of poetry."
"Alright," Grantaire snorts, shrugging his broad shoulders and standing up. He returns the bottle to his lips before stumbling back slightly. He's no longer concentrated on Jehan and Courfeyrac who still sit below him, but instead his eyes have fallen upon Enjolras, who's quietly conversing in his usual intense manner with Combeferre. Still, the drunkard continues to talk as if he's not so completely concentrated on the revolutionary leader, who continues to ignore him. "If you are willing to make do with having to wait a long time, continue upon your path by all means. I wouldn't expect a definite something though. For most, especially those who write anonymous letters, love is a timid beast."
Looking away Bahorel smiles to himself. Jehan won't have to wait long at all for his mysterious lover to reveal himself. Especially since Bahorel's pretty positive that Jehan already knows it's him who is the culprit.