A/C So different from my usual thing, and so much shorter as well, but I hope you all enjoyed despite those things.
It's two weeks after the initial love poem that Jehan Prouvaire finds himself walking home one evening from the Musain. He hasn't received a poem for the last two days, and if the poetry continues upon the course that it seemed set on, Prouvaire is sure that he is going to receive one that very night. It's been easy for him to guess who the culprit is, really, having suspected Bahorel to have a crush on him from past encounters, but it's still sweet how he seems to be set on keeping his identity a secret despite that. Jehan would never have guessed before that Bahorel was going to attempt to seduce him using poetry, the larger man seeming to have little interest in words. And yet it seems that his interest in Jehan has swept past that, granting him the ability to at least attempt to work with the pen.
As Jehan continues to walk along, the sun sets beneath the array of buildings and the streets get colder. He has to pull his coat around himself tighter, bracing himself against the sudden chill that grips him. He doesn't mind the cold, really, but he's always prefered the warmth of the day. The building that he's walking towards grows larger in his eyes, the flat that he's been situated at since moving to Paris. He breathes in the bitter coldness of the outside, exhaling slowly and allowing the night to claim him in its shadowed embrace. Then he promptly turns towards the door and slips into the building. He walks up, past the woman at the front, and to the door to his own flat. He's looking down so intently at his keys that it's not until he looks up to place it into his door that he notices the larger figure cowering next to his flat. Cowering, because he's so much more sunken down into the shadows from the usual stance of Bahorel.
"Bahorel?" Jehan's voice quivers up from his thin lips.
"Hey, Jehan," Bahorel stood up, fumbling with something in his hands that couldn't be seen by the young poet. "I, um... here." He thrusts forwards what he has clasped between his two outstretched hands, a crumpled piece of paper.
"Thanks," Jehan replies. He knows he shouldn't be too obvious about the fact that he knows this must be another poem. Still, he's practically glowing as he takes the slip of paper and unfolds it for the words to appear before his eyes.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I wrote you poetry
Because I love you
-Bahorel