Work Text:
Here he is
Jehan smiled to themself. They were the kind of person who found the joys in life. People thought them lucky but most of them didn’t realize that it was hard work. It wasn’t simply smiling at the sun, singing a song. It was digging through cruelty with raw fingers to reach under. It took the strength of a dandelion growing up through cracks of pavement covered in blood. It took searching the ugly walls just for a sign of love. Being hopeful took hard work and they were not above doing the labour, they always collected flowers knowing they will wit.
But sometimes even they needed an easy light. A smile so sudden and as easy as the sun rises.
Perhaps that’s why they strolled into the cafe once more.
It was a cold evening. Autumn was wrapping herself around them, one strong embrace to welcome. Her chill crept deep and settled through bones. The warmth left Jehan’s body like a slowly bleeding wound. So here they were, seeking warmth for both body and soul.
Cafe Al was a nice and cosy cafe. It had a youthful energy that only being close to a university can bring. And a strange quiet that only being close to a graveyard can have. (Jehan liked the juxtaposition. Youth and death, seemed opposite, but often went hand in hand) Suffice to say, Jehan fell in love at first sight, the ever romantic.
Yet; it wasn’t the fireplace, comfortable brown chairs or the better-than-average tea that made Jehan wish to visit on good days and seek on their bads. That honour went to the ginger hair across the counter, making Jehan smile and colouring their cheeks rosy. Here he is.
Feuilly looked up to the bell ringing. The rush hour was over long ago and he was the only one at the cafe for now. He liked these hours of evening quiet. He usually put the soft instrumental playlist he made. He studied or even read a book for his own pleasure. While he used to dread the bell ringing in these times, nowadays he welcomed it knowing who will walk in. He smiled, greeting the customer, more of a friend: ''Welcome back!''
Jehan approached the counter and took a seat next to it. They slowly unbundled themself which took some time considering their easily freezing body and a fashion sense of layers upon layers. Feuilly watched them with slight amusement. When Jehan was finally finished with a pile of clothes next chair Feuilly finally asked: ‘’Tea or coffee?’’
‘’Tea. Do you have that bland with green tea and cinnamon?’’
‘’Yes, just refreshed it. Coming right up.’’
The music softly played while Feuilly prepared tea for Jehan and coffee for himself. Jehan was searching for something in their bag while humming along with the music. Feuilly set the drinks and placed a plate in the middle:
‘’Tahina buns. I saved them for you.’’
Jehan’s eyes lit up: ‘’You are an angel- my guardian angel.’’ Feuilly laughed softly and sat down: ‘’So how is your life?’’
This was their routine- almost a ritual-. These hours belong to them, their warm drinks and buns. How all of this began or what exactly is ‘this’, Jehan couldn’t explain. As an artist, unexplainable means a shameful defeat but Jehan already had too many crossed-out papers for their dear friend.
Feuilly, from the first time they saw him, felt like coming home.
Feuilly felt like crying, not a beautiful single tear they might use in a poem but breaking down on your knees and screaming.
He felt like a memory, one that you can’t remember but feel.
They wanted to… from the first time they saw him, they wanted to talk. To talk about anything and everything, spill every secret they had and every mundane thought ever crossed their mind. They wanted to ramble until their throat dried up and language ended.
Feuilly… Jehan couldn’t really explain. But for the first time in their life, they felt content.
So they talked for hours- till Feuilly’s night shift was over in the 24-hour open cafe. Sometimes they just sat in silence doing their own work, still in each other’s company and warmth. In these precious moments, the loneliness that Jehan always felt like a buried bullet in their chest, somewhat eased.
They talk about their days, a romance book that Jehan recommended – one of their shared guilty pressures- about Feuilly’s latest art block and that atrocious poem Jehan encountered the other day. When they finish their buns they settle in their shared silence. Feuilly picks up his book and Jehan picks out his notebook and pencil. After a beverage refill and a playlist change later – ‘3 am Tahine’ by your local poet’s truly- Jehan shyly produced a folded paper from his notebook and slid it across the counter.
Feuilly looked up from his book, setting it aside –forgetting to bookmark again- to pick up the paper with a questioning look.
‘'I wrote it.'’ Jehan said in a hush. Their poetry was their life, nonetheless – or perhaps for his exact reason- they were always shy around sharing it. It was their carved heart, still dripping blood. Of course Feuilly deserved it and much more. Still, no matter how many times they did this it will always feel too raw to be confident about.
'‘Ah.’' said Feuilly picking the paper carefully. He understood Jehan’s shyness. It was not the first time he read one of his friend’s works. He held the paper like a precious thing and unfolded it. After a glance, he said: '‘Will you read it for me?’'
Jehan looked at him: ‘'Why?’'
‘'I like it. Your words are meant for your voice.’' said Feuilly with a smile.
Jehan laughed a little: ‘'I can argue with that.’'
‘'I know you can. But still, I would love to hear it from you.’' He held out the paper.
Jehan sighed and picked it up. They gave a glance at their writing and blushed a little. They opened their mouth to protest but seeing the enthusiastic look Feuilly gave them the protest died in their mouth. They began reading in a melodic soft voice, almost sounding lost in a dream.
So not to leave you alone
even from your grave I rush back home.
In the whistling rooms
I talk I talk I talk.
I came from afar, morning dew on my lips
Saying don’t be childish you draw back your lips.
Then I raise my eyes, the window’s not there
Dead children like eye lashes lined up.
Can you grow ashamed of your sorrow
I’m poisoned by the tears I’ve spilled.
it’s too late for us you said once, how will all these children
live in this country, the womb of death.
Come, let us go down to the sea
In her arms the blue will rock our fears to sleep.
I’m a loneliness for two before your photos
One, the one you take with you, the other, the one you leave.
As Jehan’s voice faded Feuilly slowly returned. He had a lump he couldn’t swallow, a scream stuck in his throat and a throbbing pain in his body. It took him a moment to notice Jehan’s anxious look.
'‘Are you alright?’'
Feuilly was startled by his own whimper. Children was all he could think about. They are all dead. ‘'Vivent les peuples’' he murmured. They are all going to die.
Jehan stared at their friend. His face looked ashen and his gaze was lost. They should be surprised by his reaction but they were not. They remembered their own nightmares, the frantic scribbling on paper wet by tears. The injustice of it all, the feeling when you write down your screams, your cryings. You write because the other option is curling up and collapsing inside.
A part of him wrote this for Feuilly. They knew he would understand in a way no one else can. Maybe some sort of curse binding them together. Some sort of comfort in sharing tears because the other option was dying alone in the dark.
Feuilly came back to himself blinking tears: '‘It’s… I am sorry… I don’t know what happened to-‘'
'‘Apology is the last thing I want my dear. I am the one who should ask for forgiveness, I should’ve warned you or not read it at all.’’
Feuilly shook his head: '‘It was… I shouldn’t say beautiful right? It made my heart bleed. It… It felt familiar. Too much. It hurt to understand.’’
Jehan nodded, they knew the exact pain.
‘’Can I… Can I keep it?’’
‘’It would be my honour.’’
Feuilly smiled tearfully. Silence settled once more, heavier with the paper between them.
---
Feuilly was sitting across the cafe with his head resting on his arms. He was silently praying that no one would come in. He just wanted to sleep. Better yet, turn off the world and have some peace. His rage shimmered under layers of exhaustion. Hidden between the layers, there were shame and fear. Questions-
How can this go on?
How much I can take this?
He wanted to cry, to scream, to break. He wanted to find someone and shake them
Can’t you see this?
Can’t you see this is wrong?
Bell ring dragged him through the mud of his mind and he jumped in reflex. He even put his ‘fake smile’ on and spoke an automatic ‘Welcome’. But he was cut short when he recognized the person. His fake smile dropped immediately, replaced by something much more tired but a bit more genuine: '‘Hi Jehan’'
Jehan came in with a tired smile of their own. Then stopped in their tracks to look over Feuilly. '
‘What happened to you?’'
Their friend looked like ( got run over by a truck Jehan’s usually elegant mind supplied). His clothes were a mess, his face was covered by scrapes and bruises. He was holding a bloody napkin to his nose. Even among all the injuries, what really worried Jehan was his hunched appearance, leaning heavily to the counter. His red dimmed eyes completed his look of exhaustion.
Jehan ran towards the counter. Feuilly turned his back and shrugged even though the motion hurt a bit:
‘'A bit ruffed up, nothing serious.''
Now at the counter, Jehan glared at the concealing truth. Feuilly called behind: ‘'Tea or coffee?’'
Jehan stayed silent for a few seconds. Feuilly didn’t turn around, so they finally sighed with a defeated tone: '‘Coffee, please.’'
Feuilly went through the order –he could make it in his sleep- albeit a bit slower than usual. They did not speak until he placed the coffee in front of Jehan and placed his mug next to it.
‘’Sorry, no buns today. I forget to save them in the morning.’'
Jehan just shook their head. Silence didn’t dissolve, instead settled over Feuilly’s already aching shoulders. He glanced at his friend but Jehan wasn’t looking at him. For someone who made their way and life on words, his friend surely knew how to armour silence. Feuilly took a sip from his smouldering coffee
(He couldn’t stand it lukewarm. What is the point of ‘hot beverage’ if it doesn’t burn your tongue? Jehan on the other hand always waited for a little before drinking, preferring the room temperature which Feuilly always scoffed).
Finally he sighed.
Normally he would just go on to his day. He was a self-made man. He could take care of himself, that was the whole point. He did not have the choice of depending on people- what would happen when they are eventually gone? He hated feeling desperate- No. The truth was he feared it. A part of him knew that it was okay to receive help, even ask for it. However, the stubborn voice in his head insisted that what mattered is to take care of himself. That’s how you survive.
It was still strange to see someone worried about him. Not pity on your local orphan but actually worry. He did not know what to do with it.
(It was the same feeling of too big hand-me-down clothes of the orphanage- but still, even they felt like they belonged)
He was clumsy with his friend’s care but he still tried. (He was not a hot-headed teen anymore who took pride a bit too far). He knew it hurt to see a loved one aching and not being able to help. He used this to convince himself and collect his courage.
‘’There…‘’
Jehan looked with such hope and worry that Feuilly dropped his gaze to his coffee. ‘’...there was a protest today. At the square.'’
Jehan nodded: '‘Yes I know. I was there too.’'
Feuilly looked up in surprise ‘'You were?’'
‘'Well I joined in late and at one point accidentally ended up on the other side. I found my way back though.’'
'‘I am glad you are alright.''
''I... thanks.'' They said with a sombre smile: ''I avoided most of the turmoil but still, I heard-''
Jehan just looked down at their coffee instead of finishing their words.
‘’The police…’’ continued Feuilly instead: ‘’They were rough.’’
Jehan asked in a panicked tone: ‘'Did they take you?’'
Feuilly shook their head: ''Got away in the last minute. Still did a number on me though. The pepper spray was a bit too much.’' His eyes still hurt.
‘'Any serious injuries?’'
‘'No no, I am fine really. Like I said- just ruffed up. Nothing serious.’' Feuilly paused for a minute then added in a hushed tone: ‘'I was lucky.’'
Jehan just nodded grimly. Tested their coffee and deemed it too hot to drink. Feuilly watched them. He was relieved to see their friend unharmed – a part of him was sneering at the injustice of it but Feuilly knew better than to listen to that rage.-
''Do you… do you know that I am afraid of the dark?''
Jehan’s gaze was lost as they grabbed the mug with sleeves covering their hands. Feuilly shook his head to catch the conversation he seemed to lost. Jehan took it as a sign and continued:
''Most children do I suppose even most people but… Mine was different. My grandmother told me not to be afraid of monsters in the dark- they were just legends, they would be afraid of me more. I was never really afraid of monsters or ghosts. I had this… feeling I suppose. I was afraid that I was going to die. Every time darkness surrounded me I thought This will be the last thing I see . I still do.
When I told it to my mother- she said it would be peaceful to die in your sleep. No, no one should die in the dark. Just waiting for your final blow and trying to hear- trying to shout- to reach but you can’t see you can’t- … The protest, I do not know why but it reminded me of that fear.''
They paused. And in a hushed tone:
''I am still afraid, I will die in a darkness that I can’t escape.''
Feuilly gently held Jehan’s hand between their warm coffees. His hand was rough and covered in bruises- Jehan gently squeezed. Feuilly did not offer comforting words- he could not find any phrase that wasn’t empty behind. Instead, he held his empty mug just to do something.
''I had a fear too.''
He started, trying to break his rough armour wishing to breathe. He never really told this to anyone. But he felt safe in the hands of the poet:
''…still do. One day I will wake up- and no one will know me. Everyone I know will deem me unimportant. They won’t even try to remember my name. If I died the next day- I will be just forgotten- erased. Like I never lived in the first place- like it did not even matter.''
He took a deep breath. Jehan squeezed his hand once more.
''I used to carve things you know? Tables, chairs, walls… Just leave a mark somewhere- just enough to remind myself that I existed.
But that won’t be enough, will it? When I die, I will be buried in an unknown cemetery. No one would even write my name. My birthday- my surname my name will be just.. gone. I spent so much time trying to hold on to this world and no one will even notice my marks.
... And what for?''
His voice started to shake and he hated himself for it. He felt weak voicing his doubts but he was so tired god he was so tired:
''All the things we try- What good does it do? What do we fight for when it feels like the same words are shouted over and over?''
Jehan took his other hand and kissed his scraped knuckles:
''I know that… it feels lost. Or it was lost from the start. It is so difficult to find hope when you are on your knees. There is nothing wrong with hesitations and moments of darkness. But even the darkest night will end. And then the sun will rise. Until then, we will sit together.''
Feuilly opened his mouth to object but Jehan acted faster:
''I am here.''
Feuilly’s shoulders relaxed. Somehow the words were exactly what he needed to hear. He only nodded and silently wiped his tears. His body ached still but his soul gained a bit of peace. At least he was not alone. At least he carved something into this world, even though his signature is unrecognizable.
---
Feuilly wrapped his scarf, took his brown fingerless gloves from his pocket and tightened his coat. The snow melted long ago but the winter still gave her last biting cold winds. He stepped outside of the cafe towards his waiting friend. He linked his arm through Jehan’s and began walking.
It was a rare time for him – he took the morning shift to cover for someone and he was free for the evening. When he mentioned that the other day Jehan smiled wide and invited him over to their house. ‘'I can do your nails’' became the final blow in his defences. Jehan loved doing nail arts- their nails were always a masterpiece. Nail polish never lasted long in Feuilly’s life but he still has a weak spot for it- he had an almost dried black one back at home for the days he wanted to treat himself.
Plus the tiredness that seemed to settle in his bones forever weighted even more heavily on him these days. He hoped a nice evening with a friend would give him the energy to go on a while longer.
The sun was setting, leaving a trail of blood in the sky. The pair walked toward the cemetery. Jehan – ever the Romantic- began talking about their love of graveyards. Their floral skirt was floating behind them in the wind. Their hair was in a loose braid around their shoulders. They looked like a god of spring in the middle of the Underworld.
''Do you know who lies here?''
Feuilly just shook his head still watching his friend. He noticed the shift in their tone. It was no longer the happy and passionate ramble but more of a distant emotion. Almost like grief.
''The stories say that there was a rebellion. They were students, blood boiling with youth and rage. Students, minds clouded with rubbish and dreams. They were naive enough to think they could change the world. They did not.
The stories say the blood did not wash off the streets for weeks. That you could still see the darker shade on the pavement. That you could feel the dents on the wall.
The stories say they were buried here. Under one gravestone. Never written just like their future. Now the students lay here as they wait for the change they died for. The stories say they will wait for an eternity more. But when the bright future that they dared to hope for eventually comes – because every future eventually does- finally the gravestone will have their names on it and they will be at peace.
The stories say that you can still hear their songs, right at the dawn.''
Feuilly did not realize that they stopped. He did not realize Jehan was looking at him. He did not realize that his vision was blurry. He did not realize he was sitting at the side of the road. He did not realize he can’t breathe his lungs hurt there is blood everywhere ' ‘Feuilly?'’ he couldn’t breathe he is choking on his own blood is this how he dies where are his friends ‘'Feuily calm do-‘' it hurts oh god is that Joly on the ground he can’t breath there is so much blood he can't bre-
'' Calm down. My dear calm down I am here you are safe. Feuilly breathe with me you are safe, please.''
Feuilly looked at Jehan with half delirious eyes. He tried to match his breathing with his friend but He is dying- there is blood he is dying where are his friends he is- At one point Jehan pulled him to their chest-Feuilly just followed the movement. He needs to find- he needs to find his friends he can’t- there is blood He clutched to Jehan like a lifeline. Where are his friends? He choked on his breaths. Jehan stroked his back in calm circles. He tried to anchor himself in his friend- in this reality. There are gunshots- has anyone managed to escape? He won’t be able to escape ‘’Breathe, just like that just-‘’ There is blood everywhere is everyone- god is everyone de- ‘'Breathe.’’
Feuilly’s breaths turned into sobs ‘’Jehan- god Jehan I- I- What’s happening Jehan?’’ Jehan just held him, both to comfort their friend and to calm down themself. They remembered another time kneeling. They remembered Long live the future! It hit them- the darkness- the bullets. They were not going to see the sky again No- no- no they shook their head, looked up and saw the colours of sunset slowly fading into darkness. They tried to name the colours, and commit them to memory. They tried to feel Feuilly in their arms. The roughness of their coat, the curls of his hair and his shaking form- saying, pleading, asking ‘’Jehan I am so sorry I was not-‘’
''Shh. Don’t, Feuilly don’t. We are here. My friend, we are here now. Alive.''
Feuilly straightened a bit to look at their face. Searching for something in their tears and lines of grief. ‘’We were not. We were… Is all of it a dream?’’
Jehan hesitated for a second and then shook his head ‘’Even if it were, is it any different from the dream we share right now?’’
‘’They… we died.’’ Feuilly said with an air of finality. Jehan nodded. Then held his hand, kissed it and looked him in the eyes:
''I thought I was alone. I thought I was lost.''
Their voice cracked. They remembered the darkness- they never forget it. They remembered-
''I am glad I found you Jehan. No- you found me. Thank you.''
Jehan smiled and wiped their friend’s tears as Feuilly laughed. A bit broken, a bit too loud but still better than nothing.
Two lost souls, sitting in front of an unknown graveyard.
Two souls now found.
They will talk about their dreams. Their fears and aches. How they feel cornered in dead-end streets, how police make them wary. They will talk about the weariness in their souls for the fight is not over and far from it. They will talk bout their joy for things actually changed for the better, even better than their dreams. They will talk about their hope because everything can still be better and they will always fight for the sunrise. They will talk- they will remember. They will remember an old cafe dimmer than they realized but filled with bright souls. They will remember their companions and wonder. They will remember their night conversations not so different from this life. They will be glad for the moments they shared and no doubt will continue to share. They will eat and drink and laugh and cry and rage and fear. They will do all of that in the evening and for many evenings to come. However, right at this moment they rise from the ground, shake the dirt off their clothes and continue their path home, hand in hand.
It was a quiet night in the cafe. A few customers here and there Feuilly was taking care of. He put the playlist that Jehan made, ‘Spring Blooms’, for celebrating the arrival of warmth.
(Feuilly actually prefered autumn but still allowed Jehan to paint his nails light pink)
The creator themselves was sitting at the table in the corner working on their poem. (Based on the far-away look at their gaze Feuilly already guessed the theme.)
He turned to the other corner where another customer was sitting. He was a ragged-looking man, currently leaning on the table writing something in his notebook. His curly unruled hair blocked what he was doing. Feuilly approached him when he saw his mug empty: ‘'Anything else I can get-‘' He stopped and narrowed his eyes. He mumbled something like in a dream and finally looked up at the man’s face.
Jehan was trying to find a rhyme for ‘dandelion’ when they heard a noise that broke the quiet of the cafe. Their gaze immediately snapped to their friend who was- Stranglinig someone? No Feuilly wouldn’t do violence in the cafe -
As Jehan approached the table of the event, they noticed Feuilly was not attacking the customer- he was hugging him. Mumbling something Jehan couldn’t hear but apparently, the man could. The man hugged him right back after the initial shock and promptly burst into tears. Jehan, trying to solve the puzzle noticed the open notebook next to the forgotten cup on the table.
Oh- they would recognize that face anywhere. It was a sketch but just the sight of that eyes brought Jehan close to tears.
‘'Ah, Grantaire.’'
His eyes widened at the name and found Jehan’s gaze. There was recognition in his eyes, and a mix of emotions that could not be described- only be experienced in two different lifetimes. Jehan lunched forward and hugged their friends, promising to never let go.
Enjolras smiled at them from the picture.