“Jehan,” Courfeyrac says, in a rare moment of solemnity. “I would be lucky to see the world as you do.”
Jehan does not know what to say.
What does one possibly say to a statement like that?
So he stays quiet, as is often his wont, and smiles and looks at the ground.
Courfeyrac laughs and teases him about the way he is blushing, and the moment passes.
* * *
When Jehan Prouvaire was a little child, his mother had worried for him.
“My only child, and there is something odd about him,” she had said.
“You speak so little,” she had said.
“You frighten me, always sitting there looking at me, never saying a word. Go play, my child,” she had said.
Jehan had never possessed the need that some children seemed to have, to speak to hear their own voices, to garner attention.
He had been a quiet child, with few friends and no siblings, and none of the rambunctious energy many boys possess.
He had been too busy learning and watching life go by.
Even as a child, Jehan had been filled with wonder at the world around him. (See the way those finches hop along the branches and the way the sun looks through a cloud and the vibrant colors of the flowers in his mother’s garden.)
Even as a child, Jehan fell in love easily and often.
* * *
Quiet boys do not always grow into quiet men.
Jehan does exactly that, however, and adulthood finds him mild-mannered, mostly-pleasant, sometimes-melancholy, still fond of songbirds and the way the sun looks through a cloud and flowers, and possessing a peculiar air of timidity that occasionally disappeared entirely when he was worked up about something.
Jehan had been a quiet child, with few friends.
He is, for most purposes, a grown man now, still quiet, and it cannot be said that he has many friends, precisely, but the friends he has are larger than life.
* * *
Sometimes, Jehan thinks that it is odd that so many people seem to lack the ability to see what is in front of their eyes.
Years of watching has translated into seeing, and it has served him well.
(He falls in love with the way the moon seems to watch him at night. The slightly curved lips of the girl who works in the bookshop across from the café. The sound of rain hitting thousands of rooftops across the arrondissement.)
Or not so well, as it were.
(There are so many people starving in the streets and there are not enough jobs to go around and there are mothers with dead babies in their arms and hungry children clinging to their skirts.)
It makes things difficult, occasionally, because by nature, he is both highly empathetic and highly observant.
He sees, and so he feels.
He sees the suffering all around him.
He knows he is fortunate, and he feels guilty for it.
He sees, and so he is struck with a burning desire to change things.
Quiet men are not always passive men.
* * *
The main part of the Café Musain is, at most times, a lively place, buzzing with a warm energy.
The backroom that Les Amis de l’Abaissé frequent is chaotic and calm by turns, and never seems to reach a happy medium.
Jehan loves the room, for its slightly crooked walls and creaky floorboards and cobwebbed corners, for the way that it seems a little too small to hold all of them at once but always manages to accommodate everybody that finds their way in, for the way the warmth spreads from the fireplace on cold nights.
He also, he supposes, loves the room for the people it contains.
He never loves the room more than when Enjolras speaks in a low, tense voice, eyes flashing, with everyone’s attention on him. When Courfeyrac stirs up a lively debate between his friends, which nearly always culminates in a shouting match. When he and Combeferre sit and discuss some lecture or essay as the others drink themselves into oblivion. When he watches Feuilly absent-mindedly doodle on a stray piece of paper as they talk. When Joly tries to convince them that he is, as a matter of fact, seriously ill.
He loves the room because he belongs.
He can sit and watch, and speak when he has a mind to, and not fear that he has no place with these men.
They are all different, from varying families and social classes and interests, each of them that gather here.
It is of no consequence, Jehan thinks, because they are all the same in the only way that matters.
They yearn for change.
* * *
Jehan has his role in this peculiar group of young men.
He is the dreamer, the one who can be found sitting and staring out a window with a blank look on his face.
He is the poet, the one who scribbles on napkins and collects words and strings them together into thoughts and especially feelings.
He is the one who can be counted on to be kind, the one who can be counted on to pass no judgment. The one who can be counted on to tell no lies.
(Jehan may speak less than the others, but when he speaks, only the truth passes his lips.)
He is also the youngest, and as a result, the others seem to take particular care to make sure he does not come to harm.
He thinks that this is what it means to have brothers.
* * *
The others keep an eye out for him.
He does the same.
He does so surreptitiously, because no one likes another to notice his struggles.
Jehan notices them all the same.
He is an only child, and his family is well off. He has never wanted for anything, has always been able to fund his studies, has always had clothes on his back and a roof over his head and food on the table.
This makes him, if anything, more acutely aware of the fact that some of his fellows are not so fortunate.
He doesn’t meddle.
He knows, instinctively, that sometimes, when pride is all one has left, they cling to it all the more fiercely.
* * *
Jehan does not meddle.
On the other hand, he does not stand by and watch a friend wither away in body and spirit.
Feuilly has been out of proper work for weeks now, and the wages he earns are not enough. He is quieter and perhaps more determined than ever and there is a tired look in his eyes that never seems to leave.
Jehan watches, and he sees, and his heart breaks a little.
He cannot think what he can do to help without seeming condescending, however, and he settles for doing the only thing he possibly can-- he pulls Feuilly into deep discussions about whatever he’s noticed Feuilly studying, and if he has to read an extra book here and there to keep up with the other man-- well. It’s the least he can do. And if he, more often than not, steers the group to the Corinthe instead of the Café Musain because Courfeyrac always drinks more than is good for him and orders enough food to feed all of them and then some-- well.
He does what he can.
It does not stop him from feeling useless, though, when he’s walking to dinner with a girl he’s been seeing, holding an umbrella over them both to protect them from the sudden downpour, and he catches sight of Feuilly ducking under an awning to gain respite from the rain.
Feuilly leans against the wall wearily, shoulders slightly slumped, and closes his eyes for a second.
Jehan aches for him.
“Jehan,” Élodie says. “What is the matter?”
“Everything,” Jehan says softly, because a world in which Feuilly and his clever fingers and sharp eyes and intelligence cannot find work better than hard manual day-to-day labour because he dared to stand up for his rights cannot possibly be right.
She looks at him, eyebrows raised.
“Everything, and nothing,” he amends. “Come, let us hurry. There is a chill in the air.”
“Yes,” she says, “And a pity, for I was so hoping to show off that lovely painted fan you had made for me.”
And Jehan freezes.
“That fan,” he says, slowly. “The painted fan I commissioned for you.”
“It is beautiful,” Élodie says, and she offers him the smile that he had fallen in love with the first time he saw it.
“Élodie,” he says, “Here, take the umbrella and go on. I will be just a moment. Please.”
“All right,” she says, “That is fine, I will wait for you inside. Are you feeling quite all right?”
“Yes,” he says, handing her the umbrella, “Yes, I think I am. Thank you, and I am sorry, but I won’t be long.”
He finds his way back to the little shop of painted fans, and bursts in, soaking wet and hopeful.
“Monsieur, please,” the owner says, sounding not a little alarmed.
“Monsieur,” Jehan says, “I apologize for my appearance. I came here and bought a fan from you several weeks ago, and I was just coming in to inquire whether you are taking on painters at this time?”
The man looks him over, and his expression clears. “Ah, yes. Prouvaire. The fan you purchased was one of my best.”
“Yes,” Jehan says, “My Élodie was enchanted. Now, monsieur, are you perhaps looking for a painter?”
The man looks puzzled, but he nods. “I am always on the lookout for anyone well-versed in the craft,” he says.
“May I give your information to a painter I know?” Jehan asks.
“Yes,” the man says.
“Thank you, monsieur,” Jehan says, and his heart feels lighter. “I thank you.”
And he ducks out of the shop and back into the street, and the rain seeps into his clothes and his hair and his skin and he tilts his face upwards to welcome the cool water and it feels like the beginnings of a victory of some sort.
And when he passes the man’s information to Enjolras, with a swiftly whispered explanation, Enjolras offers him a smile and a clap on the back.
And when Enjolras comes to him the next week with Feuilly’s thanks, and Feuilly comes into the back room of the Café Musain one day with a laugh and a lighter step--
Well.
Jehan does not meddle, but he does not miss opportunities to help a friend in need.
* * *
Everyone is discontented.
Jehan sees it in the eyes of the people.
Maybe they are ready, he thinks to himself.
Maybe it is time for change.
* * *
“You are all going to die, and for what cause?” Grantaire’s voice rings out, and he is drunk as usual.
The others barely notice by now, although Combeferre casts him a disapproving look.
Jehan says, “For France, and her people. For the world, and her people. If we must die, so be it.”
“So it shall be,” Courfeyrac says, smiling impishly. He, too, has perhaps had one drink too many. “We shall all perish in our mission to save the world from injustice, and we shall be remembered for years to come. Vive la République!”
“So be it,” Jehan repeats, firmly.
He says it, and he believes it.
He does.
But conviction does not completely drown out fear.
* * *
He keeps a pot of miniature pompom roses in his bedroom, by the window.
He’s had the roses for years, now-- he had brought them from home when he first moved to Paris for school.
It’s funny, he thinks, that these roses have been watching him for so long. They have seen girls come and go, have seen his friends play cards in his room, have seen him deep in his studies and deep in a bottle of wine, have seen him in moods ranging from ecstatic to morose.
Jehan thinks that maybe his roses know him better than anyone.
If roses could mourn, he thinks that they would mourn for him.
The unrest is growing by the day, and Enjolras’ intensity with it.
Les Amis de l’Abaissé plan and plot and prepare.
Jehan has thrown in his lot with the greatest group of men in Paris, the ones with the clearest eyes and bravest hearts. The ones who dare to dream of a future so much better than the times they live in now.
He thinks that great men don’t often live long lives.
He doesn’t know if he is a great man.
Sometimes, he thinks that he wants to be.
Other times, he thinks that all he wants is to finish his studies and tend his roses and live quietly to the end of his days.
He is too restless for that, though. When there is change to be had and progress to be made, he wants to be there, contributing.
Perhaps that makes him a great man.
Perhaps, in the times they live in, that makes him a doomed man.
Perhaps his roses will outlive him, he thinks, as he clips the dead leaves from the little bush.
* * *
It is summer.
It is hot and there is an odd tension permeating the streets and Jehan is uncomfortable.
He loves the summertime, normally, because it seems like the world is basking in the warmth of the sun and things seem a little happier.
This summer, the temperature is stifling and oppressive and heavy.
If it were possible to drown in the heat of the sun, Jehan thinks they would all be dead.
He wishes autumn would come sooner.
* * *
It is loud and everything is blood-red and there are guns flashing on either side of him.
He is terrified, and honest enough to admit to himself that he is.
They are going to die.
They are all going to die here, and he’s sorry for it, because they might have had so much to live for.
There are things worth living for, he thinks, and there are things worth dying for.
France and her people-- they are worth dying for.
If he is going to die, he will die proudly for his cause.
There is a moment in which he locks gazes with Enjolras. Enjolras’ blue eyes are blazing, and his mouth is stern, unapologetic. There is something in those blue eyes that accepts their fate, and welcomes it. There is not a touch of regret in his expression, although perhaps there is sadness.
Jehan draws strength from his leader and his friend.
He is going to die here, at the barricade.
He finds that he is not sorry.
* * *
“You are going to die,” the soldier says.
Jehan closes his eyes briefly.
He is not sorry he is going to die.
He has always suspected that this would happen.
He has always known that it could only end like this.
He hopes that he is not in view of the others.
He hopes that they will not see him die. It would break their hearts, he thinks, because they have spent such a long time trying to keep him safe. It would break their hearts and Courfeyrac would do something rash.
He hopes that they know that he does not regret meeting them. He does not regret being one of Les Amis de l’Abaissé.
(He has known respect and friendship and brotherhood. He has seen courage and self-sacrifice and passion and faith in them. He has loved each of them, and he would not trade what he has for anything.)
The soldiers shove him to his feet. “Last words?”
Jehan takes a breath. There is so much he would like to say. So many words, on the tip of his tongue. So many words, and the poet in him savors the taste of them.
In the end, there is only one thing he can say.
“Vive la France!” he says, letting his voice carry. “Vive l'avenir!”
He sees the flash from the guns, then hears the crack.
He has spent all his days learning to see his life.
He only has this chance to see his death.
Jehan does not close his eyes.
