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To say Jehan Prouvaire was obsessed with death was an understatement. It wasn’t that he was morbid, or suicidal, no, nothing of the sort. He just found an odd sort of beauty in the brevity of life. In flowers that grew and bloomed and then wilted, gone for a season of frost in a never ending cycle. He finds himself staring at things and wondering about their shelf life. Apples rot, foxes starve, people kill each other.
He says as much to Montparnasse, his room mate in the university halls, who tells him he’s smoked too much weed and should shut up before ‘Parnasse shuts him up for good. Jehan just laughs, even though he’s unsure whether or not Montparnasse means it or not. He’s just that kind of figure.
He’s always reminded of that quote ‘we’re beautiful because we are doomed’ and he really believes it. There is such beauty in the world, but there is ugliness too. So when he listens to Enjolras speak, he paints a picture in his mind, of a world that is illuminated by the light of democracy, where weeds aren’t trampled or dug out and are left to grow as free as roses, he feels a little hope with this new rag tag bunch of friends.
He compares his friends to flowers too, it’s a habit he can’t break; and he doesn’t particularly want to. Enjolras is a lily; pale and pretty, sturdy stems, full of symbolism and because of that they are cut and put in bouquets. Grantaire is a sunflower, growing tall when left outside but stunted if denied sunlight; the way he follows Enjolras as though he was his own personal sun adds to that particular metaphor.
He casts his gaze to Marius, dark haired and shy; Jehan feels like he and Marius are fairly similar in that aspect. But there is a purity in Marius that makes him a snowdrop. Small and easily missed, but full of soft white innocence.
He’s obsessed with death because he knows ultimately that is what is waiting for him. He says as much to Courfeyrac one day, who looks affronted, as though the thought hasn’t occurred to him and of course it hasn’t. Because Courfeyrac is so full of life and laughter and vibrance that Jehan thinks he’s a pressed flower, picked out of the ground at the optimum moment and carefully preserved in that state of perfection between the soft pages of an old book, forever that right shade of pink or red or lilac.
“I don’t think so. I think you’re going to live forever, in the words you write.” Courfeyrac is leafing through his journal at the time, exclaiming when he sees a phrase he likes and inquiring when he doesn’t understand a metaphor.
Jehan just smiles and pats his head because that wasn’t his point and Courfeyrac knows it. Courfeyrac sighs, “It feels like we’re immortal.” He says. And Jehan understands what he means. Courfeyrac surrounds himself in the bustle of everyday life, he doesn’t do melancholy like Jehan does. He does life, instead. He doesn’t waste time figuring out what kind of flowers his friends would be because he knows that they are not flowers, they are human beings with thoughts and feelings and he loves that. He loves that they are alive, now, with blood rushing through their veins and experiences and memories and Jehan loves that Courfeyrac sees them as such.
“You’d be a rose.” Courfeyrac says one day, which makes Jehan look up from his writings, startled, because he didn’t realise that Courfeyrac was capable of seeing things through Jehan’s own tinted lenses. He doesn’t know how to feel about being a rose, a symbol of love and sweetness. “You’re thorny.” He taps Jehan’s spiked bracelet as if to make the point, “and pretty, but also you’re very useful like rose water and sexy like rose petals on a bed-“ Jehan blushes despite himself, and can’t stop his laughter from coming because of course, of course Courfeyrac would take it literally rather than trying to figure out the metaphysical aspects. “Like one of those roses bushes that grow in fields and it’s impossible to get to the flower bit because you’re just a jumble of vines and thorns.” Jehan doesn’t know whether to take it as a compliment or not, but he knows Courfeyrac means it well.
He writes a poem that night, and he’s certain it is the best thing he’s ever written. He calls it “The Resurrection of Roses” and he shows it to Courfeyrac the morning after before he can change his mind and burn it.
Courfeyrac reads it, making approving sounds. “I like the last lines.” He says as he hands it back to Jehan.
But the roots of flowers do not die
So easy in the frost, buried six feet under
In the warmth of the earth alongside the worms
There is always a way back for them.