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In those heavy days in June
When love became an act of defiance
"Is everything quite alright? You look…"
It took Valjean a moment to realize what made him think something was wrong: Javert's cravat, always neatly tied and proper, was half undone.
"Yes, yes," the inspector muttered, not quite meeting his eyes. "Would you mind taking a sit?"
"Would you like some tea? I can…"
"No! Sit,” Javert breathed out through his teeth and tried to soften his manners with visible effort: “Please. Just hear me out."
Valjean swallowed, feeling even more anxious now.
"Has something happened?" for a brief moment he put his hand on Javert's elbow and the man all but shuddered at this simple touch. Valjean withdrew his hand hastily, but Javert's expression didn't become any less lost.
"Nothing you should be worrying about," he answered flatly.
Not quite believing it, Valjean reluctantly took a sit on the sofa. Javert stood before him almost at attention, like he was about to give a report. For some time he just watched Valjean silently, but he felt he was not being seen at all. The sound of the wall clock was deafeningly loud in his ears. Valjean attempted to conceal his anxiety, but it was hard to stay still, as Javert's gaze made him uncomfortable as it has not for a long while now. He clenched his hands nervously, and Javert's stare fell on them. His stance broke, and he started pacing, now avoiding looking at Valjean altogether.
"I know you wouldn't want to hear what I have to say, but I cannot keep my silence anymore," Javert said. "You were a good friend to me for a year, although God knows I couldn't understand why."
Valjean longed to stand up, to capture the restless wrist and stop Javert from pulling at his long-suffering sideburns, but he didn't dare.
"You know I'm not used to… friendly relationships. For a long while, I thought it was the reason for... But no. There's something else, and I found a name for it, although this name has frightened me even unspoken, in the solitude of my rooms. Not many things could scare me before, but – ha! – look at me now!"
Javert's barking laugh was unpleasant to the ear, but Valjean has long since grown used to it. During the last year, Javert's face, which appeared to be intimidating and almost repulsive in the past, and his peculiar smile, and his rare sharp laughter – all of it became dear to Valjean. Now, at the sight of his friend's erratic mood, his heart clenched with the foreboding of a disaster yet unknown.
Javert fell silent again, staring at the wall and looking quite lost. Valjean couldn't help himself anymore: he went to Javert’s side and took his hand into his own, cradling it, trying to convey with the touch all the reassurance he was capable of and all the calm he wasn't actually feeling himself. At his touch Javert startled, shuddering with his whole body. He didn't try to take his hand away, though, but rather was clinging to Valjean, and his eyes were searching for something desperately in Valjean's face.
"Perhaps you will be able to forgive me, although I do not dare to hope," Javert murmured. "I tried to be a good friend to you, but I'm afraid I can do it no more."
"What are you saying?" inexplicable anxiety, mixed with some other feeling Valjean couldn't find the name for, was closing his throat.
Javert's hand in his was scorching hot, but Valjean didn't want to let go. A shadow of some monstrous inner exertion passed on Javert's face – (how could Valjean ever failed to notice the human beneath the uniform, the way his feelings were always reflected plainly and truthfully on his face?) – and turned into some sort of desperate, yet sublime resignation.
There was something else in his eyes, some kind of feeling Valjean managed to grasp just a moment before Javert said it out loud:
"I love you."
Javert's hand fell out of his own, weakened, and the shadow of a bitter smile passed on the inspector's face.
"I don't understand," Valjean said and realized instantly it was a lie.
"I love you," Javert repeated with that same anguished humility he displayed years ago while asking to be dismissed from his post. "Not as man is supposed to love his neighbor, but as… I don't know, how. But it makes me feel like I am lying to you, just pretending to be your friend, while this feeling festers in me, while my thoughts – yes, I will say even this! – while my thoughts are not pure. Send me away, for I deserve it, but I cannot lie to you anymore."
Javert stepped back and only then did Valjean realize that this whole time they were standing less than a step apart. Javert took away the wave of warm air and left in its stead the hot, unbearable lump in Valjean's throat and chest. He swallowed, and then swallowed again, but the words refused to come, and his head was empty.
He didn't know how much time has passed, but, apparently, his silence has lasted for far too long, because Javert lowered his eyes and took another step back.
"I will go, Monsieur. No need to see me out."
Valjean found his voice when Javert was already near the door.
"Will you come back?" he didn't know whether it was a question or a request and couldn't think about it now.
"If you want me to," Javert answered lowly, without turning around, and there was some kind of bitter irony in his voice.
The door behind him closed without making a sound.
Valjean fell on the sofa and for a long time just sat there motionlessly, staring at his hands.
***
He couldn't fall asleep that night. Every word, every expression on Javert's face paraded behind his mind's eye as if there were a gallery of mirrors in his head, endlessly reflecting these memories. When he tried to think of something else, he only succeeded in remembering that time in the Luxembourg garden when Javert held his hand to help him out of the carriage and seemed to be far too quiet and pensive afterwards; all those times he listened to Valjean reading out loud, staring at him intently (this stare ceased to be uncomfortable pretty quickly); all those times he asked about Valjean's health and reprimanded him for not eating enough.
Was it all just leading – to this?
Valjean shuddered and rolled over to the other side, but the movement offered him no relief.
He knew love. He loved Cosette. Still he couldn't imagine the kind of love she felt for Marius and he – for her; the kind of love in the novels when at first glance the hero was stricken by the other's – female! – beauty, everything was decided through coy glances and smiles, and, after overcoming all plot-appropriate obstacles, the pair were united in marital bliss. Javert couldn't offer him his hand. The church couldn't offer them its blessing, only condemnation, and – oh!
Valjean threw off the coverlets but pulled them back up immediately, as the cool night air was unpleasant on his heated skin. Valjean wanted to believe the Lord would be merciful to any love, but Javert said it himself, his thoughts were not pure, and…
Valjean bit his lip, almost drawing blood, and squeezed his eyes shut, but Javert's face in his mind became even more clear for that.
What could Javert's love be, if not the kind of love Valjean found in the novels, the kind of love he saw when he looked around, with long walks in the park (but they did have such walks), with faces filled with adoration (Javert's face wouldn't leave him), with marriage, and children, and family – all of it was incongruous to what Javert was talking about, all of it was impossible, unthinkable.
"I love you."
Unthinkable!
Valjean fell into restless slumber – and the same thoughts and images kept haunting him. He woke up only a couple of hours later, with the heavy head and heart. The sun was not yet rising, but the night's sky was losing its depth. Tethered to the shaky edge between the sleep and the wakefulness, Valjean kept pondering the same problem, but instead of the coherent thoughts, there were only images now, slow and heavy-weight, as though the material of his dreams was leeching into the world of consciousness. He imagined the young lovers in the Luxembourg gardens. He imagined himself and Javert as well, but something was lacking in the picture he was seeing. He put his hand on Javert's elbow. They kept walking hand in hand, shoulders touching, and it was easy to imagine the warmth of Javert's body. His hands were still hot from where he hold his hand only a couple of hours ago.
It was so easy to imagine.
What else?
What did he feel when Javert said "I love you?"
Valjean didn't know. Something large, heavy and hot moved in his chest, both then and now. On that same verge of wakefulness, Valjean rolled on the other side, curling into a ball to ease the unbearable tension within. His hands were hot with the memory of touch. They stood, now Valjean saw it clearly, way too close for it to be proper between friends, and still he didn't feel there was something wrong with it. He liked standing that close to Javert, liked touching him.
Valjean fell asleep and woke up again, or so he thought. His whole body was heavy. Whether his eyes were open or closed, he could see Javert as clearly as if he were really there. Valjean wanted to offer him to take a sit but couldn't say a word. The inspector's shadow loomed beside his bed. Valjean heard of the demons coming at night, he knew this kind of nightmares himself, when someone else's presence couldn't be shaken off, when he couldn't even scream, but Javert's shadow in his restless mind didn't fill him with terror, quite the opposite, it calmed him down, as if the inspector stood there guarding, chasing off his bad dreams.
Hot and heavy something in his chest rolled and shifted, filling his whole body.
Valjean couldn't return his feelings. God forgive him, he couldn't even imagine what Javert felt, what kind of love was in his heart. Or could he?..
Valjean woke up. He felt like suffocating and threw the covers off.
"My thoughts are not pure," Javert said.
Valjean's mind stumbled over these words even more than the words of love. What could Javert think about, what could imagine, what could he want? Valjean felt that, if he could comprehend what was in his mind, if he could imagine what he was talking about, maybe he would be able to solve this unbearable puzzle somehow, could offer sympathy, could be a better friend.
He imagined them, as they were standing in the room together, imagined that, instead of taking a step back, Javert came even closer to him, leaned down and kissed him.
Valjean shuddered and put his hand to his mouth as if it could put a barrier between himself and this imaginary scene. Was it what Javert wanted? Was it what he was thinking about?
Unthinkable.
Was it what enamored couples did? (It was laughable to apply this word to Javert, but laughter was far from Valjean's mind.)
It was absurd to imagine Javert wanted to kiss him.
Valjean kept imagining it. In his mind's eye, he once again took Javert's hand, and his body responded with the recollection of warmth.
Never before had Valjean imagined kissing someone – maybe, back then, before that place took everything from him, but he didn't remember it anymore. He didn't remember, so he didn't know how he was supposed to be feeling, how people must be feeling when they imagined kissing a stranger, or their friend, or their beloved one. (Valjean tried to imagine kissing someone else except for Javert but couldn't even come up with a candidate.)
My thoughts are not pure.
It was like the stained-glass window fell out of its frame, shattering into thousands of colorful pieces, and Valjean couldn't discern the archangel's wing from the fires of hell anymore. Javert, beloved ones, impure thoughts – it didn't quite fit together. Valjean knew Javert (although, it seemed, worse than he would have thought.) Valjean knew love (how it looked like.) Valjean knew, what these impure thoughts could be, even between two men, for he had seen it there , although had tried very hard not to see. He even knew the desires of flesh, and accepted his own with humility, as a necessary consequence of being flesh and bone, but had never treated it as anything other than an unfortunate bodily function, and had never desired to have anyone beside him in those moments. The idea of someone else touching his intimate places seemed vaguely repulsive. Was it what Javert wanted, what he thought about? Valjean could see why Javert suffered so, admitting it.
Only to prove to himself that these two shards did not fit together, he tried to imagine Javert here, with him, in the early morning twilight, touching him, his back, his stomach – Valjean's mind shirked away from going any further, he choked up on air, and once again put his hand over his mouth, because instead of revulsion this imaginary scene only brought heat, that hot, clunky, heavy thing in his chest spilling over into his throat, in his heart, in the stomach and lower.
Incapable of bearing these thoughts any longer, Valjean sprang up to his feet, and started his morning ablutions, almost aggressively, putting his clothes on as if physical movement could help him get rid of the images lodging themselves into his head.
The broken stained-glass pieces still didn't fit together and still, Valjean felt like he could see the artist's design behind the chaos of the colorful shards; as if even without seeing the creature, he could still perceive the soul put into creation, like one can often feel the Lord's presence even in the ruins of a church.
Valjean drank some water and, foregoing any breakfast, went to work into the garden. He spent long hours there, not as much at peace as exhausted into calmness by the sleepless night, heat and his labor.
About 5 o'clock he went out and sent a gamin with a note, asking Javert to come this evening. Valjean still didn't know what he was going to say, only that he could not bear another night alone with his thoughts. He can ask for explanations, ask to help him understand. Then he would be able to be a better friend to Javert, not to lose him because of… because…
Exhausted, Valjean sat down to rest on a garden bench and fell asleep, wrapped in the heavy scent of jasmine in bloom.
***
He woke up from a gentle touch on his shoulder but didn't startle, as he always did when someone else woke him. Javert immediately tried to retreat, but Valjean, without thinking, gently caught his wrist. He felt at the same time heavy from the sleep and surprisingly clear-headed. It was growing dark and jasmine's scent was covering them both like a blanket.
"You wanted to see me," Javert said softly. He didn't try to disentangle but was staring resolutely at his feet.
Something grew in Valjean's chest, that hot, heavy and huge swelling like it was trying to break free from his ribcage.
"Sit with me, please," Valjean gently tugged at his wrist, making Javert take a place on the bench. Their knees were almost touching. Javert's awkward, stiff pose indicated he was trying to avoid it and occupy as little place as possible, but Valjean was not going to help him with that.
He knew keeping his silence was cruel now, but he still didn't know what to say, so he sat there, studying Javert's face, half-shadowed by the brim of his hat. He tried and failed to remember when that turned-up nose, perpetual frown and the bristling sideburns became so dear to him.
"Monsieur," there was torment in Javert's voice again, for Valjean's hand, still encasing his wrist, slipped a little lower, and Valjean's thumb was now touching bare skin. This little point of contact made Valjean inhale sharply. He didn't lift his hand. He wanted Javert to look at him but didn't know how to ask for it, so instead, he just spoke at his hat.
"I cannot begin to understand the feeling you were talking about."
"Don't…"
"Please, do hear me out."
"I'm not asking for…"
"Javert!"
Familiar from the time long past demanding tones of Monsieur le Maire made Javert not only fall silent but finally fully turn to face him. That heavy and hot shifted in Valjean's breast, and it was almost funny, almost something else entirely (but Valjean definitely wasn't ready to think about it now.)
"Javert, I... I am not sure what I want to say," Valjean admitted after another long pause. The persistent jasmine aroma intoxicated and lent a dream-like quality to the garden. A petal fell on Javert's shoulder and Valjean reached out to brush it away. Javert's breathing was quiet but uneven. "I don't understand how you can love me. What kind of love it can be. I don't know, I never knew. But I would like… I would like to take walks in the gardens like we used to. I would like to continue reading to you. And to see you. And… I would like to…"
Valjean inhaled like he was bracing himself before plunging into the sea.
"I would like to kiss you."
His own voice sounded deafeningly loud to him, and he immediately felt scared and ashamed of his words, but, before he could even think of taking them back, Javert nodded shakily. The part of Valjean, which made him break the window when he could have just asked, which made him attempt escaping again and again, which, during his lifetime, put him between a rock and a hard place just as much as saved him, that part, which, Valjean had thought, he had outgrown, now made him, without a moment's thought, lean forward, ducking under the brim of Javert's hat, which hid them now from the twinkling eyes of the first stars, and gently cover Javert's mouth with his own.
That hot and heavy in his chest finally exploded, bleeding into his whole body. Javert inhaled shakily and pressed back. Valjean couldn't honestly say whether he liked it simply because his whole being concentrated on his lips and fingers on Javert's wrist, these points of contact between them, leaving no room for thought. He shifted a little, pressing his knee to Javert's more firmly, and when Javert's tongue touched his lips, allowed him to deepen the kiss. This – this sensation was decidedly strange, and, and – with a desperate noise at the back of his throat, Valjean put his hands on Javert's face, pulling him even closer. Javert's hands, first tentatively but growing bolder, slid into his hair, and the slight tug at his curls felt surprisingly good.
Javert's hat fell from his head. They were open to the eyes of the stars, to the eyes of the Lord, but at this moment Valjean was convinced He will be merciful on them – even when the hot and heavy something drifted even lower and for the first time Valjean knew what it was like to desire someone.
The pieces of the stained-glass still didn't quite fit together, but it didn't matter anymore. The shards were reflecting beams of sunlight, glowing from the inside. Valjean felt like yet another revolution was transpiring in his soul; revolution not dissimilar to those that upturned his life before, and yet wholly unlike them. Valjean still didn't have a name for it in his mind, but this revolution was long since in the making with their long walks and conversations and the human heart Valjean involuntarily discovered under the uniform in those tremulous days last June – how far away they seemed now!
Tears which wouldn't come yesterday rushed now and Valjean drew back, smiling and crying at the same time.
"Valjean, you…" Javert started anxiously but fell silent, studying his face, swallowed quickly like he was fighting tears as well, and with the gentleness Valjean never expected to find in this man, touched his cheeks, wiping away his tears.
"I don't know what to say," Valjean repeated and realized this very moment it was a lie.
Javert felt it as well, perhaps, because his face lit up with a graceless, ugly smile, which became so dear to Valjean.
"You haven't eaten yet, have you," he said unexpectedly and Valjean smiled again, quite incapable of schooling his face.
"Will you stay?.."
"If you want me to."
Valjean took his hand silently.