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Jean Prouvaire was snapped back to reality at the clash of muskets and the hushed chatter of distant National Guardsmen, likely discussing their next attack. Jehan struggled to blink his swollen eyes open and take in his surroundings.
His glassy blue eyes stung as they darted around the camp of the enemy. No one seemed to be near, as he was tucked into a thin alleyway, only partially visible to the rest of the battle. He cautiously closed his eyes again, bowing his head. Jehan noticed his hands tied behind his back, onto a tall, wooden post. The redhead thought to himself that if he weren’t this fatigued, he might be able to escape from the bonds, which were clearly not tied by someone with experience; but instead, he resigned to his fate after weakly straining against the ropes.
Jehan kneeled there, breathing deeply, trying to calm himself to no avail. The poet knew what was coming: something that he had longed for in times prior, but now that it was actually happening, he had so many regrets. He thought to himself the things he had not done yet, the places he wanted to go, the person he wanted to love forever. He would never see France be free.
Suddenly, Jehan felt as though his messily-tied cravat was much tighter than it used to be, and he choked at the reminder that he’d be losing everything he’d ever cared about so, so fast. Tears clustered on his long, feminine eyelashes as he looked to heaven, making one last prayer. For the safety of his friends. He shut his eyes once more, the silent tears rolling down his filthy, bleeding face.
The cold voice of a National Guardsman caused Jehan’s train of thought to crash.
“Blindfold?”
The poet looked up, scowling. This was happening. There was nothing he could do to prevent this from happening. For once, Jean Prouvaire was helpless.
Two guardsmen stood in front of Jehan, both holding guns, and staring down at him like he was their property. The redhead knew they were trying to intimidate him, but he wasn’t scared easily. He returned an equally bold stare, bobbing his head slightly, and a different guardsman stepped up to tie a jagged piece of cloth around Jehan’s eyes with hands like ice, despite the warm June weather.
The other guard spoke next: “Any last words?”
Jehan struggled to nod his head this time, but pulled through, opening his mouth to yell “Vive la France! Long live France! Long live the future!” He braced himself for the shot.
He heard the soldiers ready their guns, but the shot never came. The poet heard the rustling of men fighting a strangled shout, and then the poet saw a flash of light through the thin fabric of his blindfold, followed by two same-sounding explosions.
Jehan made a noise in confusion. He didn’t feel anything; no gunshot wound, no blood. He moved his head to the side, looking around at nothing. If this is what being shot felt like, it was over-hyped.
His panic only skyrocketed when he felt a cold hand on his wrist, followed by the light press of the sharp steel blade of what Jehan assumed was a knife. The poet squealed in surprise, but was only shushed when warm lips pressed against his temple. He’d recognize that gentle touch anywhere.
“Montparnasse,” Jehan whimpered, struggling weakly against the ropes.
“Stay still, little bird,” that all-too-familiar voice replied. “Don’t want you to get cut.”
The dandy started to saw at the ropes binding Jehan to the pole, freeing him quickly, then moved to free his lover of the blindfold. Montparnasse drew Jehan into a tight embrace, running a hand through the poet’s long, almost-orange hair, whispering sweet nothings into his ear in an attempt to soothe him.
“How-How did you…” the usually eloquent poet trailed off, looking up at Montparnasse, doe-eyed. The criminal didn’t answer right away, instead hooking his arms under Jehan’s legs and lifting him up bridal-style.
“The gang and I were passing by,” he explained in that usual, nonchalant tone his voice normally carries. Jehan looked over Montparnasse’s shoulder. All he saw was the dying battle, only a few yards away, and the bodies of the guardsmen about to execute him. The rest of the Patron-Minette must’ve left already.
The dandy looked around frantically, rushing Jehan further into the alley to avoid the prying gaze of other guardsmen. Jehan noticed that the dandy was wearing a stolen army uniform, but didn’t make any comment on it.
Montparnasse continued stealthily and quickly on his way, but his pace slowed once he was convinced they were a safe distance away from the Corinth.
“You look terrible,” he commented stiffly, then letting his voice relax into that gentle, soothing tone that he only used with Jehan. The poet heard the visible hurt in his lover’s voice. “What’d they do to you?”
The poet made a shy, quiet comment about how much the guardsmen beat him upon his capture, made eye contact with Montparnasse, and continued to exhale heavily, breath hitching, and disbelievingly say: “You saved me.”
Montparnasse only replied with a soft nod of his head, pulling Jehan closer into him.
Jehan awoke in a bed in an unfamiliar room, a wet cloth draped over his forehead, and the beautiful, pale face of his lover looking down at him lovingly. Montparnasse held a cloth dipped in alcohol, and looked at Jehan as if to ask permission to clean his face and cuts of filth. When the poet allowed him, Montparnasse ever so gently began to dab at Jehan’s face with the cloth. Still, the feeling of the alcohol burned, causing the poet to wince. The dandy sighed.
“I’ve always dreamed of sharing this bed with you,” he said, running a hand over the soft, black satin sheets. “Not like this, though. Never like this.” He ran a hand over his lover’s clean cheek.
“Where are we?” Jehan asked, trying to sit up, only to be pushed down again.
“A house,” Montparnasse said, as if that information was of any help. He sighed again, adding: “I heard the owners say they were going to Italy for the month. I’ve broken in before. They need to install better security; Even Gavroche could break in.”
Gavroche could do anything, Jehan thought. His lover’s admiration and affection toward the street urchin made Jehan happier than words could describe. Though the citizens of Paris may think that Montparnasse was nothing but a heartless murderer, his love for Gavroche proved otherwise. But the mention of the urchin only brought other thoughts to mind.
“Gavroche,” Jehan gasped, choking a little. He thought of the barricade, of all the schoolboys turned men that needed his help. “Enjolras. Montparnasse, I need to go back there. I can’t let them die.”
Montparnasse’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. “Jehan, are you crazy? You can barely move! If you get back on that barricade, you’re going to die for sure.”
“I’d rather die for a cause-- for my country-- than live in regret, knowing I could’ve done something and didn’t.”
The poet made a fruitless attempt to free himself from Montparnasse’s firm but loving hold on the bed, and when he realized he wasn’t going to get anywhere, he resigned, crying silently.
The dandy wiped away the tears spilling down the poet’s face, washing some of the remaining dirt off his face. “Little bird…” Montparnasse started, leaning down to press a soft kiss to his lover’s lips, punctuating every sentence with a soothing press on different parts of the other’s face. “You can’t do anything more. You’ve already done enough, my love. You made an honest attempt, that’s good enough. You don’t need to be there when the barricade falls and make a martyr of yourself, you--”
“You think the barricade’s going to fall?” Jehan’s lower lip trembled. The dandy hesitated.
“Yes,” he answered honestly, voice small. “You’ve got to be real, Jehan. A couple of schoolboys against the French National Guard? They didn’t have a chance to begin with, love, and you can’t change that. It’s not your fault or your responsibility. There’s nothing you can do to save them or the people of France. You aren’t leaving this house. I’ll be sure of that.”
Jehan didn’t say anything.
“Jean Prouvaire,” Montparnasse’s usage of his full name made the poet’s heart flutter in his chest, despite the heavy mood. His companion’s black curls bounced as he carefully reached over to hand Jehan a vase of water. “You are the bravest person I’ve ever met. Braver than any criminal, street urchin, or Enjolras. I know you care deeply for your friends, mon amour, but going back to the battle would be a foolish thing. I’m so sorry, but…”
Montparnasse trailed off, uncertain. An adjective he normally wasn’t. He resumed cleaning off his lover’s face
“Will you at least inform me of what happens?” Jehan asked, a devilish glint sparkling in his believer’s eyes. “I think you’re wrong. I think they’ll win, and I want you to be the one to tell me when they do.”
“Until tomorrow, love,” Montparnasse got into bed beside Jehan, pulling the latter against his chest and pressing rose-soft lips to his temple. “Until tomorrow.”
Jehan immediately knew from the air around Montparnasse that the news was not going to be good. Instead of neatly hanging up his black coat like usual, he threw it onto the bed, proceeding to angrily slam his pretentious top hat on the floor. There was a growing flame in his cold, green eyes. The sweet poet had never seen him this angry in their many years together.
“What happened?” He asked, already expecting the worst. He attempted to rush over to Montparnasse from his seat at the bedroom’s writing desk, but struggled to walk on such bruised legs.
The criminal put his hands on Jehan’s shoulders, gripping onto him as if the poet were a lifeline.
“All of them,” he muttered darkly, refusing to meet Jehan’s eyes. “They’re all dead. Heard the women on the street talking ‘bout them.”
Jehan’s knees gave out and he stumbled backwards, bracing himself on the aforementioned desk, but he couldn’t bring himself to cry.
“I went to go see for myself,” Montparnasse continued. “It was one of the worst things I’ve ever witnessed. Blood drenched the streets, but…”
The poet was in shock, waiting for Montparnasse to go on. The dandy took a seat on the bed, looking down at his feet for a moment before turning to Jehan, eyes brimming with tears. Jehan tried to remember a time where he had seen his lover cry.
“I saw Gavroche,” his voice neared a whisper, but gradually rose to the point of wailing and screaming. “He was just a kid, Jehan! A damned kid! The toughest damn child I ever knew! Some kids grow up with a loving family, someone to take care of them, guide them as they grow up! I never had any of that, Jehan. I never had someone to scold me, to tell me what I’m doing wrong and help me fix it! That’s why I am the way I am! Gavroche never had that either, and I thought I could give it to him, but I can’t! I can’t, because tomorrow they’ll be throwing him in a pit with the rest of your friends and see who claims him. I didn’t like to treat him like a child, no, he hated when I did that. He wasn’t a child to me. He was my brother. A friend. What I wouldn’t give to see that shitty smirk on his face again or that look he got whenever he bragged about what he stole that day. Some people deserve to die, Jehan, but not Gavroche. He had so much to live for, so much he could’ve done… He’ll never do it now. When I saw you on that pole, little bird, I thought I was going to lose you. I’ve never lost someone I’ve genuinely loved, before. I wasn’t sure how I was going to live with myself if it happened. But, now, the person I’d venture to call my best friend, one of the only people I’ve ever loved; gone. I…”
By the end of his rant, Jean Prouvaire’s lover was a blubbering, shaking, screaming mess. Tears continued to stream down his face like a river, his bloodshot eyes staring at the poet. Jehan had never seen this usually stoic, cold, and pompous man act this emotional, and the dandy’s reaction was what pushed Jehan over the edge.
Through shaky tears, the redhead stumbled his way back over to Montparnasse, still sat on the bed, and straddled him to throw his arms around the other, nuzzling his face in the dandy’s neck. Montparnasse hugged Jehan back, pulling him closer, and they stayed that way for a few moments, crying in each others’ arms.
Jehan thought of all the men whose lives were lost that night. He had already known of Bahorel’s death, stabbed the day prior with a bayonet. The poet thought of Grantaire, the man he had the utmost sympathy for. He wondered how the lovesick drunkard died, as the last he heard of him was when he had passed out in the Corinth, but now he could only infer.
He remembered his conversations with Courfeyrac in the Musain. His friend was always so bright-eyed, all smiles and sunshine, always ready to poke fun at the others. Jehan had forgotten how young they all were, caught up in the heat of battle, being called “men.” Thinking of Courfeyrac reminded him of that boyish playfulness that they all had, only upsetting him more. He held onto Montparnasse even tighter than before.
After a while, Montparnasse pulled back, wiping the drying tears from under Jehan’s bruised eyes. The redhead returned the action.
“I’m sorry,” Montparnasse murmured, his voice cracking. He never apologized for anything. “I shouldn’t act this way. I can leave you alone if you want.”
“No,” Jehan pushed his lover’s messy black hair out of his eyes. “Stay.”