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As an outsider, you would think that the Amis are just a bunch of chaotic, violent criminals, and while that definitely does apply to them, there is a whole world to them you don't normally get to see. Sure, there are Amis you simply know - everyone does. Everyone knows of Enjolras, but at the same time, they don't. And then there's Courfeyrac, who walks around and spits in the faces of their enemies. Literally. Eponine and Bahorel, who reek of destruction and blood and violence - you've heard plenty about them.
Jehan thought that if he got to know them it would all vanish. The mystique, the unknown, the fear. But it doesn't. It gets worse because now that he's one of them, constantly in their presence, he realises that they're even bigger psychopaths than him. And that scares him because they're so used to being terrible that is has just become...normal.
They're not all violent of course. Not all murderers. They have Feuilly, for example, who works for the Police, giving out false leads to his colleagues. False leads that drive them right into an ambush. Jehan wonders if they've always been like this or if, by some horrible instance in their lives, they became that way. While Jehan is most definitely not a saint, he still feels something like remorse. He doesn't know about his friends, though. Is it possible for Bahorel to feel bad when he bashes someone's head in with a baseball bat, while he simply grins? At least Jehan doesn't know whether he's killed someone. Sure, he's set a police station on fire but he hadn't come back to inspect the damage. It's a little bit like Schrödinger's Cat. If he doesn't look inside the box they could be either: dead or living. And he? He could be killer or arsonist.
Jehan soon learned that the cold, small room they had dragged him into the first day was just a tiny part of their underground base. They were located in a World War II bunker, a thing Jehan hadn't even known still existed - a thing the government didn't even know still existed. The walls and the floors were revetted in steel, not exactly a comfortable environment. Everything came together in main room, The Central as they liked to call it. A giant constellation of computers - Bossuet's workplace – all of Combeferre's and Enjolras' tactical strategies (most of them were scribbled on boards, very 2010) and, last but not least, an armada of couches, armchairs, and carpets, also known as Cosette's desperate attempt to make their base more homelike. Cosette probably was the most unlikely Ami. That was mostly due to the fact that she simply refused to be all mysterious (a rule very dear to Enjolras' heart and his idea of a criminal, underground organisation, needless to say not all Amis followed this out of their own free will) and had welcomed him with a tight hug and a whispered Welcome to the family on his first day. She reminded him of a fairy, tender and warm. Delicate. Unfortunately, she also reminded him of what he had been like, of what his life had been like before he had lost it all...
It had been five days since his “interview“ now and Enjolras had finally called in a meeting. The whole organisation was spread out across said couches, except for Bossuet who remained furiously typing away on his computer, and Enjolras and Combeferre who were standing in front of them, papers in their hands. Jehan had seated himself next to Courfeyrac who'd placed one arm casually on the backrest behind him.
“Hi guys, we've got word that a bunch of Lavoie's more radical followers are going to meet up in a bar near the base tonight,” Combeferre began, nodding appreciatively in Cosette's direction, whose face light up into a smile. “In the Coq Noir to be exact. And here's a goody guys, Daniel Courtois is said to be one of them.” Combeferre smiled as an excited uproar went through the group.
As if Courfeyrac felt Jehan's confusion, he turned around and started talking in a quiet voice. “Courtois is one of Lavoie's closest confidants. He's made our lives hell over the past few months. If we get him...” He simply looked at Jehan, wiggling his eyebrows.
Enjolras clapped his hands to focus the Amis’ attention. Once again his expression was sober, almost stone-ish. “Bahorel, Eponine, you go in there first. Make sure we don't have to deal with them any longer.”
“Should we bring Courtois back here for questioning?” Eponine asked.
Enjolras shook his head. “No, we can't risk that. Just make sure he doesn't bother us anymore.”
Eponine nodded and Bahorel grinned. He basically always grinned, and to be honest, it was the most terrifying thing about him. Not his height or his muscles or his constant bruises. No. The fact that he was always grinning is what frightened Jehan the most. Sometimes he seemed like a hyena, just waiting for his next victim.
“Jean,” Enjolras continued. “You're going to go with them. Get rid of the evidence.”
Jehan knew exactly what that was supposed to mean. Get rid off the evidence, burn the whole building down. He could do that.
“Oh, and you're going to work with Montparnasse.”
Suddenly the room fell alarmingly quiet. He could hear Eponine suck in a sharp breath of air and the muscles of Courfeyrac's arm behind him tightened. Courfeyrac let out a sharp and quiet Montparnasse.
“You know that we don't trust him!” Courfeyrac's voice was louder now, almost angry. Jehan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
“He is going to work with Montparnasse.” Enjolras tone implied that there wasn't going to be anymore discussion. “It's his first mission, I'm not going to send him out alone.”
It's dark outside and cold. He can see his breath coming out of his mouth, impulsive and short.
“You nervous?” Eponine asks. She and Bahorel are on either side of him, guiding him through the back alleys of Paris.
“No,” he lies, voice shaking a tiny bit. Well, it isn't directly a lie. He's not nervous about burning down a bar. Burning down things has become his second nature. He is nervous about meeting Montparnasse, the allegedly untrustworthy Montparnasse. What does it say about you when a band of highly dangerous criminals calls you untrustworthy, shady, and a psychopath?
“Aw, it's gonna be fine,” Bahorel replies and nudges him gently with the end of the baseball bat he's carrying. There's still blood on it.
“Here,” Eponine offers him her cigarette but he refuses.
“I don't smoke.” Not anymore at least. Not since he couldn't keep himself from burning his forearms with the stumps, painting patterns of ash and long forgotten memories.
“You'll learn to,” she simply says and takes a deep drag. Maybe she's right. Maybe he'll learn to.
“Okay guys,” Bahorel suddenly stops them, gaze fixed on a house on the other side of the street and a simple sign that reads Coq Noir. They're there.
Eponine turns towards him, one hand resting on his shoulder. “‘Bout Parnasse, don't let him freak you out, okay? He's an asshole, remember that.” Jehan nods.
“Light 'em up,” she adds with a smile and presses a reassuring kiss to his forehead.
“You ready?” Bahorel asks her, and Eponine nods enthusiastically. They cross the street together and Bahorel lets his bat grind against the concrete. They reach the building and he kicks in the door, almost unhinging it, and now he and Eponine stand in the doorway, ominous grins on their faces.
“Bonjour, motherfuckers!” he hears her say, almost gleefully, and that's the last thing he gets from them before they storm the bar. Everything after is just wood hitting wood, bone hitting bone, and muffled screams.
And now he's alone. Alone in the darkness, right on the border of a battlefield. He pushes his sleeves over his hands, burying his nails deep in his palms. Slowly, he starts walking around the house, trying to look out for a stranger in the obscurity. He doesn't know much about Montparnasse except that he's supposed to help him and that he'll meet him at the back door.
Suddenly, Jehan feels like a small child, helpless and lost. He lets his hand slide into his right pocket, fingering his matches. The only thing that gives him power, the only thing that gives him a reason to live.
“Are you Jean?” a dark voice asks, raspy and worn out. Jehan looks around but fails to see where it is coming from, that is, until he sees a tiny glowing dot in the darkness. A cigarette.
“Montparnasse?”
“Good.” The glowing dot falls to the ground and is put out a second later. Something in the shadow moves; it's coming towards him.
“I'm not really in the mood for killing an innocent tonight.” Montparnasse's voice is dangerously serious. Jehan can see his face now, and it's so different from any face that he's ever seen. He's used to stern faces by now, a consequence of working with Enjolras. But Montparnasse's expression, it's not like Enjolras'. It is strict, yes, but while there's passion burning in Enjolras' eyes, there's nothing in Montparnasse's. They're completely emotionless. Dark brown, almost black and ice-cold. Looking into his eyes is like staring down a well. You don't know how deep it is, you don't know when the water will stop, and if you lean over just enough, you’ll fall.
“Enjolras says you're good.” Montparnasse's voice is almost threatening and Jehan notices a faint American accent.
“I try,” he answers, unsure.
“Trying is not good enough.” Once again, it's not a joke. It is the truth; Jehan is not allowed to fail. He is not allowed to fuck up. Thank god he's good under pressure.
Montparnasse comes even closer now, his features becoming more distinct under the distant light of the bar. His face is harsh, sharp, nothing moves. He is wearing a black tank top and on top of his right shoulder, Jehan can see a burn going onto his neck. The rest of his body is covered in ink but it is too much to tell the single tattoos apart. He can only determine the semper fi written across his knuckles. Jehan wants to ask him about his tattoos, about the body of art he has created. He likes doing that, likes to know what other people have been through, what made them the way they are. Sometimes he needs them to tell him that he's not the only one whose life was destroyed. But something tells him that Montparnasse isn't one for small talk. Or personal questions. Or human interaction in general.
Normally, everything is silent when he's about to do his work. It's almost peaceful, pure. He likes to take beautiful, innocent things and he likes to destroy them. After all he was beautiful and innocent once too. But it's nothing like that now. He isn't alone and he can still hear Bahorel and Eponine doing their work in the bar. They have been in there for about ten minutes now and he wonders how long they usually take for things like this. Destroying bars. Minimizing the threat. Killing people. The usual, you know. He also wonders if he'll ever get used to this, just like the others. He wonders if he'll even live long enough to get the chance.
He has always been a little bit like this. Even as a child he had loved to play with matches and watch candles burn and when they had learned about fire in school, he had been the first in line when it came to experiments. His mother had always categorized this as the natural curiosity of a child and maybe she would have been right. Maybe it would have remained nothing more than childish curiosity if Vincent Allore wouldn't have killed his dog and Jehan wouldn't have burned down his barn in response. Genevieve, his mother, always a lover of everything the earth gave to her, refused to send him to therapy. There was no need for it, she had said. She will fix this. But she didn't. She tried, sure, but herbs do not really help with impulsive disorders. Still, Jehan had been a happy child. A child of the sun, born in a bed of roses and baptized with a silent prayer of long forgotten poetry. Jehan got older, more romantic, more in love with love. His anger vanished, as well as the urges. He left a trail of flowers wherever he went: primroses, dandelions, forget-me-nots. Some people claimed he was the earthly manifestation of the sun, and god, they had no idea just how true that was. The sun gives life, gives happiness, but one day it will explode and it will demand everything back. Jehan is very much like the sun in that way. The fire became too hot, it burned him from the inside out and now, instead of flowers, he leaves destruction and pain everywhere he goes.
They both hear a final bang and soon after that Eponine and Bahorel come out of the bar and to be honest, they look horrible. Their clothes are torn, their faces and bodies smeared with blood and covered in bruises. For a second he wonders how they are going to explain that to the hospital staff, but then he remembers that someone mentioned a Doctor Joly once and assumes that they have their contacts. It would be surprising if they hadn't.
“It was awesome!” Eponine yells euphorically, hugging Jehan and winking at Montparnasse who, surprisingly, winks back (Jehan has to admit that it looks a little bit awkward, though).
Bahorel just stares at his now broken bat, pouts his lips, and finally throws it away with a shrug. It's not like they have to worry about evidence, not after the instructions Enjolras gave Jehan.
“You ready?” Montparnasse's voice cuts like a knife through Eponine's euphoria and actually it is more of a Can we finally get it the fuck over with? Jehan takes a deep breath and gets his box of matches out of his pocket. He doesn't remember where or when he got them, but they're only reserved for special occasions. Occasions like this. His thumb strokes gently over a piece of paper that is glued to the box. These things are beauty's elements, where these / Meet in one, that one must, as perfect, please, it says and yes Jehan knows that this poem is about the beauty of a woman but where's the difference really? Where's the difference in beauty? Fire is his woman, his concubine, his constant companion.
“Matches,” he hears Montparnasse mumble. “Fucking matches.” And off they go.
Nobody has fucking prepared Jehan for what he is seeing right now. Honestly, he didn't know what he expected. But what exactly does one expect to find when your friends just killed a whole group of grown men in a tiny bar? It's like Kill Bill and Saw and Friday the 13th all together, only it is real. There's blood and brain and, really he doesn't want to go into detail. He feels that he goes pale and looks at Montparnasse who just hands him a container with gasoline and says, “Do what you do best,” and, oh my god, he actually smiles. Well, it's more of a smirk but Jehan is fucking ecstatic to see this. It's that moment when he knows that no, he is not alone and no, the other Amis are no worse than him. He feels the same anticipation that Bahorel and Eponine feel and he simply knows that he will be just as euphoric as Eponine after he has burned this place down. It all makes sense now and he has to give Enjolras credit for not lying, for being honest when he said that he knew more about him than Jehan knew about himself. He knew that he would belong.
Working with Montparnasse is incredible, to be honest. His style is so different from Jehan's. It's more clinical and so much less caring. Montparnasse doesn't care what or who he's burning down as long as he can burn. Jehan is much more passionate. For him burning, destroying, setting on fire has always meant emotion. He lays his everything into this. This is his art, his white blank page, and he burns it away with a desire for more.
They are still pouring the gasoline everywhere and Jehan tries to stick to the building and the furniture. Montparnasse can deal with the bodies. He may be a psycho, after all, but he's definitely not ready for that yet.
When they've covered the whole place and they're out of fuel, Montparnasse simply tosses his can on the ground and Jehan mirrors him and wow, Montparnasse seems so different now. There is something flickering in his eyes, something Jehan can't quite pinpoint but he knows it. He knows this feeling and he knows what's going on inside of Montparnasse right now. After all, he feels the same way. It's a tingling that starts at his feet and eats his way up through his whole body into his fingers and they itch as they cling to the matches, and he just finally wants to burn this place down because he feels as if he’s been waiting for so long. He never knows how much he misses this - how much he needs this - until right before he strikes the match.
Montparnasse almost shoves him out of the door and then looks at him knowingly, one side of his mouth curled up into a smirk. “Toss it,” is the only thing he says and Jehan does. He lights the match and throws it into the bar, a grin across his face. He can't focus on anything but the fire and he's standing so close that the heat almost hurts but he likes it. It's what makes him feel human. The flames are eating everything up and it's glorious. From behind him, he feels a body pressing into his and Eponine has curled her arms around his waist and whispers “It is beautiful,” and he might actually cry because yes, yes it is.