Chapter Text
Jehan knew the town by heart. They would walk the streets late at night, or sometimes during the day. But they always had someone with them. Be it the kind doctor Joly, who they had met first and who most often accompanied them, or the sarcastic alcoholic Grantaire who they had taken a liking to very quickly. Someone would always have an arm around their shoulders, or a hand in theirs. Everyone knew who Jehan was, yet nobody knew of their story. They had fiery red hair and a face that was littered with freckles resembling stars.
“Hey, Jehan,” a voice called, accompanied by a few laughs. It was Courfeyrac, one of the people that ran the group of student activists in the town. The Friends of the ABC they called themselves.
“Hello, Courfeyrac,” the red-head said with a smile as he walked over and sat down upon the coat they always kept. Nobody wondered about it, although perhaps they should have.
“So, had another long day at work?” Enjolras asked from across the table. That man was tall, and blonde, with a face that appeared to be carved from marble. He was a very common muse for a certain painter who drank far too much, and sang sea-shanties off-key quite often.
Jehan managed a quiet laugh, “Yes, it was.”
They had convinced everyone that they worked from home, selling commissioned poetry. In reality, they lived in the sea. The coat which they loved so dearly held their very freedom. They were a selkie, one of the few who were brave enough to venture on land. Instead of spending their days writing, as their friends thought, they spent them swimming in the salty water near the pebbled beach of their town. They were yet to reveal the secret.
“Ah, we all have those days,” Eponine, a young girl with fire in her eyes, said, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
The group murmured their agreements. Feuilly, who was a Polish immigrant to Ireland, sighed particularly loudly.
“Yeah, at work today some idiot decided to buy three full boxes of fan-making paper.”
Everyone was quiet, not sure whether it was a joke, or an actual problem. They all knew Feuilly sometimes had issues with putting emotion in his voice, so usually the statements that came out sounded very similar.
“May I inquire about the issue with that?” Jehan asked.
Feuilly sighed, “Yeah, it’s just a pain to get the paper again. It takes forever to ship here and that man just bought half our stock.”
“Oh…” the ginger fidgeted with the bottom of their shirt, a silken top with dark red flowers and a soft golden background.
“Hey Jehan!”
Musichetta, a kind Indian woman who worked at the cafe, walked over with the steaming hot chocolate Jehan always ordered. She placed it in front of him before walking over to Joly, who gave her a quick kiss on the cheek before taking another sip of his coffee.
“So, tonight is special,” Courfeyrac announced, eyes glinting mischievously as he looked over at Combeferre, who sighed dramatically before whispering something to Musichetta.
“Why is tonight special?” Grantaire, who was sitting a little bit far away from the others, asked.
“Because tonight is the one year anniversary of us getting to meet the wonderfully kind Jehan Prouvaire!” Courfeyrac grabbed Jehan by the shoulder and gave them a tight hug. Their roommate, and possibly partner, Marius, quickly followed and hugged Jehan.
Musichetta came back carrying a small red velvet cake, the poet’s favourite flavour.
“Aw… thank you guys!” he smiled and blew out the candle, beaming at his human friends. They all seemed excited for this occasion, even Feuilly with his expressionless face. Jehan took his fork and had a bite, closing their eyes and sighing.
“Do you like the cake? It’s not the best, since it’s a day old, but it’s all I could get because we technically aren’t open today,” Musichetta quickly explained.
“Chetta, this might be the best cake I’ve ever had.” Jehan’s voice was sincere as they took her hand in both of theirs. It was soft, but calloused in the areas around her fingertips.
“Hey, hands off my girlfriend little ginger!” Bousset shouted from across the table. He was a friendly, boisterous man who was in a lovely relationship with Joly and Musichetta.
“Our girlfriend, love,” the doctor was quick to add with a slight laugh.
Jehan just rolled his eyes and made a point to kiss Musichetta on the cheek before going back to eating. The other people around him began talking and laughing casually, seeming to forget about their small celebration. That was perfectly fine with Jehan, if anything, it relieved them. Having too many eyes on them at any given moment was quite stressful.
Eventually, they finished the cake and stood to leave, picking up their cloak.
“Bye guys, see you tomorrow!” He waved to the group before departing, humming a fiddle tune under his breath. It wasn’t until he was a few blocks away that he realised that he’d forgotten to take someone. They considered turning back, but before they could, a hand grabbed their wrist and pulled them into an alley.
“Don’t move, or this will hurt more than it needs to,” a man’s voice whispered in their ear. Jehan felt a blade find a resting place under his chin, just barely digging in.
Jehan’s breath caught as they went completely still, barely daring to breathe. It was dark, and the soft light that had been provided by the streetlamps was just out of reach in the alley.
“What… what do you want,” he managed to finally whisper.
“Everything. Give me your money.”
“I have none, sir.”
“Then give me your jewelry."
“I have none, sir.”
“Then give me that coat. It looks expensive, and could buy me a coat just as fine,” the man breathed, pressing the blade against Jehan’s throat even harder before grabbing at the coat.
That’s when the poet began to struggle. He was fighting with everything he had, yet was pinned to the man behind him with a blade at his chin.
“If you struggle again, there will be blood staining the concrete here.” The man reached again for the coat, and Jehan couldn’t fight back. His heart was pounding, and tears were welling up in his eyes.
“Please, not that, anything but that,” they began begging the man, “That coat… it’s all I have. Please sir…”
The man just laughed, tugging again at the garment and freeing it from the boy’s grip.
“Oh really? Why do you care for this garment so dearly?”
“Because it is my freedom!” Jehan snapped and whipped around, staring into his attacker’s face for the first time. He was beautiful, the poet realised. He had fine features, with soft red lips and cheekbones that rode high on his face. His eyes were dark, and his skin a soft olive shade.
“What are you, a selkie? I’m sure that a cloak cannot be of such importance to a regular person on the street,” he said smoothly, turning so that Jehan was pressed against a wall.
“Yes, I am a selkie. I live in the water. That is why I have no money or jewels,” the ginger-haired boy spat out, “That cloak is all I have, and you tear it away. You are truly a heartless man. They say that only the tragically in-love men steal a selkie’s skin to prevent her freedom, but that cannot be, for one needs a heart to love, and I am sure you do not have one.”
The man looked taken aback, but his grip did not loosen.
“Oh really? Is that so…” his voice dropped to a dangerous purr, silky smooth, “Well then, I suppose I have no heart. Who could love someone who dresses so poorly?”
Jehan leaned forward, pressing against the thief, “Perhaps you do, and are hiding behind a silver tongue.”
“What is your name, selkie?”
“My name is Jehan Prouvaire,” they answered with a smile, “And you?”
“Montparnasse. A first name has never been in my interests,” the man responded.
“That is a very pretty name for a man with such a dark soul,” Jehan taunted.
“Well, yours is the name of a dreamer. I am not sure what I expected, however. You appear to suit it well.”
Jehan was quite glad it was dark in the alley. If it hadn’t been, he was sure that the other man would have seen the red blush that spread easily across his pale face.
“Could I perhaps have my cloak back, Montparnasse?” they asked, holding out one hand.
“Perhaps, you shan’t,” Montparnasse grabbed them by the wrist and began walking down the street. Their cloak was securely tucked under his arm, and they had no choice but to follow him.
The sky had begun to cry cold tears, that is to say, it was now raining. Jehan felt the droplets run down his braid, and Montparnasse seemed unbothered. It peeved the poet slightly how much taller the criminal was, and how much longer his stride seemed.
“Could you slow down?” they finally asked, panting and slightly out of breath.
Montparnasse looked back and, surprisingly, listened. He slowed down and let Jehan catch up.
Eventually, after what seemed like hours in a tense silence, they reached a house. It was fairly large, and had lights glowing in a few windows.
“Come inside, selkie. My friends have business tonight, so you won’t be bothered,” Montparnasse unlocked the door with a click before leading Jehan in.
It was messy inside, newspapers strewn over every surface and cigarettes half-burnt all over the floor.
“Is this really where you live?” Jehan felt himself instinctively moving closer to the man beside him, the only thing that smelled safe to be around without a hazmat suit.
“Well, technically, this is Gueulemer’s floor. I personally live on the top floor. It’s nice because their stuff doesn’t get up there, unfortunate in the fact that I have to walk through everyone else’s space.”
Jehan stared at the man for a moment with fear in their eyes, “How many floors are there like this?”
“This is the worst of them, selkie,” Montparnasse said, leading them over to a set of stairs, “But there are two others before mine.”
Jehan felt slightly nauseous, but followed. The criminal still had his cloak, and he wasn’t going to let that out of his sight.
The second floor was much nicer. It was cleaner, and smelled somewhat decent. However, the cloud of cigarette smoke made Jehan cough. Decidedly not his favourite location. Montparnasse moved a hand from their wrist to take their hand with his own. His fingers were surprisingly gentle as they intertwined. He led the poet up another set of stairs, into a room that was completely barren. There was a couch, and a television, but not much else. A few boxes littered the floor, they looked quite old. Montparnasse hurried to bring Jehan up the last flight of stairs.
The selkie decided he liked this floor the best. There was a window looking out over the ocean. Even if they were being kept there against their will, the sea in the distance made it a little more bearable. Everything was neat, and clean, but it wasn’t completely bare. He also noted the lack of a smoke scent, and even the alcohol he could smell wasn’t bad.
“This is where I live. It’s a corner of the world that I control.”
Jehan jumped. He hadn’t noticed Montparnasse approach from behind him.
“It’s… nice,” they finally announced.
“High praise,” the other man laughed. It was a nice sound, rich and a little rough around the edges. Jehan hated how much he liked it.
“So, do you plan to return my cloak or do I have to fight for it?”
Montparnasse smirked and gently pushed a strand of their hair back before leaning down and whispering in their ear, “I’d like to see you try.”
Jehan grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, and yanked down. Montparnasse, perhaps unsurprisingly, had good balance. The selkie tried once more, but only succeeded in getting pulled forward by a criminal who apparently enjoyed teasing them.
“Oh darling Jehan, you must try harder than that!” he whispered before pushing the red haired boy away, “But alas, you lost. So unfortunately, you won’t be getting that precious cloak of yours back tonight.”
Jehan swallowed back a broken plea, if he showed his weakness, Montparnasse would just torment him more.
“Fine then, I at least hope that you have a mattress for me to sleep on?”
The other man smiled, perhaps maliciously, “Why, of course! Anything for the sweet selkie who grace me with his presence.”
He led Jehan to a room with a bed. It was nicely made, with soft sheets and a white cover. It looked warm. There was a desk beside the bed with a mirror and a lamp that emitted a soft glow. Altogether, it wasn’t too bad. It would be nicer, however, if Montparnasse would give his cloak back and he could be back in the ocean.
“So… is this it? No cloak, not even a goodnight hug from my captor?” Jehan crossed their arms and raised an eyebrow at Montparnasse. The criminal sighed, putting down the cloak outside the door and giving a quick hug to Jehan.
“Goodnight, selkie. Perhaps tomorrow I shall return your precious coat.”
Then he was gone, along with the cloak that would’ve granted Jehan freedom. The poet walked over to the door and tried to open it. It swung open without a creak. Perhaps Montparnasse had forgotten to lock it. He quietly walked through the floor, searching every nook and cranny for where the boy might’ve hidden his cloak. It was nowhere to be found. Accepting defeat, Jehan finally went to bed. At least there was some comfort here.