Flowers


Girald sat curled on his bed, which had been pushed into the furthest corner of the room, against the wall on two sides. He was facing the rest of the room, arms wrapped tightly about his chest, head bowed, and eyes closed, his hair tied back so as not to fall over his face. He didn't look up as Jehan entered, shutting the door quietly, sitting beside him.

"I saw your light on. Mon cher." Jehan stroked his cheek shortly. "What's wrong? You're not often sad."

"I... have you met Courfeyrac's friend, Pontmercy? The one who is always dreaming?"

"Oui, today. He is so young. But is that what has upset you?"

Girald shook his head, opening his eyes at last, giving Jehan an anguished look. "He's different from you, and Courfeyrac, and Combeferre - he's different from all of them. It doesn't make any sense."

He remembered meeting the boy, barely twenty, younger than himself. Marius had smiled at him, an innocent smile, full of joy and trust and almost devotion. It was a look he received from many men, sometimes women, but in Marius it frightened him; he didn't like it; and while it was easy to see Marius dead, Marius wasn't dead of a wound, but of an illness. It was that that repelled him from the boy: the vision of Courfeyrac's young friend feverish and sweating, eyes glassy, turning restlessly on white sheets. He did not like Marius, and would rather not ever have to look at him again.

"Hush." Jehan undid Girald's hair, and began trailing his fingers through it slowly. He couldn't know about Marius. His hands were gentle, and easing, and stroked the golden curls lovingly, tangling them a little, then brushing through again. "Have you slept since you saw him?"

Reluctantly, Girald whispered, "Yes."

"Then why do you worry so?" Jehan kissed his forehead. "It's all right. Yes, he is terribly young, and if he dies in the revolution, I will be among those who weep for him. But he may not die."

"But -" He fell silent, wishing feverently that Marius Pontmercy did not exist. He did not share the secret of the murder of the revolution with even Jehan, and therefore couldn't explain things to him. He shuddered slightly.

As if sensing he was not to understand what was wrong, Jehan looked sadly at him for a moment, then placed his hands on Girald's shoulders, pushing him down to the mattress, and smoothing his hair once more. "Will you sleep now, for me? You must be tired. It's two o'clock."

Girald met his eyes, feeling suddenly rather lost. "I suppose I am..." He stretched himself full-length, resting his cheek on the pillow, with his arm beneath as a support. For a moment, there was silence.

"All right." Jehan paused, tensing as if about to stand and leave, then sighed, knelt, and kissed Girald again, and began taking off his shoes. A moment later, he lay beside the other man, fully dressed, closing his eyes on the soft burn of unshed tears. "I'll sleep with you tonight. Bonne nuit," he added resolutely, relaxing a little.

Girald watched him until they were both asleep, and the last thing he saw in his mind was Jehan holding a flag of vivid crimson, fingers knotted in the fabric so hard they tore and bled, a bullet wound in the centre of his heart, and a waterfall of dark red cascading down. That was what he liked best about Jehan. The poet always died the most nobly of any man Girald had ever looked at.


Chapter Four.
Back to Chapter Two.