Jehan's POV

There's nothing I love more than untainted expression. Expression can broadcast itself in many different forms, whether it be in visual art or in writing or in films or sometimes verbally spoken words, and the fact that it is capable of being transmitted in a variety of ways is part of the reason why expression is so appealing to me, and why I've snatched some for myself.

My forte is poetry, the school unit dreaded by students and praised by adults for being so influential and enlightening once they discover the well-known writers, but I'm not very well known. In fact, the only time I receive my share of the limelight is on open mic nights at the Musain, a café just down the road from where Grantaire and I share an apartment, but all of the patrons seem to enjoy my work, even if they weren't too fond of poetry before, and I find immense amounts of joy from that. It's mundane, but it's what I have and what I cherish, and I love those nights.

Tonight is one of them, so I'm making my way down the street from a previous excursion at the book store to idly dream of possessing more leaflets of fantasy than I need, a poem scrawled on a scanty piece of notebook paper clutched firmly within my fingers to protect it against the raging wind of March.

It's a poem I'm most proud of, selected from the many other poems I write in a week, and I'm sure the Musain will like it as much as I do. I spent more time on it than I usually spend on poems, which is already a lot, as I have to inject every ounce of my humanly passion into these words, so I'm hoping that my hard work will pay off in the end. Sometimes the bartender, the charming Cosette Fauchelevent, rewards me for my work with a lemonade on the house, becoming a portion of the highlights of the night.

I think it's safe to say that the patrons of the Musain love me, the poet Jean Prouvaire who sojourns here so often with poetry to share, and beyond my own circle of friends I have found goodness in those who visit the café both for beverages and to stay a little longer to hear my writing, which is always appreciated so much that I cannot employ words to convey my feelings.

The moment I step through the door and embrace the lively smells and colors of the Musain, Cosette the bartender is already nagging me to get the hell onto the stage to read my poem before the jazz band returns from their coffee break at the corner table. I'm not very fond of being rushed, but I'm also breathlessly ecstatic to share my writing with the patrons and the new people of the jazz band.

Immediately when I bounce onto the stage with my poem gripped within my hands just as tightly as ever, the attention of every guest swivels to me, anticipating another round of eloquence to rock their worlds and change their perspectives. They know me well, know my artistic style, know even my middle name, and they know that I will not let them down.

I clear my throat as a customary beginning, also useful for stirring the rest of the patrons who are otherwise disposed, and puff out my lips to read what I've labored so mercilessly to create.

The audience is absolutely enthralled. I know this better than I know that there are three hundred sixty-five days in a year, ten years in a decade, one hundred years in a century. I know this better than I know what will be waiting for me after I finish my poem, because everything seems so sure on this tiny spot upon the stage of the Musain Café. I'm confident here, confident when I would not be confident elsewhere, and it just adds to the whole aroma of hospitality in this place. It's the motive that continues to prompt my return. I am certain that the audience appreciates my presence here, and it is for that reason that I appreciate my presence here. It's a sort of symbiosis, if you will, and it's a symbiosis from which I never hope to part.

And soon enough, I'm through with my poem, and the applause of many enthusiastic patrons wraps my ears in soft cushions to protect me from any harm I may have previously experienced. It's a struggle to remove myself from the stage now that I'm reveling in this ecstasy, but I do so anyway, and am met by a stranger.

Now, this stranger isn't a brutal-looking one. Rather, he is the quite opposite. He is a dapper gentleman, spat out by the Victorian era of England, an ostensibly good-natured spirit with a knack for lively humor. The way I see it, he fits the bill of what a poet would describe as otherworldly in looks, and that's definitely why he's such eye candy to me, with irises as green as the young, with locks as ebony as the ashes from a fire. His skin is flawless, like parchment smoothed over a flat surface, but as time progresses, a rose hue pricks his cheeks yet does not spoil his complexion. He's taller than me by a few inches or so, but the way he beholds me indicates that he hopes to be equals in every other way, and suddenly I don't feel that short anymore. The features upon this man sell him to the gaze of uncertainty, as he appears to be male, but the way his hips and shoulders melt into curves convince me that he leans more on the feminine side, in addition to his note towards fashion. Most people his age (around my age, I presume; I believe he's a college student) dress in rugged old t-shirts and skinny jeans, but this man is adorned in clothes typical of the almost bourgeoisie, a black waistcoat with pants, a jacket, and a tie just as dark. I'm not sure if this ensemble was for a special occasion, or if he's always this mindful of what he drapes over his elegant body, but I'm drawn to it regardless, and his presence here tells me that he's drawn to me, too, which is confirmed when he begins to speak.

"That was a lovely poem you performed there," the man acknowledges, painting himself a smile even brighter than snow.

I mirror the gesture, unintentionally inviting a flame to my volatile cheeks, but I really can't help being attracted to this man, and frankly quite excited that he's decided to talk to me. "Oh, thank you."

"Anyway, I'm Montparnasse." The man offers his hand to me, and I hesitantly slip mine into his, still somewhat flustered by being approached by someone so beautiful.

He surely is charismatic, to say the least, and I would like to get to know him, expand my horizon of new people. Fortunately for me, he seems intent on doing the same, leading me to a table in the corner, a table that has always been aesthetically pleasing for me, relative to its location within the café, where the shadows fling themselves against the oak, where the music stretches last.

Cosette, recognizing that I'm too occupied with Montparnasse to retrieve my celebratory drink, delivers the lemonade to me with that smile about which I sometimes write when I think of her in an air as pleasant as her entire personality. She's the loveliest women I've ever met, and it's a pleasure to know her, a pleasure to even be around her. Our friendship is a personal one, so I muster the sweetest smile I can, before she turns away to serve other guests, before Montparnasse makes his first move in conversing with me.

"Your name's Jehan, correct?" He must've heard a mention of it within the energetic cheers from the patrons who love me and my poems the most, so I nod.

"And you're Montparnasse," I clarify with a shy grin, which my new friend seems to find nothing short of adorable. I'm finding myself infatuated with his name, the title of a place elsewhere in France. It sounds so official yet so casual, a bite of elegance with another equal bite of importance. His name, I now realize, sounds like it could be the name of an artist's lifelong lover, to whom all paintings and devotions are dedicated. That could most definitely be us in the future in a literal sense, but his name alone has guaranteed the mere speculation of it.

"So do you come here often?"

"I expected you to be more casual, not prone to using terrible pick-up lines," I giggle. "I expected you to be smooth, is what I'm trying to say."

"It's just a bit nerve-wracking to be in the view of someone so pretty." Montparnasse pins those springtime eyes of his to me, flicking up the loyal servants of eyelashes who act as an overhang for a well of the devilish, completely rupturing my stability.

Almost choking on my own saliva, I admit, "Okay, now that was smooth."

That comment extracts a chuckle from my newly found companion, and he throws his eyes to the table. "I really don't know what to say to you, as I'm too caught up in your pulchritude."

"Oh my god, will you stop?" I jest, playfully swatting his arm. "Since you're at a loss for words, I'll start by asking a stock question, I guess. What's your major? I'm a philosophy major, as you can probably assume from my poems."

"I actually don't go to college," Montparnasse confesses. From the way he utters this, it seems as though he doesn't care about people's reaction to it, except this time he does, and the distinction is obvious. Maybe it's just the fact that I'm here, and he appears to already be developing some sort of crush on me, in addition to the fact that skipping higher education is usually regarded as a lazy or sordid thing to do, expressly because it's free or close to free in France, but I couldn't care less. It's his decision.

"And why is that?" I trim my expression and tone so that it elucidates that I am not judging him in any way for blowing off college, as I'm sure he has a justifiable reason as to why he did it.

"College is like a chain and a lie, woven together in a bond so cohesive that people don't understand that they're trapped." Montparnasse winds the stray napkin on the table into a coil, then flicks it an inch away. "I prefer to be free," he adds nonchalantly, still focused on the napkin in an activity that some would call a stress reliever, but he's not as nervous as he was when he declared that he has no interest in college, so he's probably just bored of the subject.

"Then do you have a job?"

Montparnasse deliberates for more time than is acceptable, which boosts my wariness of him and his intentions. I asked a simple question, but he supplies the labyrinthine answer of, "More or less." Now he's nervous again, picking up his pace on rolling the napkin in and out of itself, but it's none of my business trying to dissect his life, especially not when I've just met him, and I leave the topic with the notion that it disconcerts him.

"But not having a job and not going to school allows me a lot of time to get my life together. I tidy up the apartment that my roommate destroys every day, which is difficult when she's skipping college, too, and is oftentimes breathing down my neck and taunting me about how whatever I do will be reversed a few minutes afterwards."

I attempt weakly to stifle a laugh, as Montparnasse is clearly burdened by this roommate of his, but it's too damn funny for me to overlook. "Your roommate sounds like a real gem."

He shrugs. "At the end of the day, Eponine is still my best friend, and at least she spares my room."

"She probably thinks it has cooties or something," I conjecture.

"She sometimes steals my clothes, though, because she claims that men's products have bigger armpits, which she somehow likes." Montparnasse acts as though he has no idea why Eponine would do such a thing, but her motives are mostly understandable — women's clothing screws us again and again.

"Well they do, and you are pretty fashionable." A wink is shot out through my eye, and lands with a red splotch upon Montparnasse's face.

This is basically how the rest of the night goes, a new shade of red added after each one of our comments, but I wouldn't wish for any other alternative. Besides, I manage to snag his number on my way out, too, so I guess things are going pretty well between my charming new friend and me.

~~~~~

A/N: Jehan and Montparnasse are two of my faves so I need to watch out

but I end up ruining things anyway bc all of my stories are heart-wrenching :)))

~Dakitty