"You'll Not See Nothing Like the Mighty Quinn..."

[psalm_onethirtyone]

Birthday fic!

Firstly, ECSTATIC NATAL DAY, O erinpuff! ^_____^

Here is your nice, long, totally implausible Edrington/Enjolras slashfic, with thanks to petronelle, who was beta-reader:

Si Sagesse ou Folie

On the morning of May eleventh, in the year 1832, the Café Lumiére was graced with the presence of a dignified gentleman whom no one had ever seen before. Most of the occupants noticed him; it was hard not to. He was exceedingly good-looking and had a very distinct air about him. Marc Enjolras, who was taking his breakfast there, couldn't help but notice this air, and was entirely captivated by it.

Enjolras looked with a great deal of curiosity at the English gentleman (he was, without a doubt, English). He had slightly-greying golden hair pulled back from his face in a manner that made him look rather stern, and his expression was one of complete boredom. He was dressed very well, and was assuredly an aristocrat. Because of this, it was rather striking to Enjolras that the lower part of his left leg was gone, and propped against the remaining stump was a wooden crutch.

Enjolras' own table was not particularly far from the gentleman's, and he was continually looking over at him, only partly conscious of the fact that he was doing so. Quite suddenly, startling him, the gentleman said:

"You, sir. Why do you keep staring?" His French was only a little halting, and his voice was quite dignified, though touched with an accent.

"I beg your pardon, M'sieur. I didn't mean--" Enjolras murmured politely, now looking at him openly. He was suddenly aware of his golden curls falling past his face in a childish manner.

"Of course you didn't." The gentleman raised his eyebrows.

Nearly everyone in the café was watching them, perhaps expecting an argument, or the sharp putting in his place of the young man by the older gentleman. Instead, there was rather a pause, as the gentleman looked around at them coldly, and they went back to their conversations and breakfasts.

"Now then, what are you called?" the gentleman asked civilly.

"My name is Marc Enjolras."

"And you don't seem inclined to ask my name. In that case, there really is no need for you to know it, but I am, at any rate, the Earl of Edrington, and I lost my leg during the war with France, which I hope satisfies your curiosity." He gave Enjolras a condescending smile.

Enjolras reddened slightly, and said, "M'sieur, I didn't presume to wonder--"

"Of course you did," said Edrington contemptuously. "Anyone with an ounce of imagination would. It was returning from an engagement in Muzillac, and I was at the time on board a ship. We were attacked by a French frigate and my leg was blown off, and I quit the army and returned to the family estate. But you are not, are you, a boy interested in the war stories of an old man?"

"You're hardly old," he began, but for the third time, Edrington cut him off.

"I think my body informs me well enough that I am old. My battle scars have started to twinge."

Enjolras knew at that moment that he needn't be anything but mock-polite to this man who obviously disdained him, without, as far as he was concerned, any reason other than his being of a lower class. Damned aristos, he told himself. "But if you lost your leg to the French, M'sieur, why have you come to France? Surely you can't like our country."

"I have a damned doctor who thinks France is where I ought to go for my health. Unfortunately we disagree, as he recommended the countryside and I came to the city. I feared the country would only remind me of my estate at home, and that there wasn't much point in going there; I might have just as well stayed in England. And I don't dislike Paris."

Enjolras frowned. "Then you must have fought against us during the revolution. You are a royalist, M'sieur, and, you'll pardon my saying, this isn't the time for royalists. In many places Paris is ready for another revolution."

"This is hardly the place to say so." Edrington raised his eyebrows again.

"Nevertheless, it's true." Lowering his voice slightly, but nothing more, Enjolras continued, "The lower class is disgustingly treated, and all the city's uneasy. There'll be revolt at any time, with things the way they are. The point is, you won't want to be in the middle of it. You English may underestimate the determination of the people, but my companions and I understand how certain things are."

"I have never underestimated any people when they are fighting, but I must confess to some confusion, as I recall you very recently had another revolution, and it seemed that went off well," said Edrington. "Besides, I'll be going on in two weeks, so I hope to avoid the whole thing if it happens."

With a feeling he was being laughed at, Enjolras snorted softly. "Well, then." He rose.

Immediately Edrington stopped him. "I should rather fancy an acquaintance with you. You seem a clever, if misguided, young man. May I arrange for us to meet again elsewhere?"

"If you wish." Enjolras affected unconcern. He was rather disconcerted to realise that while the Edrington made him feel quite indignant, he was also very attracted to him. It was that air. The air about Edrington made one charmed with a man who looked as though one were of the least interest on earth to him. In fact, Edrington's air of disinterest in those around him fascinated Enjolras. He discovered that what he particularly wanted was to make Edrington like him, and that once that was accomplished, he would be quite satisfied.

Meanwhile, Edrington was saying, "Excellent. As I have no prior engagements anywhere, I shall expect to see you at the Luxembourg gardens to-morrow at four o'clock in the afternoon. It will be Thursday, will it not?"

"Yes," Enjolras replied absently.

"Very well, then. To-morrow at four. Good morning." And with that, he got up, leant on the crutch, and left the café.

~~~

At three-thirty the following day, Enjolras disengaged himself from Courfeyrac and a particularly persistent Bahorel, and started off for the Luxembourg gardens. He arrived in a little under twenty minutes. Edrington was already there, sitting on a bench and waiting. Enjolras couldn't help but think to himself, 'of course'.

"Good morning, M'sieur Enjolras. You are punctual."

"Thank you, M'sieur."

Enjolras thought he foresaw an awkward pause, but Edrington looked at the sky and commented pleasantly, "It looks to be a fine afternoon. It rains more often in England than anything else, and while this does great things for the gardens, it little helps my joints. I like your weather very much, M'sieur."

For the first time, the prospect of an afternoon with Edrington seemed like it would be not half so uncomfortable as Enjolras had thought. He sat beside Edrington. "Thank you, though we usually get more rain in the spring. You've come on a lucky two weeks."

"It would appear so. But M'sieur, you've led me to believe that you're a republican," Edrington said, as though he thought it was likely to be protested. "Can you tell me why? Did you not put a king of your choice on the throne?"

Enjolras stiffened and said nothing.

"You needn't look at me like that. I'm quite serious in asking you; I want to know what you think. I've no intention of informing on you to the police. I'm a foreigner, and I shall just go on without troubling you, and at the most, use you as an anecdote. You've nothing to fear."

"I wasn't afraid," said Enjolras softly. "I am a republican. I support the people. Do you think that I'm a traitor to my country? I want to see her free. I love her better than anything else."

"Of course."

"I want her people to be happy, and cared for, not living in poverty in the streets. The king is nonetheless a king, and the people are invisible to him and his nobles, but something must be done. The aristos won't change anything, and the poor can't alone, so I must do it."

"All on your own, M'sieur Enjolras? That's a great undertaking."

"My companions, of course, will be with me, and we'll be joined," he said stiffly. "The people of Paris will fight with us when they see that we're freeing them."

"I've heard many others say very similar things, and many of them were blown to bits. Good luck to you, M'sieur, and let us go back to talking on the weather."

The rest of the afternoon passed uneventfully.

When they parted, Enjolras found he was even more eager for Edrington's good opinion than he had been before. He also thought he might have lost it talking about his planned revolution, but that did not even begin to dissuade him. He returned home feeling tired and somewhat sad, and lay on his bed staring at the ceiling for a long time.

~~~

Enjolras continued to see Edrington, as promised. He understood that Edrington was staying at an inn, but they never went there. They met instead at cafés, at what Edrington dryly referred to as points of historic interest, and wherever else was convenient. And they talked. They discussed politics and the price of residencies. Edrington spoke of horses and riding; Enjolras of fencing; and they debated books.

But it was all very strange. Enjolras always left Edrington feeling thrilled and discontent at the same time. He told himself that while Edrington was one of the most interesting men he'd ever met, he felt irreverent toward him, and didn't particularly like him, and that that accounted for things. He knew this to be untrue, but he pretended it anyway, and thought he might convince himself soon.

And yet the fact remained that Edrington played havoc with him, ruined his routines. He slept badly and didn't do his work well for thinking. He insisted to himself often that he didn't understand this at all, but he had the sinking feeling that it wasn't so.

It angered him that Edrington could change him. It angered him, but he didn't avoid Edrington or see him more infrequently. He was determined not to give in. He almost felt as though Edrington was trying to make him uncomfortable, to chase him off. It became a fight to see who was stronger.

But the more he decided things like that, the stranger and more confused he felt.

Then, one evening, he invited Edrington back to his apartment for a book he wanted to lend.

"This. De Montesquieu's Spirit of the Laws."

"You're very political. Do you ever read anything for pleasure?"

"Sometimes," Enjolras said airily, offering the book. Edrington took it slowly. Suddenly, Enjolras felt distinctly worried. "Sit down. Is it all right for you to stand all this long?"

"I daresay I know my limits by now, M'sieur Enjolras."

"Likely you do, M'sieur." Enjolras looked at the floor and then up again, his blue eyes dark. "You've won, you know. Please tell me your name. I'm tired of having just a title to know you by."

"Joseph Edrington, my impudent young man." Edrington shrugged. "You needn't look so defiant. I've no intention of taunting you. You always seem to think the worst of me. Really, I don't plan to have you arrested, or spit on your dreams, or whatever else you may be thinking."

"I wasn't thinking that. Do sit down."

This time, Edrington complied, though he also smiled condesceningly again. "M'sieur Enjolras, you seem quite agitated. May I inquire as to whether anything is wrong?"

"M'sieur Edrington, how can you possibly go from seeming as though you at last might treat me equally to being a proud aristocrat again?"

"Odd," said Edrington coolly. "Why do you want to be treated as an equal on my terms? It sounds rather as though you aspire to being a nobleman than to bring me down to your level."

"It isn't like that at all, however." Enjolras sat on the bed, glaring at Edrington. "You always think of things on your terms. I'm quite sure that's how all you would think, being aristos. You yourself seem to believe the world revolves around you."

"Oh, I only believe that when I'm on horseback. Come, M'sieur Enjolras. Try to look on things in a positive manner. Not all aristocrats, surely, are the epitome of everything repellent and disgraceful."

"Sometimes I have my doubts."

"Then I shall certainly give up reasoning with you. You're not a reasonable man."

"You're right. I'm not reasonable at all, and I can't understand--" Enjolras stopped.

"Can't understand what?"

"It's no use at all. Myself, I can't understand." It was true, but he could hardly believe he'd told Edrington so. "Isn't my soul all France's? I have a hundred doubts, but do you suppose for one moment I could tell them to anyone? And now there's you. I am in a state, aren't I?" he added, disgusted with himself.

"You are, but, Enjolras, stop a moment." Edrington suddenly pulled himself up and sat down on the bed beside Enjolras. "There now. You are going to tell me exactly what has you in such a state."

"I'm an idiot. You have no idea what kind of fool I am. I only started out hoping for your good opinion. And that's idiotic too, I'm fully aware. You're exactly the sort of man I hate. You're wealthy, you've a title, you've an estate, and you likely don't look twice as beggars." He stood up, and began pacing rapidly about the room, in great agitation. "But you're clever, you're intelligent, you're well-read. You have all the qualities I admire, as well as all the possessions I don't. I even admire your pride. So what am I to do? What is this?" He went back and sat on the bed again.

Edrington put his hand on Enjolras' shoulder kindly. "I'm afraid I don't know how you see it. It could be friendship, you know. You're terribly shy of the idea, but there is the possibility you have friends and can feel companionship towards another creature."

"It's not that. Combeferre is my friend. This--" Nearly without realising what he was doing, he kissed Edrington. Edrington barely returned it before pushing him back quite gently.

"Enjolras."

"Oh, God." Enjolras couldn't manage anything else. He had no idea, but of course had every idea.

"Perhaps you understand yourself after all," Edrington suggested.

"I love you." As soon as he said it, quite a few things made much more sense. It was then he realised what trouble he was in. "Please don't think that's something I would tell someone lightly," he said hurriedly, but seriously. "I'm not a silly boy to go protest love to anyone. I'd prefer to love my country only, but I can't concentrate on things now, and it's--I believe it's clear."

Edrington sighed. "I cannot deny that I am very fond of you--I am very fond of you--I do love you a little--but I have no desire to become your lover or anything of the sort, or to become embroiled in a situation that will give me a reason to regret leaving Paris. From what I gathered in our conversation about lifestyles, for you to have a lover would cause you no real inconvenience. It is not so for me. I simply wish to return home at the end of my stay and continue my life. I already miss my horses, my books, and tea at a decent time."

Enjolras stared at him silently.

"You're a clever and a beautiful young man, and perhaps, in a different situation, I'd have wanted to stay with you; but I do not wish to throw away a life that makes me happy. I shall take my leave. Would you prefer I left the book?"

"Oh, no; keep it."

"Thank you." Edrington got himself up off the bed with his crutch, and headed towards the door.

He had almost made it when Enjolras rushed after him, nearly tripping over the chair. "Wait a moment--"

"Yes?"

"Shall I see you again before you leave?"

"If you wish, though I'd think it prudent not to."

"I hate the English. M'sieur, you said you loved me a little." Enjolras straightened with an unsteady dignity. "May I ask for a kiss before you go?"

Edrington looked at him for a long moment. "It is to be a last remembrance of what I choose to leave behind? But because I do love you, if only a little, a kiss." He nodded. "Nothing more."

Enjolras nodded as well. "Of course."

It seemed to Enjolras awfully strange afterwards. He had never been kissed before, but the kiss was Edrington's. It was reserved, careful, and charmed him, and he recalled trying to change it and make it fiercer, and Edrington keeping it the same, sweet and dignified and English. Enjolras had thought Edrington might want to get it over with quickly, but it was just as much as kiss on his part as Enjolras'.

And Enjolras remembered saying "Je t'aime", and Edrington shaking his head. After that, Edrington left. He simply opened the door, went through it, and closed it again, as anyone would on an ordinary day at an ordinary moment.

Enjolras remembered being angry, and sitting at his desk writing politely furious letters to no one, just because he was angry. He remembered the next day, and being so irritable and easily infuriated with his Amis that Combefere, Courfeyrac, and Joly all asked if he was all right at least four times.

But Edrington was certainly gone. It was hopeless to imagine otherwise. He had never mentioned the inn he was staying at, and somehow Enjolras was glad, because it meant he couldn't look for him there. By May twenty-second, Enjolras found it very easy to pretend he didn't care about the matter, though perhaps he regretted it.

By June fifth there was no matter at all.

And on June sixth, Lord Joseph Edrington finished his tea, read further in The Spirit of the Laws, rode his favourite horse, and felt a little sad, for no particular reason.

~~~

And a belated, but veddy happy birthdayfic for maranz.

Jehan runs away to become a gypsy:

Quid Stellae Signant

Jehan did not mean to fall in love.

He was already in love with Andrea, and all his poetry of the past week had borne her name. She was an angel, a goddess, a vision, and he was dying, in a quiet, desperate manner, for her love. He certainly had not intended to forsake her. As a matter of fact, all he'd meant to do was to go out of Paris for a day trip, and have a sort of picnic lunch somewhere with wild strawberries, because he hadn't had a strawberry in ages, and missed them.

Innocently, he went out, and sat in among some small, pretty trees to eat his lunch, with the sun sparkling through the leaves and making him want to write poetry. He suddenly caught sight of something. He stood, and trotted through the trees, his wide sleeves flapping in the breeze. When he emerged from the trees, he came upon a small number of hooded wagons put into a ring. It was a gypsy caravan.

Jehan was utterly enthralled.

He crept closer, curling his arm around the slender tree trunks as though he were reluctant to approach. There were people inside the ring: people making small fires; people setting out little wooden stools; people laughing or sternly saying things in a language he couldn't understand. There were children, and old men and women, and people his age. The women and girls wore beautiful, somewhat faded skirts and blouses, and the men loose shirts and breeches. They all wore jewelry. Most of them were barefoot; many of them bare-headed.

And Jehan fell in love.

Just then, someone saw him, and several of the people danced over to look at him. The dark-skinned girls giggled, and the dark-haired men laughed.

Jehan Prouvaire, at that time, didn't look quite eighteen; he looked harmless. They were completely unafraid of him, and not inclined to be hostile. He was just a lost, pretty-eyed child.

"Boy," one of the women said to him, in tumbling, accented French. "Boy, you come for why?"

"I'm from the city," he whispered.

"You want something? We mend things, we sell, we trade things. You want your fortune, boy? We tell fortunes, sometimes. Is that why you come looking for us?"

Jehan couldn't answer.

When he loved just one girl--when he loved Andrea--it was hard enough to be around just her and not stumble over himself, or blush, or trip on his words. Now, he was near almost fifty people, and he was in love with them all, and everything about then. It was enough to make him feel faint.

One of the girls, wearing a purple and blue and green skirt that made him think of watercolour grapes, fanned at him with a battered hat. It blew the loose brown curls of his hair gently. "Is the boy all right? You all right?"

"I'm all right. I shall buy anything you like." He looked imploringly towards the woman who had first spoken. "But will you let me stay? I want to stay here for a few moments."

The woman smiled at him, and drew him forward with a firm, dark hand. "You want to stay? Why should you stay?"

"I'll do anything you'd like me to," he told her. "Please, I'll do anything at all."

The woman laughed, turned to the others, and said something he couldn't understand. Another of the girls laughed something back, and a tall, smirking young man suggested something else. The woman turned back to Jehan. "Then you help. You go with him," she indicated one of the men, "and he show you what you do. He's Calliditas." She grinned.

Jehan obediently went to the young man's side. He looked up--for Calliditas was infinitely taller than he was--and saw two sharp, dark eyes watching him.

"I'm Jehan," he said softly.

Calliditas put a hand on his shoulder. "Jehan? You come with me."

So for the next three hours, Jehan worked. He had never really needed to work before. After all, he was the only son of a very wealthy aristocratic family, and before there'd always been servants to do things. He had never searched a meadow for plants, or repainted the gold ribbons on the side of a wagon; he'd never before split wood for fires, or sung his poetry to small, thin children with the eyes of old men. But the longer he worked, and the more the children asked him to sing the long, pretty song again, the deeper he fell in love.

Calliditas watched him with approval, and the gypsy girls laughed at his pale skin and pale brown hair. When he had finished the work they gave him, he stayed to tell their children stories about his home and take supper with them. He never thought of going back to the city, even when it became dark. He was far too enchanted.

In the morning, he awoke early to find them packing away their wooden stools and putting out their fires. The gypsy girls twirled their multicoloured skirts and picked early flowers for their hair, as all around them everyone prepared to leave. Jehan instantly ran to the woman who had allowed him to stay.

"Are you going? You can't be going away?"

"Of course we go, boy. We don't stay long anywhere. We go all over."

"But I love you. I love all of you! You can't be going!"

She laughed gently and cupped his chin in her rough hand. "We always go. You can't make us stay. We don't stay, not us. Even if you love us."

"I want to go with you," said Jehan miserably, feeling his eyes sting.

"Maybe you come with us. All our little children, they like you. Everyone likes you. You work hard. A good boy, you are; we all like you."

If Jehan had been thinking properly, he would have refused. But Jehan was in love, and when he was in love, he never thought properly. If he had been thinking, he would have remembered the talks of Enjolras' that everyone half-believed, about revolution. As it was, he remembered Combeferre, and how he might miss him. If he had been thinking, he would have realised he was leaving behind college and his entire future. But Jehan wasn't thinking of the things he had learned; he was thinking of the things he could learn.

"I might come with you?"

"You sure? You got pretty sweetheart in the city? You not just gonna leave her alone?"

"No, there's no one. Please--if it's possible--"

She laughed again, and dropped her hand. "You wait a moment, and I ask." Then she turned to the other gypsies, and began to speak in their language. They kept looking over at Jehan, and he blushed nervously, but tried to stand straight. At last Calliditas nodded firmly and touched the shoulder of an old man, who also nodded. The woman looked back at Jehan. "You may come with us. But you're Romani now, you understand? You learn to speak like us, and you dress like us, and you move on and never stay anywhere. You not see your family again."

Jehan didn't weep. Sometimes lovers were disowned for their love. This would be almost the same thing. "All right," he said, trembling a little. "All right."

The woman smiled, and held out her arms. "You call me Mollis. You come with us now."

Gladly, Jehan let her hold him close.

Later, he wrote letters, to Combeferre, to his parents, to the college to explain he wasn't coming back. He apologised to everyone. He sent his love and gratitude to everyone. He tried to make everything as right as he could, and then he disappeared.

Jehan Prouvaire hadn't meant to fall in love. But once he had, he could never fell in love with anyone else again.

Comments

[erinpuff]

You? Rock. OTP. Thank you. OMG. *is reduced to incoherent, but grateful, babbling*

I especially like the ending. Augh. (<--that was a good "oh wow I love your writing" augh; don't worry. ^^)

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

#^_^# Thanks.

I had to fight to keep the ending. :) So I am very glad you like. *snugs* Happy birthday!

[maranz.livejournal.com]

You are a wonderful human being. I love the story. *bear hugs* Wheee! Thankyouthankyouthankyou.

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

^_______^ *hugglesmuch* I'm glad you like.