vive l'avenir

quick jehan/r drabble because of all the talk about capital r Romantics, and occasionally jehan is more byron than shelley, and because oh my god i’m so bored i’m only a week into summer break and already bored??

(warning for discussion of depression & self-harm)


“Your music today is the same color as your voice when you laugh.”

Jehan was laid out on the couch, eyes fixed on cobwebs on the ceiling dressed as cracks and letters. The spiders were never there, but their footsteps danced above like ghosts.

(Maybe that’s what ghosts were, really, footsteps and letters that no one ever cleared out. It meant they still had time.)

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A quick halloween story to music to get in the spirit.

Samhuinn is the when the witches are at their most powerful and they celebrate all night long so take care you don’t get caught!

Melody and lyrics: me!

Vive l'avenir!

Happy(?) Barricade Day!

Hello, dear friends and fellow sufferers! Here’s my modest offering for this heart-rending festival of woe, brought to you by a realization that:

(a) Le fin des vers de Jean Prouvaire clocks to eight sylllables and;

(b) Jehan’s exactly the kind of nerdy drama lama who would appreciate being commemorated in the style of Finnic epics.

Therefore I shall rest secure in conviction that he would appreciate the effort, if not the execution.

Many thanks to @shellcollector, for giving suggestions, making everything scan, and generally being a person who comprehends English in practice, not only theory. <3

Also, I am very sorry

(read to the rhythm of DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da )

Le fin des vers de Jean Prouvaire

Stop and listen, friend far distant
child of changes, charging forward
tumbling through the tags of tumblr
tracing tales of times long past
Stay and listen, child of changes
for a fable well familiar,
will not wither in whispering
shall not shatter in sharing

Listen, friend, but well be warned
for such words of woe will follow
as shall speak the shames of centuries
sing the song of paving stones
sing of cities torn asunder
flags of flame and coats of crimson
of such heroes hid from history
of their souls in shadows swallowed.

Sing the poet’s song who forged
verses for his friends while waiting,
for the dawn in dreams evoked
staring down the breaking future
spoke into the spell-bound silence
lines in lonely, love-lorn language.
told tales of a thousand triumphs
made a million myths from memories
Breathed a hundred happy hopes

Where to find his well-forged verses?
Spells he sang into the silence ?
myths transmuted from his memories?
happiness from a happenstance?
Where is he himself, the poet?
Where thousand dreams that dawned?
Where’s the future claimed for love?
Where his words to free the world?

Lost the poet was in darkness
torn from the redoubt resplendent
unseen by his friends was taken
far beyond the barricade.
In the winds his verses withered
On the shadowed streets songs scattered.
But the poet, wordsmith, prophet
with his last breath promised better

Still his songs shall  sound in silence
words and verses find their form in
paving stones and good intentions
hopes carved into wineshop walls.
Flowers grown in cracks shall whisper
reaching skywards- “Vive l'avenir”
For the verse is yet not finished
Dreams of dawn can never die.

The voice of Jean Prouvaire

I decided to collect all the references to Jean Prouvaire’s voice in the novel.  All English translations are my own (as are any mistakes).  If I’ve missed any, or mistranslated anything, please let me know.

3.4.1 Un groupe qui a failli devenir historique

“Il avait la voix habituellement délicate et tout à coup virile.“

He had a voice, usually delicate, which would suddenly become manly.

“Il parlait doucement, penchait la tête, baissait les yeux, […]”

He spoke softly, bowed his head, lowered his eyes, […]

4.12.6  En attendant

“[…] à ces vers murmurés à demi-voix dans le crépuscule par Jean Prouvaire qui, nous l'avons dit, était un doux poète.

“[…] these verses, murmured at half-voice in the twilight by Jean Prouvaire, who, as we have said, was a tender poet.”

4.14.5  Fin des vers de Jean Prouvaire

“On entendit une voix mâle crier:

—Vive la France! vive l'avenir!

On reconnut la voix de Prouvaire.

Un éclair passa et une détonation éclata.

Le silence se refit.”

“They heard a male voice cry:

‘Long live France!  Long live the future!’

They recognised the voice of Prouvaire.

A flash was seen and a detonation thundered out.

Silence descended once more.”

Montprouvaire Week #10: "Apology"

“Get off!” Montparnasse sounded hysterical, desperate, as he struggled against Gueulemer. “I have to- I have to save him!”

Gueulemer shook his head slowly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Montparnasse let out a wordless scream of rage and desperation. “Let me go, you bastard!”

Prouvaire was across the square, surrounded by the police, at least four guns levelled at his head.

No matter what, he couldn’t let it happen. Couldn’t watch it happen, helpless.

Montparnasse wrenched one arm free of Gueulemer’s grip and lashed out wildly as Prouvaire was forced to kneel.

“VIVE LA FRANCE!” Prouvaire’s voice was strong, carrying. He didn’t sound afraid, although he had to be.

Montparnasse’s elbow connected with Gueulemer’s nose, and his grip weakened- only for a moment, but for long enough. Montparnasse pulled free and hurled himself across the square.

And then everything was happening at once:

Prouvaire shouted, “VIVE L'AVENIR!”

The sergeant’s gun went off with a sharp crack.

Montparnasse collided with Prouvaire and they went down in a heap.

Before he really knew what was happening, Montparnasse was lying on top of Prouvaire, shielding him, and it felt like he’d been hit by a truck.

The sergeant walked over and nudged him with the tip of his foot. There was a moan of pain in answer, and the sergeant turned and walked away.

A barked order and the square cleared, leaving only Montparnasse and Prouvaire.

Montparnasse managed to roll off Prouvaire, although it felt like he was on fire, and then Prouvaire was wrapping his arms around Montparnasse, clinging to him, brushing his hair back from his face, eyes filling with tears.

“Jehan…” It hurt to talk now. “Jehan… are you hurt?”

Montparnasse’s hands ran clumsily over the poet’s torso and limbs, and then the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. “Thank God.”

‘Parnasse- ‘Parnasse, hold on, please… We’ll get help- you’ll be alright if you just stay with me-” Prouvaire was starting to sob now, and Montparnasse’s chest felt tight with pain and guilt.

“I’m sorry…”

Prouvaire shook his head. “It should’ve been me…”

“No.” Montparnasse tried to sound firm. “I knew… I knew what I was doing. And I don’t regret it.”

Tears were spilling down Jehan’s cheeks, and he wrapped his arms more tightly around Montparnasse.

“I’m here…”

“That’s all I need to know…” Montparnasse was still smiling.

Jehan shook his head, sobs shaking his slender shoulders. “I can’t let you go…”

“Do you remember any of it?” Montparnasse’s gaze was fixed on some point above them. “We’ve done it all before, only- only it was different…”

Prouvaire’s hands shook as he touched Montparnasse’s cheek.

“I didn’t make it, last time. I didn’t get there on time… I lost you, Jehan, and I never forgave myself.” Memories were flooding his head-

The snowy alley where they met the first time, but that alley, almost two centuries ago, and fixing Prouvaire’s cravat and the first time they kissed, and watching the stars and suddenly realising he was in love with Prouvaire. Madly in love.

“But I stopped them, this time. It’s different, now. You’re safe…”

“'Parnasse…” Prouvaire’s voice cracked.

“You’re safe,” he repeated. “That’s what matters.”

Please…” Prouvaire must have known begging wouldn’t help, but he sounded desperate, broken. “'Parnasse, please…

Montparnasse caught his wrist, expression suddenly serious. “Promise me, Jehan…”

“Anything, only please…

“Promise me… when I die, you’ll go, you’ll leave me behind, you’ll stay away from the barricades, Jehan, please…

Prouvaire nodded shakily, clinging to him, holding on to him as tightly as he could, and that sad smile returned to Montparnasse’s face.

“Promise me…”

“I promise.”

“I’m sorry, Jehan… it has to be like this, it has to. We belong together… and I couldn’t let them… I’m sorry , Jehan- I love you, Jehan, more than anything…”

Prouvaire was still pleading with him, begging him to stay, to hold on, but Montparnasse could hardly hear him anymore.

“It’s different this time…”

And as everything goes dark and silent, his eyes fall shut.

anonymous asked:

*tiptoes in and tugs at your sleeve* would you show us some "lost boy Montparnasse", someday? Pretty please?

(make your experience more painful and play this while reading)

Montparnasse’s knuckles went white, his hand tightly closed around the handle. It’s just a door, he kept telling himself, trying to ignore the tremors in his knees. He was tired, he was so tired. His throat was dry and his eyes ached at the faintest ray of sunlight. If there was a hole in the ground he could crawl in, he’d take it. He did not wish to see the rays of the sun ever again. They were meaningless without warmth.

With the remaining shreds of his strength, Montparnasse pushed the door open. The worst was done, he thought. He took a step inside and understood how wrong he had been.

Everything was exactly the same. On the bed, the sheets were still scattered over the mattress, where Montparnasse had left them after Jehan’s departure, early in the morning. There was still clothes hanging on the back of a chair. The flowers had been watered.

The lodgings were full of him, yet terribly empty. The ghost of Jehan’s absence caught Montparnasse by his throat, cutting his breathing short. He swallowed the lump in his throat and blinked away the veiled thickening in front of his eyes. He didn’t know he still had tears to shed.

His tired feet dragged him to the desk, where a book was still open. Jehan’s diary. Years of poetry, beautiful calligraphy and soul were bound in those pages. Montparnasse looked at the last entry. A little stanza stared back at him, unfinished, never to be completed. The last line didn’t even meet its meter, stopping in the middle of a word.

“Vive la France!” echoed in the back of his mind.

A drop fell on the page, smudging the beautiful handwriting.

“Vive l'avenir!”

He had died for nothing. He had died alone. He had died with a blindfold covering his eyes. Jean Prouvaire had died without taking one last look at the sky.

Montparnasse threw a neat bottle of ink to the other side of the room. It shattered against the wall and the darkness spilled. Unable to stop, Montparnasse threw every piece of furniture around, breaking everything in his blind rage. He was a hurricane set free in a confined place. His shouts were broken ones, his voice was already hoarse from shouting Jehan’s name.

His hand closed on a little vase holding a few flowers. He pitched it violently against a looking glass, both bursting under the shock. Only then did he feel remorse bite his guts. He knelt amongst the shards, trying to salvage the little flowers, slashing his hands.

“No! No! I’m sorry, Jehan! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he cried out, blood dribbling down his fingers and tears trickling down his cheeks. His lungs refused to work, leaving him choking on his own breath.

The sobs that shook him tore him apart. Forced to hold himself together, he crawled to the nearest wall for support. He was gone. He was gone. He was gone.

He stayed there until his tears dried and the day had passed. Barely standing, he let himself fall onto the bed. Jehan’s side was sacred, yet he shifted to occupied it, burying his face into his pillow. It still smelt like him. Montparnasse squeezed it against him, as though the pressure would create life. He missed the warm body pressed against him. Come back…

That night, Montparnasse passed out more than he fell asleep, with Jehan’s smell dulling his sense. He doubted he could ever get his hands of something more potent in the foreseeable future. A long night had begun.


and when we die we will die with our arms  u n b o u n d

Love is blind || Jehan & Ahk

Jehan had been in the midst of his morning ritual. After he woke up, he took a shower, got dressed and went on his way for a stroll through the park. After exactly thirty-seven minutes of walking, he got to the coffee shop he visited every morning. Anne, the girl who worked there every day, immediately walked with him to his spot in the corner of the shop, before she went to get him his usual cup of tea. As he wrapped his thin fingers around the steaming cup, he had a short conversation with Anne. It was always the same. First they talked about his poetry, then about the weather, then about another one of her crushes. However, that morning had been different. While still in the middle of talking about one of his new poems, the young girl interrupted him. “It seems you have a guest,” she whispered. Jehan heard the footsteps drawing closer. Somewhat light, but still heavy in its own way, a sort of certainty combined with a hint of doubt. “Regular guest?” he asked the girl, who softly answered with a ‘no’. “I… see.”

sunjolras replied to your photo: i hate you so fucking much right now

if it was combeferre he’d swallow and lean up to pick up where courf left off, whispering it in his ear


(“et ne nos inducas in tentationem,” combeferre says with a smirk as courf lays panting and shaking beside him, like he’s felt the Spirit pass through him and run him dry, and he just laughs loud and sharp while combeferre finishes with an “amen.”)

one of the things that i really like about the les mis fandom is that everyone seems so lovely and nice and so willing to speak up about how a lot of the characters (and plot/themes/etc.) deal with a lot of serious issues that should be treated with respect,and i really am very grateful for that, except

i never really see that sort of insistence on treating a character with respect for joly?

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ok so this is who i have for ~~les amies~~ in case you were wondering

  • combeferre - michelle rodriguez
  • courfeyrac - stoya
  • joly - ellen page
  • bossuet - rashida jones
  • musichetta - rosario dawson
  • feuilly - fo porter
  • bahorel - lauren cohan
  • jehan - fan bingbing
  • grantaire - eva green
  • marius - kristen stewart
  • enjolras - basically still andrej pejic

& keeping samantha barks as éponine and amanda seyfried as cosette bc im lazy


anonymous asked:

you've already talked about how Parnasse reacts after Jehan's death... but what would Jehan do if it had been Montparnasse the one to somehow die first? (sorry for the angst)

Jehanparnasse | Canon Era | 1.2k | I’m so sorry

The assault had swallowed Jehan in fire and smoke. His vision was reduced to sparks: a gun going off, a glint in someone’s eye, teeth bare in a sign of attack. Even the cries of the battle did not manage to seep through the thick fog of the charge. Jehan was deaf to them. His shoulder was sore from the recoil of his rifle, but he kept his rhythmic dance: shoot, open, reload, shoot, open reload.

For someone who had barely held a gun before, let alone a rifle, his aim was impeccable. Though he could hardly see through the smoke, his target always fell when his finger met the trigger. Every time, he felt his heart grow heavier of a new life taken.

They were coming at you,” he thought each time he reloaded. “There was nothing else you could have done, except presenting your chest.”

A uniform surfaced out the mist, rushing up the barricade. Jehan’s hands, usually deft and quick, failed to fiddle with the powder, leaving him with an empty gun. His heart jumped in his throat, threatening to abandon him. What could he do? Hit the guard? Try to avoid the bullet? Jehan hardly had time to think that a gun was pointed at him.

The report rang in his ear, almost deafening him. He waited for the pain to split his body into two. The pain never came. On his right, he heard one of his brothers in arms drop from a few meters. Jehan would have looked behind, would have helped, but the thought of the guard ahead froze the blood in his veins. He looked over the barricade. There was no guard to be seen. The uniform had disappeared, his owner had fell, slain by his victim. An eye for an eye, Jehan thought.

The offensive waned rapidly, leaving the barricade a moment of rest to count their dead and take care of their wounded. Jehan climbed down the various pieces of furniture, nodding at Feuilly and Courfeyrac when their gazes crossed. His eyes raked the barricade quickly; as far as he could tell, les Amis de l'ABC were as bulletproof as their ideals. Only Grantaire was missing, but Jehan knew he was merely sleeping inside. Good. He would have gotten himself killed, otherwise.

Jehan joined a little group led by Joly, who was doing his best to order his troops around as to help the wounded effectively. Apart from the black trail of gunpowder on his cheek, the doctor looked unscathed.

“Where do you need me?”

“Some men inside badly need stitches. You have the talent of a seamstress, it’ll be no tro―”


Both men turned around to the sound of Gavroche’s cry. The kid was livid, he who was usually so spirited and full of gall. Jehan and Joly shared a concerned glance.


“Come, quickly!”

No sooner had he spoken that Gavroche took his heels, urging Jehan to follow suit. Worry started to flood is lungs, making his breathing difficult. Someone was hurt. Someone had died! Gavroche led him to the other side of the Corinthe, where Combeferre was knelt by a body. Jehan swallowed thickly. Judging by the black curls peaking next to Combeferre’s shoulder, it was Courfeyrac. No. No it was silly! He had just seen him, alive and well, so―

Combeferre bent over the body, revealing his patient’s face and Jehan’s heart ruptured in his chest.


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“That’s true, I’m reluctant to cut anything too much though.” He smiled softly. “It already feel amazing to be honest. It’s funny what hair can do. I just feel very… free.”

“It is because you’re not allowing anyone to tell you what to do. Even if it is something as little as letting your hair grow, it can still mean a lot when people expect you to do the opposite. I’m proud of you, my friend.”

“Grantaire? Is that seat taken?” The poet gently pointed at the seat next to his friend, smiling shortly. They were in the middle of a meeting, but Jehan had not been in the mood to join in the current discussions. Instead he chose to join Grantaire, preferring his company at that moment.