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.)

Keep reading

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.”


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.”)

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


The Final Verses of Jean Prouvaire

The dread night is come,
With clouded dark skies and few stars,
A sunset like an old bruise of purple and black
A funereal quiet in the streets,
As we stand unsheltered, unprotected
Against an insurgence of oppression.

And I, my eyes raised to heaven,
Bear my breast to the oncoming blow,
Awaiting the end of days
At the end of bayonets and bullets,
Man’s attempt to terrify.

Here we have all the pagan myths,
Even once dreams take flight.
Do not insult the gods:
They allow not fame and happiness,
And often times barely one or the other;
They allow the loneliness of kleos,
Rage and glory in battle,
Or the soft nostos,
A homecoming.

But for me, there will be neither;
I have defied the gods above,
For I have been in love.

My friends, how I have loved you!
How I have fought for you to the end.
Be of good cheer and strong!
My heart and days of my youth are yours,
All given for our cause–
For the voiceless, my voice;
For the blind, my light;
For the people, my life!

My beloved, do not weep,
But lay our roses upon my grave,
Plant lilies there too and sigh no more.
My devilish boy with an angel’s smile…
May the world shine a friendly eye on you,
For though my fight is ended,
Yours must go on.

Remember me fondly,
For though a small man am I,
My heart has been full.
So now let my last words be heard,
Let them ring out as an anthem:
Vive la France! Vive l'avenir!


“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.”

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.

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.

“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.