Nov 23 - Monster / Soulmate **please note content warning for arson, but no-one gets hurt.

“What’s your favourite monster?”

Montparnasse looks at the pictures spread around them, the dragons, the beasts, the horrifying creatures trailing blood in their footsteps behind them.  He looks back at Jehan, and presses two fingers under his chin, tilting his head up so he can kiss him.  

“You are.”

Jehan smiles.

…

Jehan cups his hands around the little flame and blows gently.  Montparnasse has always hated this place.  It’s useful for disposing evidence, nothing more.

The firelight flickers on his face as Jehan coos to the burning sticks, and Montparnasse’s breath leaves him in a rush.  

“The kerosene’s down,” he calls out, moving to lean against the wall.  Jehan’s smile ripples, the yellow and red lights flickering over his jaw, and he turns his head to face Montparnasse, and blows a kiss.  

Jehan likes to light fires with his own hands.  It’s a personal touch, he’s explained.  Anyone can throw a lighter at a petrol drum, but setting a fire from your own two hands, coaxing that first flame into life and protecting it until you set it on its way – you need to own it.   You need to bring it into being.

The stage is set for the show, and Jehan walks to where Montparnasse has carefully arranged the curtains, still cooing to the sparkling inferno in his hands, and so it begins.  

They perch on the rooftop of a cathedral four blocks away, and watch it burn to the ground.  

The cacophony of sirens is chamber music to his ears.

Jehan’s hand is warm in his, and Montparnasse kisses his fingers as Jehan smiles, swinging his legs back and forth over the edge of the roof.  

…

Jehan skips through the ashes as Montparnasse walks sedately behind him, and Jehan laughs in delight as great clouds of grey swirl up his sides, the dry ash still fine enough to float in the air.  

The moon is resting in her place high in the sky, and there is nothing to fear here.  Jehan’s white dress is now entirely black along the hem at his thighs, though the fabric at his neckline is still pure.  Montparnasse watches him dance in the ashes and breathes a sigh of contentment.  

It’s the first night they’ve been able to come back, the first night the crawling hoard of fire fighters and reporters and police have abandoned the site to the moonlight.

“ashes to ashes, dust to dust,” Jehan sings, and his voice is high and sweet in the dark.  Montparnasse hears a car turn onto the road close to them, too close, and he tenses momentarily, one hand slipping deftly into his jacket.  The car is only on the road for a moment before it turns off into a side street, a thudding bass splitting the silence and Montparnasse relaxes, releasing his grip on the handgun.

His soulmate looks ready to open his arms and fly, a phoenix rising from the ashes underneath a full moon.

Even though the night is bright, it’s too dark for Montparnasse to truly appreciate the shade of Jehan’s hair, though moonbeams streak through it, silver shining through.  Out of all the fires he’s watched Jehan light, the vivid flame-red of his hair in full sunlight is still his favourite.

The ground is soft with ash beneath his feet, and reality is hazy, watching Jehan dance.  His phone lights up in his hand, the ringtone silenced so as not to disturb Jehan’s music.  His partner notices the distraction, and trips delicately over to him in order to see.

“A new job?”

Montparnasse scans the text carefully, and rubs his thumb over the little emoji of a mask that the message signs off with, smiling to himself.  He reaches out to stroke the side of Jehan’s face, and he moves closer, leaning into Montparnasse’s touch.  Jehan’s dress is speckled entirely with ash now, going from a deep black at the skirt to soft grey smudges against the neckline.  He rubs at where a feather of ash has clung to Jehan’s neck, and watches his lover shiver against him, their eyes dilating in the dark.  

He pulls him close and smiles as Jehan climbs on the toes of his boots to be able to reach him more easily, kissing them slowly as Jehan wraps himself around his waist.  “Your gods are smiling on us,” he says softly, resting his chin in the cleft between Jehan’s neck and shoulder.  He’s gentle when he bites down on his collarbone, but Jehan still squirms against him, responding to the feel of his teeth.

“How would you feel about returning to Paris?”

People look at Montparnasse and see a monster.  Jehan leans back so he can see his face and beams, and their kiss tastes like smoke straight from the ashes.

.

In only seven days (or the life and times of a sullen convenience shop employee) (part 1)

Fandom : Les Misérables

Modern AU, Montparnasse x Jehan Prouvaire, various other relationships in the background, 5027 words

Based on I don’t remember which post exactly, that said that coffeeshop AU was passé and the rage was now convenience store employee. Which is of course perfect for Montparnasse.

Dedicated to @kujaku-myoo​, @jesvisfarovche​ and @aux-barricades​. Thanks for your help and support !

Also on AO3 !

-

For the third time in one hour, Montparnasse changes the hand his head is resting on, and sighs, the longest sigh he’d ever uttered (or it’s pretty high in his top ten). His palms and elbows are starting to hurt, and he will probably get very inelegant bruises, staying like this. But the only other options are either getting up and doing something like sorting some merchandise or maybe cleaning a little, or lay his head down on the counter and take a nap. Or scream for two hours straight. And as much as he really wants to scream, it won’t be very good for his image. Or job. Or throat.

To think that someone like him could be caught in this predicament. It’s all so stupid, he feels like hitting his head against the counter. Except that it would probably ruin his face, so he doesn’t. But it would very well deserve it. Because only an idiot would get roped into working at a convenience store for a week, and the night shift at that. Granted, he’s lucky. Anyone else trying to rob a convenience shop (stupid enough to rob a convenience shop) would have gotten jail, or something worse as a punishment. Luckily - or not - for him, the owner seems to be under the charm of his robber enough to make a deal with him : one week of free work will reimburse the window he broke and the prejudice, and he’s free to go, without any charges pressed. Montparnasse doesn’t like it, not with the way the man leered at him, but he can’t really choose in this situation. Anything is better than jail.

And to make matters worse, that deal has been overseen by none other than Javert. Javert, who seems to have made his mission in life to make Montparnasse’s a living hell. Montparnasse is sure he dreams of it at night, most delicious dreams where he locks him in a very dark jail and throws away the key. Not that he wants to think about what Javert dreams of at night. Of course he was the first to arrive when Montparnasse was caught, and of course, he was delighted when he could finally put his dirty hands on him. And of course, he was seething when the owner instead made his offer, to “give a poor boy another chance at life”. Javert’s face at this declaration will probably be Montparnasse’s only comfort during that ordeal. Had the cop had a bit less restraint, he would have grabbed both of them and locked them somewhere. Instead, he glared at Montparnasse all through the negotiations, and left with the promise that he’d always keep an eye on him. Absolutely not creepy.

So here he is, bored out of his mind, sitting behind a counter made of very cheap plastic, with a register that has known better days staring at him, waiting for the crowd of weird people, idiots, drunks, self-proclaimed funny guys, thieves, creepy guys, or any combination of the above to roll by. It sounds very much like the plot of some kind of stupid movie where the hero is stuck in an uncomfortable situation that will change his life forever. For now, it doesn’t seem very life-changing, more like life-numbing, and he’s not the sullen hero of a teen movie. Just a very, very, very bored guy. Well, he thinks, it’s only for a week. You can do it. Be on your best behaviour for a week, play the good guy, and you’ll be free. One week. You can do it.

Keep reading

Just in time for the end of Jehanparnasse week 2019, here’s a Regency No Homophobia Engagement fic as an antidote to all the beautiful angst you all have been producing.

This story is part of my Dancing Through Life Regency universe and follows after Maskerade and Maze and Laurent Prouvaire arranges things

 You don’t need to read the rest of the series to understand this part, the separate ships have seperate storylines meant to intersect for bonus insight.

The undead and the living are not meant to mingle freely, the vampire community makes sure of that. Or, they ought to…

Happy Jehanparnasse week everybody! It is Monster Soulmate day and I am here with some long-awaited vampires ❤️

It's Jehanparnasse week (I think?) and I did say I wouldn't do anything out of time and because of Other Reasons, but here, have a rushed pic I did a few months ago.

Jehanparnasse Week - Day 7 - Monster

Montparnasse had been called a monster plenty of times in his young life, a compliment if he had ever heard one. What people liked to call monstrous, he liked to call successful. If it was monstrous for him to take things – money, trinkets, lives – well, let them call him what they will. It did little to hurt him, and even less to stop him.

People also liked to whisper about the company he kept, too. The sweet, plump face of his lover caused gossip to stir – that Montparnasse had plans to leave them, broke or broken, like so many other before them.

They really needn’t have worried. 

It was a lovely evening when they were jumped. Montparnasse and Jehan had been walking, hand in hand, when long shadows had spilled across their path ahead, and fast footfalls came up from behind. Perhaps the assailants had assumed Montparnasse would be unarmed when out with his soft, innocent lover. Perhaps they had hoped Jehan’s presence would at least mean something of a distraction for the monster that haunted the dark streets of Paris.

Montparnasse had raised his hands and let the armed men back him up against a stone wall. Once he was at their mercy, their attention to Jehan was lost as they snarled threats and demanded restitution from the young man, still looking far too smug for his own good. 

Perhaps if there had been a keener eye among them, they might have noticed Jehan’s shadow begin approach them, the fingers lengthening and sharpening. Perhaps if they had bothered to turn and look, they would have seen the soft brown eyes ripple to blackness. 

Perhaps they might have had a fighting chance.

Montparnasse smiled. He may have been a monster, but he was not the only one.

Last Night On Earth

“I wrote a postcard sent to you

Did it go through?

Sending all my love to you..”

The paper crinkled in Montparnasse’s hands as his grip tightened around it.

“You are the moonlight of my life

Every night

Giving all my love to you..”

He didn’t need to finish reading to know who the letter was from. Montparnasse grabbed his hat off the table and in one swift movement was out the door and into the streets, bracing himself against the wind, but the wind never came.

It was too quiet of a morning for the chaos of last night. Not a single child was kicking a ball in the street, not a vendor was waving flyers in his face, not a single gust of wind to chill Montparnasse to the bone.

His pace quickened, and had it been anyone else, it would seem as if the silence put him on edge.

He could smell the blood the moment the ground beneath his feet turned to cobblestone. For the first time in his life Montparnasse hesitated, gagging at the scent of death in the air. He looked down once more at the handwriting scrawled on the paper he still clutched in his hand.

“My beating heart belongs to you

I’d walk for miles until I’ve found you

I’m made to honour you

If I lose everything in the fire

I’m sending all my love to you”

Montparnasse stopped reading when he felt tears in his eyes. He wasn’t going to cry. Not here. His boots now began to leave tracks on the red soaked stone as the mound of furniture at the end of the street grew bigger. Stronger and stronger the scent of death became, stronger and stronger the feeling of dread sank in- the feeling of regret for ever coming here- stronger and stronger the urge to cry set in.

All it took was one glimpse of sprawled ginger hair for Montparnasse’s knees to give out. He crawled towards his Prouvaire and threw his body over Jehan’s, his shoulders shaking with violent sobs, his hand venturing to Jehan’s hand, cold and stained red.

The sun was high in the sky by the time Montparnasse finally stood up on shaking legs. There were women mopping up the blood in the street now, but Montparnasse paid them no attention. He stumbled back down rue Saint-Denis, pulling his hat down over his face to hide his swollen eyes.

Rounding the corner to his apartment, he was snapped out of his fog by a flyer for Shoe Polishing and Shining in his face. People were shouting down the street, children were chasing each other and weaving in and out between hastily set up stands. A gust of wind nearly took his hat right off his head. They had already moved on. The city is alive again, she never mourns for long.

“Get your fucking hand out of my face before I have to forcibly remove it.” Montparnasse hissed at the vendor. The city may have moved on, but how in the hell could he? He looked down at the note one more time.

“-if I lose everything in the fire

Did I ever make it through?”

You made it through, Prouvaire, to no one but me, but still a feat in itself.

Montparnasse held up the red dotted page to the wind, but didn’t let it go. Instead he clutched it in his hand the rest of the way home, and found a place for it in an empty drawer once inside. He wasn’t going to let go. He wasn’t going to let go.

Jehanparnasse week day four-Promises

Tumblr mobile continues to be shit and won’t let me do a read more, so tw for depression, alcohol, self harm, and just overall angst (this means you freckle) I started writing this for Winter but only got a sentence in before I stopped lol

Everything dies in winter.

For as long as they can remember Jehan has known this, has mourned the darkening of the days. The silence winter brings. Cold, still, blanketed in the harsh unyielding elements.

Everything dies in winter, and this includes a part of Jehan. They don’t know which part, but they think it’s an important one. Something coiled between their ribs. It leaves them empty, aching, grief and apathy (how can the two exist so completely and simultaneously?) filling the hole it’s left.

They can’t remember the last time they ate a full meal, let alone three. Can’t remember the last time that gaping chasm under their ribs didn’t hurt, didn’t claw at their insides and squeeze the breath out of their lungs. The taste of vodka is better than the taste of blood, their lips chapped and raw, and it burns their chest (but that’s better than nothing, it’s worth it for the warmth in their stomach and the numbing of their thoughts, so different from the fog that they’ve been enveloped in lately)

Their heart hurts.

“I don’t know how to help, Jehan.” Montparnasse says, helplessly.

Jehan turns away from him, eyes stinging arms burning head spinning. They miss the colors of spring.

Is this why? The red of their blood streaking down their arm, it looks almost like the roses Parnasse brings them, stolen from the old woman on the corner.

He’s gentle with them. So gentle, like they’re a rose themself. They could be. They’re painted with the right colors.

His fingers are cool, as he wraps their arm, brushing their skin softly. As soft as a kiss. They couldn’t count the number of times he’s pressed kisses to their arms, soft and careful and sweet.

“I love you.” He says, his voice soft and tender.

“I love you too.” They all but whisper, unable-or unwilling-to look into his eyes.

“Did you call to make an appointment with Beck yet?” Their therapist. They’ve been putting off seeing her. They don’t want to tell her of their failings, of the way they’ve done everything she’s told them not to. Everything they’ve been working for, unraveled so easily.

“Not yet.”

“Please, sweetheart? You need to talk to someone.”

“It’s fine.” Jehan mumbles. “It’s fine, I’m fine. You don’t need to worry.”

“You know I do.”

He sighs, leaning back against the bed. The wooden floor is hard, and uncomfortable, but this is where he had found them and he hasn’t yet moved.

“I’m sorry.” They say, voice breaking. “Are you angry?”

“Of course I’m not.” He looks at them like they’re going to break. “I’m upset, but i’m not angry.”

They don’t know if that’s better or not.

Carefully, slowly, they crawl into his lap. He lets them, wrapping his arms around them the instant they’re close enough, and they rest their head on his shoulder.

“I want it to stop hurting.” They tell him, voice catching on a sob. “I want it all to stop hurting, I want to stop being sad, and overwhelmed, and-and I hate it all and I hate myself and I can’t feel anything at all unless i’m feeling everything!”

“You’re okay, little bird. You’re all right, I promise you’re all right.” He presses a kiss to their head. “You’re going to be okay. I won’t let you not be.”

“What if i’m not?”

“You will be. I don’t break promises.”

Jehan is cold cold cold, and their chest hurts, and everything in them feels shattered and broken. Perhaps they’re irreparable. Perhaps it’s too much. At what point does healing become impossible?

Still, they nod.

“Okay.”

Jehanparnasse Week - Day 6 - Currency

Jehan was standing by a river. 

They didn’t remember arriving. They didn’t remember where they had been before it. The river in front of them was dark and murky, rippling gently though Jehan could feel no breeze.

They looked up. This place felt enclosed, but they could not see anything above them, neither darkness nor sky. Instead, their vision went fuzzy as they try to squint up at it.

A small splash drew their attention back to the river. A long boat, low in the water, glided towards them. Where it had come from, Jehan could not say – it had not been there a moment before. At its helm, a tall figure cloaked in black steered the vessel, the handle of a long pole clutched in their hand. 

Jehan blinked as the boat neared. Somehow, they felt like they had been expecting it.

As it drew in parallel to the shore on which Jehan stood, the figure reached up to pull back the hood of their cloak. The face beneath was lovely and pristine as marble, youthful yet mature, and fully fixed on Jehan.

Jehan frowned. “I know you,” they said, surprising themself with their certainty. “I’ve heard stories. You’re Charon, aren’t you?”

“To some,” they man in the boat replied, his voice as cool and rolling as the dark water below him. “It’s more of a title, really. I go by Montparnasse these days. Names are a funny thing. I do know yours, though, Jehan Prouvaire.”

Jehan liked the sound of their name from Montparnasse’s lips.

“Am I dead, then?” they asked, turning the words over in their mind, unable to come up with the right emotion to accompany them.

“You are.” Montparnasse’s response was devoid of either comfort or satisfaction. “I have come to take you across.”

“To where?” Jehan asked.

“To the next place. I hear it’s quite pleasant – you needn’t worry. But I haven’t had the time to visit myself. This job keeps me busy.”

“Do you do this for everyone?” Jehan asked, more curious, somehow, in the existence of the ferryman than in whatever they would find on the far bank of the river.

“Everyone who has ever lived and died,” Montparnasse affirmed. “Though I do have something of a schedule to keep. And I have to collect your fare before we depart.”

Jehan reached automatically for a pocket, but found nothing in the loose robe they seemed to wear. “I have nothing,” they said, suddenly crestfallen at the thought of not being able to afford to board the boat.

“Have you checked your mouth?” Montparnasse asked.

It was strange how his words seemed to manifest themselves. Jehan felt a slight weight on their tongue, a metallic taste filling their mouth. Cautiously, they opened it, pulling out a single silver coin that certainly had not been there for the length of their conversation. 

Montparnasse held out his hand, and Jehan dropped it into his palm. The hand disappeared into his robe, and emerged again, empty, and extended once more to Jehan. Jehan nearly protested that they had nothing more to give when they realized that Montparnasse was offering them aid in boarding the small craft. Lightly, they took his hand, stepping into the boat, making it rock gently as they sat down on the wooden bench, facing towards the ferryman at the stern.

“You don’t want to watch for the other side?” he asked them as he pushed off from the shore, moving the vessel in long strokes of his oar.

“I’m sure I will be able to see it once we get there,” Jehan replied, their eyes fixed on Montparnasse’s face. “What am I meant to do once we make it, though?”

“Whatever you like,” said Montparnasse. 

“May I come down to the water?” 

“I suppose.” 

“To talk with you?” 

Montparnasse paused a moment, his eyes on the horizon. “If it would make you happy.”

“Would it make you happy, though?” pressed Jehan, and felt a quiet surge in them when Montparnasse lowered his eyes to meet theirs.

“Yes,” he said decisively, and Jehan smiled. “I would like that quite a bit.”

Written for @finch-and-crow Jehanparnasse week! The prompt used was Copper, and this is very short because I wrote it at a bar inbetweeen shuffling uno cards 😊

…

Jehan’s trowel is made from bright copper, and Montparnasse eyes it carefully.

It looks out of place in his hand. He opens the glass door of the display case, and pauses. He’s collected dozens of knives over the years he has run in Paris’ underground; they glitter among the glass of the shelves, arranged with an artist’s eye.

The cabinet holds obsidian blades, titanium blades, regular steel that Montparnasse has soaked in bowls of bleach to get the bloodstains off. They each fit into his palm like they were made for his hands, and the polished metal will grow warm between his fingers. There are old knives made out of older metals, tarnished with time and blood and the sweat that comes from fear, and he’s lovingly cleaned them and polished them and included them all the same.

They’re cold and cruel and beautiful, and Jehan’s gardening trowel could not look any more wildly out of place.

When they moved in, Jehan had declared that what was Montparnasse’s was theirs, despite the fact that Jehan had caught him stealing it from their own garden. No particular reason. It was shining in the sun, and Montparnasse had always liked things that gleamed.

He places the trowel gently on center shelf, right in the middle, and closes the door gently before he leaves.

Jehanparnasse Week - Day 5 - Battle (CW: Smut Lite, not suitable for the workplace) Montparnasse’s back hit the wall, hard, his breath leaving him in a low groan as Jehan pressed up against him, teeth and tongue working against his neck and down to his collarbone. Their hands were frenzied, sliding over his clothing, pushing at the shoulder of his jacket until Montparnasse managed to piece together what they wanted and shed it as best he could, letting it fall to the ground as Jehan hummed, pleased. Soft as they were, they weren’t gentle with him. They let their hands slide down to his hips and shoved, leaning in to add more pressure to Montparnasse’s pelvis, and tilted their head up to chase his lips in a hungry kiss. Montparnasse caught shaky breaths in the tiny pauses of Jehan’s attack, trying to win back at least the air in his lungs. It was hard to do, especially under Jehan’s quick fingers hastily moving to unbutton Montparnasse’s shirt. He could feel the tension in their body, and their own breath coming out hard and uneven. He waited until they reached the last button, saving what strength he had left in his wobbly knees until they had reached for the button of his jeans, and he moved fast, hoisting Jehan up onto his hips as they let out a muffled squeak of protest against his mouth. He grinned against it, ignoring the indignant gasps and the scrape of teeth, focusing instead on steering them towards the bed. Jehan hooked their ankles together behind Montparnasse’s back, redoubling their efforts to keep his lips against theirs as he stumbled across the room and tipped Jehan backwards onto the mattress, their firm grip on him bringing him down with them. “Mmmf,” they said, nuzzling into his neck, their limbs still firmly around him as they let him adjust himself on top of them. He ran his hands over them, smiling when they immediately let go of him and raised their arms the second he reached the hem of their shirt. He peeled it off of them, more roughly than intended but too desperate to feel their skin against his. Jehan’s legs were still around him, and they raised their hips to grind against him as he tossed their shirt to the floor, moving forward to cover their body with his. “Fuck,” Jehan gasped as one of Montparnasse’s hands closed over their breast, his thumb dragging across their nipple, raising goosebumps along their flesh. “If you’d like,” Montparnasse rasped, trying to sound suave rather than totally wrecked. It was hard not to feel wrecked around Jehan, with their softness under his hands, with their breath hot on his neck, with their fingers again reaching for his waistband. He had been waiting for them to try it again, and his fingers were around their wrists and up over their head before they could finish their protestation. He broke off the sound with another bruising kiss, moving his mouth to their ear. “I win,” he murmured, and then let out a breathy laugh at Jehan’s responding moan. They rolled their hips again, the friction of their bodies too far apart with layers of clothing still in the way. Montparnasse lay another scraping kiss against the hollow of their throat, and pushed back up to pull off his open shirt, mirroring Jehan’s previous actions as he ground against them, savouring the way they shuddered and tensed under him. It was the tension that fooled him, though. The clench of Jehan’s stomach muscles combined with Montparnasse’s forfeited balance created the perfect window for Jehan to flip them both, sending Montparnasse sprawling across the mattress, as they climbed on top of him before he could catch his bearings. They moved their hips, biting their lips and smiling down at him, half-naked and fully in control, their hair spilling over their bare skin like fire. And as they leaned in to him, to breath, “No, I win,” Montparnasse was glad to burn.

For streets paved with lead

Birmingham, 1923

They knew this was coming, Jehan tries to remind themself of this fact. They would not have met Montparnasse if he had not had his eye on London.

Jehan listens to him talk, lay out his plans, his normally immaculate hair a touch dishevelled from the night’s work. His grey eyes have a glitter to them that Jehan knows all too well. Montparnasse has a way of looking full of greed and admiration turned to want. It’s how he looks at them too. But right now that look is for London.

Londen where the reigning powers have become lazy and complacent. Where there are weaknesses begging to be exploited. A city full of tarnished lead, waiting for Montparnasse’s touch of alchemy.

Or at least that’s what Montparnasse is saying. He’s handsome when he’s hungry like this, achingly so. But behind him the window is turning gold and pink as the sun rises over Birmingham and Jehan’s heart has an ache all their own. They like Birmingham, Montparnasse’s Birmingham at least. There is an honestly to this place. It is brazen. Unapologetic about both its ugliness and it’s beauty.

More importantly perhaps, Jehan feels accepted here. Whether they’re alone in their little flat, out dining with Montparnasse, or hurrying through the streets forcing an exasperated Claquesous to rush in order to shadow them, they feel like the city is content with their presence. Like the city that brought up Montparnasse has decided to adopt them.

Birmingham, they feel, as the personified presence it has become in their mind, will not surrender them if their past should come to find them.

They never felt like that in London. In London it felt like every tap on their shoulder, every knock on the door, might have been sent from back home.

But not here. Birmingham will not hand them back over to their parents. If only because, should there be misery and tragedy for them to be overcome by, it would take pride in supplying it itself.

No, Jehan does not pine for London. But they would pine for Montparnasse. They cannot let him go without them. And besides, they will not be returning to that London. It will be Montparnasse’s London this time. Or soon. As soon as the greedy glint in his eyes can make it happen.

“You can pick a new set of rooms,” he says warmly. “A place all your own. Somewhere pretty.”

Somewhere safe, he doesn’t say, but Jehan knows. There is a reason they don’t live with him. Why he comes to them instead.

“My lads will sweep the streets clean for you, for us,” he says. “Patron-Minette has never been stronger, we’ll have the run of the place.”

Jehan believes him. But not without blood. Not without steel and smoke and gunpowder. Not without death. But that’s the thing about Montparnasse. Death has grabbed at him so many times and it’s never managed to get a hold on him. Nowadays there’s voice that whisper death no longer touches Montparnasse. They whisper that he works for him instead.

“So,” he asks, turning his back on the window with confident indifference. “What do you think, little bird?”

He is waiting for their answer. And they know that there is no one he ever waits for with such an expression. Oh Montparnasse has made up his mind, sure enough. But it is their decision, and that is a thought that sets off a spark in their chest.

Jehan looks up at Montparnasse for as long as it takes for them to feel the glow of his fire in their own heart. For as long as it takes to make sure that their smile is genuine when they answer.

“I think London had better say her prayers.”

He trails his fingers over a delicate vine of orchids, his fingertips sliding off the petals.  He’s so mesmerised by the flowers that he turns around and gets a shock, having completely forgotten that flower stalls generally have an owner.

The flower seller is almost invisible, blending into the sea of leafy green things.

They look like someone who was born from the cup of a tulip, a Thumbelina among the gardens.  They sit cross-legged on top of a wooden table, holding a mobile to their ear with one hand, the other hand controlling a watering can that is slowly emptying into the pot plant at their feet.  Their eyes are wide, and there’s the faintest of blushes on their cheeks as they stare directly at Montparnasse.

——————————————————————————————-

I finished the actual story before midnight, so I’m declaring this still counts for Wednesday the 20th’s challenge, prompt word ‘promise’.

Jehanparnasse Week - Day 4 - Tower

The date was at 8 pm.

At 7, Jehan read their tarot cards.

It had long been their tradition to do so before going out with someone new, a glimpse into what the future might hold, should they allow it.

They lit candles and set themself on the floor, breathing into the ground as they shuffled their deck. They ran the cards, worn from use, through their hands, feeling for the ones that seemed to cling to their fingers, as they thought hard about the man at the centre of the request. Black hair, black gloves, black coat, black shoes – green eyes, like a poison as deadly as the charm of his gaze. Lips Jehan had wanted to kiss from the first words that passed them. A voice like the echo of smoke. 

They pulled out a card.

Handwriting that curled over their skin when he had given them his number, the long, smooth cursive that sighed his name: Montparnasse.

They pulled another. 

Coy text messages that had made their heart whir like a clockwork thing, and then curled into the blush in their cheeks and down through their core, electricity sparking below their navel.

They drew the final card and set the rest of the deck aside.

Flipping over the first card, they smiled at the blatant meaning. The Fool, a figure of optimism and spontaneity that invited in new beginnings and carefree enthusiasm.

The second followed suit, the Two of Cups, sending Jehan the sweet, curling message of commitment, partnerships – and love. They let out a happy sigh. It didn’t mean anything firmly, of course. It was no promise of true love or endless commitment. But the potential was there, and that was everything they could ask for.

Jehan flipped the third card – and frowned. Destruction. Dramatic Changes. Ruin. Loss. A lightning-struck Tower glared at them like a single cruel eye. They examined the others, trying to understand the warning. The Tower meant a new start, but at the hand of chaos, and unexpected change. Perhaps this is what the cards were telling them.

They swept the cards back up into their deck, shuffling again with thorough, practiced ease, a new question in their mind – Why?

One. Two. Three. The cards landed, and Jehan turned them eagerly. The Three of Wands, crowing of opportunity and success, the promise of adventure. The Sun – abundance and joy, achievement and success. And – the Tower.

Jehan stared. The same card in the same spot, offering nothing but an unblinking omen of devastation.

They snatched it back up, slipping it back into the hand. Their third shuffle was wilder, less practiced, moving the traitorous cards between their hands with grim determination, until one slipped from their fingers, falling face up. Jehan laughed, incredulous, at the image of the crumbling tower, brought down by lightning.

“Well alright, then,” they said aloud, something strangely comforting dancing in their chest. It was not misgiving that followed them as they put away the cards and finished preparing for the date. They left their apartment on light feet, with just the embedded hope that if Montparnasse was the Tower, he was ready for Jehan’s lightning.

Jehanparnasse Week Day 2 - Winter / Strike

“You know, we can go back and get you a jacket.”

Montparnasse glared from where he was sitting on the bench, trying to be suave even as he shivered. “I don’t need a jacket, Jehan. I am perfectly fine in this.”

Jehan let their gaze drag along Montparnasse’s body, nothing close to subtle. “Fine, yes. But warm, no.”

No response from Montparnasse, which meant that they were right. Jehan straightened up, looking determined. “Worry not, I will keep you warm.” They opened their oversized jacket, a garish orange thing that fell to their calves normally. Montparnasse eyed them warily, which increased exponentially as Jehan climbed onto his lap and proceeded to wrap themselves and the coat around him. Then, taking their purple scarf, they rewound it around Montparnasse’s neck and their own, burrowing in close against him and sighing happily as Montparnasse wrapped his arms around their back.

Montparnasse dropped a kiss in their hair. “You know, there are probably better places to do this.”

“Hmmmm,” they said, “so no more outside?”

Montparnasse picked himself and Jehan up, much to their delight, and began walking back home, exclaiming gleefully, “No more outside.”  

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