Hello, my fellow Les Misians! *Gives huge wave*I have, after many years of fandom of both the novel and the musical, decided to try my hand at Les Mis fanfiction. Hopefully, I do at least a little justice to something as amazing as Les Mis.

Disclaimer: As I am none of the following: French, dead, male, or dear old Victor, I should think it fairly clear that I do not, in fact, own Les Mis. I would, however, love a Jehan.

A quick note: my Feuilly, who loves to decorate my house with his pretty painted fans and maps of Poland, is Martin Feuilly.

That said, please, dear readers, enjoy.

One poetically rainy Wednesday morning, Jehan awoke rather later than usual. It was always raining that spring, Jehan reflected as he gazed out the window from his comfortable bed. Rain, though beautiful in its own way, made the poet sad. Rather like Martin, though beautiful, made the poet sad. It had been a mistake to fall in love, Jehan reflected, love wasn't at all beautiful, not when it had to be kept caged and silent like this.

Jehan finally pulled himself out of his warm and far too comfortable bed, for once feeling slightly less than depressed, a rarity for the past weeks. It was far past the hour Jehan usually breakfasted with Courfeyrac, Bossuet, and Joly, and nearly past the hour Jehan usually attended class. Agnes, his large, fluffy, mud-coloured cat-who had a rather mud-like personality-, hissed at him as he climbed out of bed, then rolled over and continued her morning long nap.

Jehan looked out the window of his bedroom again and was struck by the lovely sight of rain dripping off the surrounding rooftops and found the writer's block that had so depressed him the previous week drifting away. This would be a wonderful poem, far better than all his depressing verse about Martin. Dear, dear Martin! No, he must not think of that now, he must write, write the verses of beauty that evade him when he obsesses on Martin. He hunted for paper, for his good pen, for an inkpot, desperately needing to record the fleeting verses that had so suddenly invaded his head. Dripping, dropping, dancing…

Several hours later, Jehan was covered ink, and most definitely not going to class that day, but he had a new poem. Which was really all that mattered. Feeling triumphant, happier than he had in weeks, and more than a little hungry, Jehan laid his new poem out on the desk, dressed quickly in an exceptionally bright yellow doublet he'd convinced Courfeyrac to glean from an actor friend, kissed Agnes- who growled in response-good bye, and ran out the door of his tenement building.

By the time he reached the Musain, Jehan, who had never in anyone's memory remembered to carry an umbrella, was drenched. But, in the light of his new poem, he was still quite cheerful.

Jehan ordered some sort of stew from Louison, who looked shocked to see a student in the Musain at this time of day, and spotted Martin sitting in at a corner. Feuilly was glaring down at the table, and seemed even more preoccupied than usual.

Jehan felt his heart do that odd twist it had taken to performing whenever he saw Martin and spent a good moment considering flight before hastening to Martin's side.

"Cher Martin!" Jehan practically flung himself into Feuilly's lap, which Feuilly did not look particularly pleased about. Always a properly silly Romantic, and exulting in the opportunity to kiss Martin, Jehan planted sloppy kisses on Feuilly's cheeks.

"Dieu, Prouvaire! Don't pounce like that. And for God's sake, should you insist on giving me kisses on the cheek, give them properly!" Feuilly snapped, causing Jehan to jump back and regard Feuilly from the other side of the table. Les Amis had always been careful not to lose their tempers with Jehan, however silly or childish his Romantic fancies led him to be, because of Jehan's unfortunate habit of crying whenever anyone lost his temper with him in the slightest (which Les Amis had discovered one fateful day when Enjolras, fearless leader that he was, had seen fit to bellow at the resident poet. But that, chers, is another story for another time).

Jehan could feel his cheeks heating, his heart shattering, and his eyes filling with tears as he asked "Is something wrong, Martin? Have I really so offended you?"

Feuilly, who had been glaring down at the table, glared up at Jehan and growled, "Go away, Prouvaire. It's not your concern."

It was now Jehan's turn to look down at the table, hoping the fan maker could not read his expression for once and trying to hide his tears from the exceptionally angry Feuilly, "But if something is wrong, Martin, you must let me try to help. Isn't that what we're here for? To try and help our fellow man?" Feuilly glared down at the table, avoiding looking at the crying poet. "I-I- just want to help. P-p-please?"

Jehan was fully crying now, and remorse filled Feuilly's face as he glanced at the sobbing poet. He grabbed Jehan's hands. Jehan felt his heart leap at Martin's touch. "Jehan, it's all right. I promise. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have yelled at you, mon ami." He took a deep breath and stared down at the table again before saying. "Look, I lost my job. And with no job, there's no money, and with no money, there's no rent and no food. And with no rent and no food, I'll be starving on the streets again."

Jehan squeezed Feuilly's hands and stared at the fan maker. "But, Martin, your fans are so lovely. Surely you can find another position."

Feuilly laughed, in a bitter sort of way, "Jehan, there's no position I could find that would pay even half of what I was making, and I was barely surviving on that."

Jehan stared sadly down at their hands again, finally feeling his tears backing off. That was when the idea flickered into his head, fast and barely there at first, like of Jehan's ideas. Jehan brightened and proclaimed, "Then you shall come live with me, until you can find another position and save up enough to pay for a flat."

Feuilly simply looked incredulous in response to Jehan's brilliant plan. "No." He dropped Jehan's hands.

Jehan's heart broke in two.

"But, Martin, please. It's a sensible solution, really, it is. It would give you the time to hunt for a well-paying position, and you wouldn't have to pay rent while you looked. And…" Jehan trailed off, though his plan was a good one-to him, at least-, he sounded pathetic, like a child pleading for Christmas to come early.

Feuilly regarded him seriously, then reached over and squeezed his hand sympathetically. "No, Jehan. I can't share your flat. How could I ever repay you? I don't have enough to split rent, nor could I ever have enough to rent a flat big enough for one person, let alone two."

Jehan must have looked nearly as heart-broken as he felt, because Feuilly stumbled over his sentences as he tried to comfort Jehan, "Jehan, it's just not- I mean, it's a good idea, but- Damn it, Prouvaire! Stop Crying! Mon Dieu, I'm sorry, Jehan. I didn't mean to yell…. But, no. No, Jehan, I will not move in with you." Feuilly, in an odd moment of affection for the crying poet, embraced Jehan.

Jehan still crying, leaned forward and clumsily placed a kiss on Martin's mouth.

Feuilly sprang back, glaring at Jehan. His words were filled with acid as he backed towards the door, "I'm not like you, Prouvaire, do you understand that? I'm not the poor orphan you students can use as you please. Courfeyrac already tried the same damn trick on me. Don't say you want to help me if all you want to do is bed me!" The words echoed through the still café like a slap as Feuilly stormed out the door, leaving a heart-broken poet crying into his doublet at the table.

Jehan was still crying when Louison finally brought him some sort of stew. He left without eating, and went home to wrap himself in his quilt, hug a protesting Agnes, and sadly watch the rain as he wrote yet another sad poem about Martin.

Well, that's it for now, mes amis. Please review. Reviews will help us get Jehan a therapist. Let me know if you liked it, if you didn't, etc. Be forewarned, however, flames will be used to roast marshmallows next to my barricade.