Jehan stretched his neck until he could see all the way to the other side of the subway tracks. He loved coming down here, to write and to watch. He would create prose about the impatient foot tapper with the yellow hat, the girl with the ragged hair and tired eyes, the woman with skin so black that she reminded him of midnight. His hair would fall in front of his eyes and he would tuck it behind his ear, too distracted by the inky purple words that flowed from his pen. Every so often a train would blow past and he would hold tight to the lose sheets of paper.

Being a writer gave him more freedom than most. Although he held the steady job writing and helping with propaganda for ABC, the political activism group started by his friends, his true love lay is poetry. Whenever he had the time he would wander down to the tracks or follow a dingy old map to another unexplored part of the city. After a few years, he knew all of the best places to pick up old records and where all of the cheapest thrift shops were. He would make his way through central park on a late Friday afternoon, picking flowers to entangle in his dirty blond hair. Sometimes he waited for people, knowing precisely where they would be. He would follow the winding path of the park all the way to the 72 St. station, where he could catch Grantaire around nightfall making his way to the little teashop that allowed him to borrow the piano for a few hours. Or he would wander to the 33 St. stop, just in time to accompany Joly back from the hospital, providing an open ear to all of the horrid medical stories that he has picked up from the day's work.

His favorite station however was down by Chelsea on 11th street that happened to be next to a bar that held open mic night every Thursday. He was such a frequent visitor that the owner, a semi-famous poet, would often let him stick around to discuss literature and prose. But that was not the reason that he favored this station. He had missed the train home from the bar one late night in May because he had been staring at the stars instead of the street and so it had taken him twice as long to make it to the station. The next express wasn't scheduled for another half hour. Jehan was not one to be deterred by the seedy looking station however, and so he pulled his hair back into a ribbon and lost himself in thought.

He was chewing on his purple pen when a group of men entered down the stairs into the station to wait for the train. The men looked rough; one of them had a black eye and the other was covered in tattoos, both disheveled. A third trailed slightly behind. This man had a slightly neater appearance than the other two. He was tall and muscular, though much more athletic looking than his counterparts. He was dressed well, much better than someone frequenting this part of town.

The two brutish men approached Jehan, who had been curled in a corner, still waiting for the train. "Hey pretty little flower, where is your band of hippies? Fruit cakes like you should go back to where they came from." The larger man nudged Jehan's knee. When he looked up, the men pulled him from the corner, grasping tight to his thin wrists. "What, you don't have any pretty little presents for us?" Jehan squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep them from watering. He held his breath, as the men reached into his pockets, trying to find anything worth taking. "Babet, Brujon, leave the guy alone. It's fucking 11 pm on a Thursday, and we've already gotten what we needed today." His gaze bore into them, until they released Jehan's shaking arms. "We were just joking around Montparnasse, get that stick out of your ass bro." They listened though and walked over back to where the other man was standing. Just then, the train came. The doors slide open, and Jehan moved to step in. He looked back at then man, Montparnasse, and the words "Thank you" barely escaped his throat before they caught against the roof of his mouth. The dark haired man raised one eyebrow a bit before slightly nodding. The door slid shut again, and the train took off, transporting Jehan back to the safety of lower Manhattan.

He buzzed into Courfeyrac's apartment, because it was closer to the station than his own. In the voice of a small child, he mumbled, "please… Courf, let me in…" A loud beep sounded before the door swung open. Jehan clumsily made his way up the stairs, still shaken. At the top of the stairs stood Courfeyrac, wide eyed. The red highlights in his dark hair were prominent under the florescent lights, and it made him appear even more surprised. "Holy shit Jehan…" Bruises were already beginning to flower where the two men had gripped him earlier, clear prints unveiling themselves along his slender forearms. Courfeyrac led him inside, and gently set him down on the couch. He pulled out an old VCR tape of The Lion King, because Jehan swore the quality was better than on the DVD, and set it to play. He made ginger tea and sat while Jehan sat curled into himself. Courfeyrac distracted him with stories of his latest conquest, a curvy young ingénue named Jolene. He talked of the drama going on between Eponine, Marius, and the new blond who had recently joined the cause. He spoke of a fight that had occurred between Enjolras and Grantaire earlier in the evening, over how to properly staple a pamphlet. At that one, Jehan finally let out a small giggle. He sat up on the couch and pulled the ribbon from his hair.

As he let the curls fall down around his face, he began to tell the night's tale. "Why is their no trust in the world, Courf? There is beauty everywhere if you look hard enough, and yet people still hurt. Why is that?" The question was more hypothetical than anything. He sighed, twisting his hair around his fingers. "There was one thing though, those two men tried to mug me and their friend told them off…he saved me quite a bit." That night, lying on Courfeyrac's couch, he transposed his thoughts into verse, sullen and morose, a drastic shift from his normal romantic air.

Weeks passed before any of his friends let Jehan venture back to the bar on 11th street, insisting that he study with Combeferre, or accompany Grantaire to make sure that he did not end up dead on the side of the streets. The bruises faded and so did his worries, as he slipped back into the bright Jehan Prouvaire, romantic poet extraordinaire. Finally he convinced them to give him back his freedom. Although he was short and rather sleight, he was still an adult. As the night grew to a close, he tentatively stepped into the station. He stopped in his tracks. Directly in front of him stood Montparnasse, wearing the same leather jacket. Jehan turned on his heels to leave, but hesitated.

The man stood alone. In fact, he seemed totally oblivious to the presence of another human in the small station. Jehan approached the tracks and stood on the edge, peering over to distract himself. When he realized that there would be no confrontation, he stepped back and situated himself against the concrete wall. He attempted to write another flyer for Enjolras, but his attention kept being drawn to the man. His eyes were closed, head slightly tilted back. Jehan observed his strong neckline, short dark hair, and pale skin. His hands were calloused and rough. It was barely noticeable, but Jehan could see his body shift slightly in time. He listened closely, to hear a soft humming. It sounds like that band that Feuilly likes, The Smiths, Jehan thought. Montparnasse snapped to attention, just a second before the train came rushing through. He looked over with a rough glance, before softening at the sight of Jehan, in his paisley leggings and tangerine smock, his hair braded with lavender blossoms. He seemed to catch a chuckle in his throat before rolling his eyes at his own thought and stepping on the train.

The second time Jehan ran into Montparnasse alone was much like the first. He observed, they shared a few glances, and Jehan blushed, turning back to his notebook to finish another verse. And this was why the 11th street station became his favorite. The other men had not returned to the station since that first time, and Jehan was no longer worried about the dangers. Even so, he kept a can of pepper spray on hand, just in case. He came to share a rapport with this stranger every Thursday night. For months they would arrive, sometimes Jehan first and sometimes the other man. Neither would speak. Jehan would write and observe, and Montparnasse would rest his head against the wall and listen to music, trying to forget the horrors of the day. As different as they seemed, they were all too similar while waiting for the 11:34 express.