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Jehan assured the hat on their head, tilting it left and right to see how it looked best, arranging the veil to fall on their shoulders. It was always fun to watch it move around seemingly on its own in the mirror. They grabbed their bag, walked to the door, checked themselves out in the second mirror, by the door. They fluffed their hair a little, studied their face on one side, then the other. The new powder they had bought was quite efficient and gave their cheeks a nice little blush. No one would see through it. 

It was raining when they left the building. The hat had a wide enough brim to protect them effectively, but they still opened the black lace umbrella. Not only would it protect their dress and veil, but it would perfect the aesthetic they were aiming for. Of course, it earned them a few weird looks, but weird looks were the least unusual part of their day-to-day life. 

They reached the university with two minutes left before their first lesson. French litterature in the XIXe century, and it was of course in the old Jules Verne lesson hall, at the other end of the building. Jehan liked that one. Unless the others, it hadn't been renovated, and still had the wooden benches that creaked and groaned, and the old blackboards mounted on rails. It didn't take much to feel like they were back then, the first time they ever sat on those benches, the sunlight pouring through the windows, the chatter and the laughs, and the wind outside rattling the branches against the glass... The trees were gone, now, cut to give way to modern pavement and concrete benches. It would have broken Joly's heart. Jehan did his best to ignore the pang of pain that rang through their chest at the thought. It still did, even after all those years. Everytime they thought about them, their names, what they liked, how they were, the fire they had, that never stopped... 

They tried to focus on the lecture and push the thought out of their mind. But it was already too late. Now that the dam was open, it would get all their focus for the rest of the day, and surely part of the night. They gathered their bag and left as the professor was strolling in,. They shouldn't have come here, they knew it, the room was too high a risk of bad memories. But there were so many of those occurences, so many traps in their day-to-day lives, so many little things that could trigger the memories they were trying to keep behind a wall so flimsy it could as well not exist. 

They barged outside as the rain had grown stronger and was now beating on the pavement. They rushed to cross the square, splashing water in every direction, dodging other people, puddles and cars with the same ease. They needed to drink something, right now, before they got too light-headed, passed out and had to be brought to the hospital. That one always came with its slew of problems. Last time they had that kind of mishap, they had to simulate a breathing problem, then knock out the nurse that came to their help and escape through the backdoors. They hadn't liked that experience at all, and they really, really didn't want to go through it again. So they slowed until they reached the library.

There was a vending machine in the hall, and they bought a handful of snackes and some drinks. They smuggled all of them in their bag and strolled inside in their most innocent way. The clerk behind the desk waved at them, and they waved back, careful not to give them too wide a smile. They rushed to the stairs and climbed to the last level, their favourite. Thanks to the open lobby, it was always pleasantly warm up there. And since it was there the oldest books were put and there were no computers, it was always mostly deserted. 

They found themselves a comfortable chair, behind some shelves, grabbed a few interesting books and settled down. The rain was pitpatting on the skylights above them, and with the lights turns down in the whole level, it felt almost cozy. Jehan opened one of the largest books on their lap, grabbed a tomato juice bottle in their bag, a cereal and nuts bar, and sets themselves to work.

They didn't know how long they spent like that. Probably hours. Time tended to fly when they were caught in a nice book. They could have spent the whole night tucked away between the shelves, reading and eating their snacks, had a noise not pulled them out of their fascination. They looked around, suddenly tense. There was no risk being found here. The worst that could happen to them would be to be thrown out, and even then it wasn't a given. It didn't take much to convince people they weren't really here, not even the dreaded librarians. Not that they did, Jehan respected librarians way too much to use their power of conviction on them... most of the time.

The noise rang again. Curious, Jehan put their book back down (after putting in a bookmark) and went to investigate. There shouldn't be someone around this late, except maybe from the person closing down for the night. But this didn't sound like a closing sound. More like a book chariot hitting a shelf once, then twice. Followed by something muttered that Jehan didn't understand. They had learn a lot of languages during the years, but that one, they didn't know. Now Jehan was curious. 

They made their way through the shelves, looking in every aisle for the mysterious chariot and the person who was pushing it. Already, the thrill was coming back, that of the hunt, of having caught the sent of a prey, of following it, dogging their step, and then... They shook their head, dispelling the thoughts. No. Maybe the memories were a curse he had to live through, but not those. He would not let them come back again.

Finally, they saw something move on the other end of a shelf, in the storage room. A man, it seemed, dressed in a knit jumper that had seen better days, faded jeans, and a white and red hat pulled low on their head. He was crouching, trying to gather the books that had fallen on the floor. Jehan knocked on the nearest shelf to announce their presence, not wanting to startle him even more, but he didn't react. 

Finally, he got up, the books in his arms, and turned to put them on the chariot, giving Jehan a better view of his face. Everything rushed at them all at once, the copper curls, and the beard, and the long fingers, the nose the light brown eyes the gunshots the freckles the blood run run please run don't stay here they're here no don't....

Someone shook them by the shoulder. They were lying on the floor, between the two shelves, their dress spread around them. A shadow came over them, a hand moved in their field of vision. The glare of the fluorescent lights above them hurt their eyes, and they lifted one hand to protect themselves. They blinked, bringing the world back in focus, and the face that was looking down at them. It hadn't been a dream. Feuilly was standing right in front of them.

A paper was shoved into his hand. Jehan blinked again and looked down. Two lines had been hastily scrawled across a notebook page. "Are you alright ?" caught their eye first. And just above : "I can't hear or speak". Jehan looked at the paper, then at the man still staring at them. The noise had receeded a little, and the gunshots had stopped around them, but still, their thoughts were so muddled that it took them several whole seconds to manage to blurt out one word.

- Feuilly ? 

The man frowned, grabbed the notepad in their pocket and scribbled again, then showed it to them.

- How do you know my name ?

How did they ? They tried to find how to explain, but for once, the words failed them. How cruel, they thought, bitterly. That the words had disappeared the one time where they needed them the most. Maybe writing would be easier. They grabbed a pen out of one of their numerous pockets, but stopped as soon as the tip touched the paper. What to write ? How could they even try to express everything , all those thoughts and feelings that were threatening to drown them, pull them under the surface again and dross them on the reef to bleed out again ? I knew you. I knew all of you. We were friends. We spent so much time talking. We were more than friends. I saw you die. You taught me to make paper fans. I saw your blood. I tried to save you. I read you books while you were working. I missed you so much.

The man - Feuilly, it was Feuilly, there was no mistake - looked at the paper. Jehan realized they had been doodling on the paper. Flowers, butterflies, a lopsided cat. He grabbed the notepad again to scribble on it, then showed it back to Jehan.

- Have we met ?

Jehan shook their head. Then nodded. They must have looked very stupid doing that, but they couldn't decide on what to do. Tell him, and probably sound like a loon, or leave him in the dark, and never find Feuilly again ? But was it even Feuilly ? Or just someone who happened to look very much like him ? They didn't want to be selfish ; it was a weight they didn't want to thrust on him. Even if Feuilly did believe them, how would he react to the news that he once was Jehan's companion and part of a rebellious group who had face summary execution on a summer morning ?

But they had to be perfectly honest : they did want to tell him. They had been looking high and low for Les Amis. They had always believed that one day, they would meet one of them again. They had waited for so long, counting days that turned into months, and months into years. And now that they had found at least one of them - and not just one of them, but Feuilly ! - they wanted to
(have)
(treasure)
keep them close. 

They started writing, then stopped. It wasn't a good idea. Unless Feuilly burned the notepad as soon as they were done. It wasn't good to leave a trace of what they were about to say. 

Can you lip-read ? they wrote. The Feuilly they had known was a master of it and could follow even Enjolras' more vibrant speeches. But there still was a chance that it was just a coincidence and that they were about to make a mighty fool of themselves.

Feuilly nodded. Oh well, they had to try. What would be the worse ? They tried not to think about that question while they started. 

- First, my name is Jehan Prouvaire and I'm very happy to finally meet you. I have a very strange story to tell you, but please, hear me out (they paused, but Feuilly waved them on) until the end. You may not believe me, but I swear on everything I own that this story is true to the last detail.

Feuilly just nodded, his expression solemn. Or maybe just neutral. 

- It starts in 1830, where a group of young men gathered in a cafe, brought together by their love of justice and their intention to make the world a little better. They were called "les Amis de l'ABC".

They looked attentively at Feuilly's face, waiting for any kind of reaction, but they didn't even blink. But Feuilly had rarely been one for grand reactions. 

- Those people... well, it was 1830, a period of great agitation, so you can easily guess how they met their end... (They shivered.) 

Feuilly made a series of gestures that Jehan didn't get. Seeing that they didn't understand, he wrote on the page and showed it to them.

- What happened ?

- On the barricades, they only said. Among those people, there were two men who were... very close. Not to say that the others weren't. All of them, they were the closest of friends, they loved each other more than anything in the world. But those two men... 

It hurt, to say the words. Even after all those years. They blinked to clear out the tears, a habit they hadn't been able to get rid of. 

- They were the closest, he went on. Like two sides of the same coin. Like... I think you got what I mean. (Feuilly nodded.) Well... those two men, they were called... 

Okay, here they were.

- They were called Jehan Prouvaire and Alexandre Feuilly. 

Feuilly blinked, several times. He didn't seem so surprised, but maybe he was just wondering what their deal was. Or bidding his time until he could run away and called the authorities. But the wine had been poured, it was time to drink it to the last drop. 

- I know. It could be a coincidence, but...

- Yes, Feuilly wrote. It could be a coincidence. But that's not what you're thinking. Right ? 

Jehan nodded, eyes focused on their hands, folded in their lap. This was it. 

- No, Alexandre. I know it's not a coincidence.

The name left a taste on their tongue, the taste of honey on bread, of the wind in fall, of burnt leaves way too late just to enjoy the smell. 

- I am Jehan Prouvaire.

They were expecting shock, alarm, or maybe even a blink of surprise. They didn't get any. Feuilly just nodded along like it was a story he knew. But maybe they get exactly what they were saying.

- Jehan Prouvaire, that's me. That's my name. I'm the same Jehan I just told you about. 

- I thought every one of them died on the barricade ?

- Well, you see, there's a small thing I didn't tell you. But... but I must say, it's a really strange thing. You'll probably think me mad. You'll probably leave. Run away. And...

- Tell me. I'm not made of glass.

It was so Feuilly that Jehan couldn't help but smile. Okay, the point of no return had been passed. Better do it and get done with it.

- I'm the Jehan who got shot. I mean... I got shot. Seven bullets, they all hit their mark. 

They pushed their collar aside, showing the collarbone, the skin pulled tight over it, scattered with freckles, and the large mark of the bullet that had broken the bone so many years ago. Feuilly bent forwards, and ghosted his fingers across it. Jehan shivered ; even after all these years, it was still so sensitive. 

- I have six others just like this, they added in what they hopped was a light tone. But I'm not going to strip right here and now, this may not be very... elegant of me.

Feuilly was already scribbling again.

- You should be dead. What happened ? 

One deep breath to give them the courage they needed, then.

- I'm already dead. I mean, I was already dead. I died in 1800. I just... went on. 

Feuilly didn't even need to write anything to convey what they were thinking of that. 

- It's a long story, Jehan explained. But to make a long story short... I'm a vampire. That's how I died, the first time. One of them decided to feast on me and left me for... no, left me dead. I woke up as I was buried, and I had to dig myself out. I know, they added, it's hard to believe. Honestly, I... would believe it if someone were to tell me the same story, because I've always loved them. But... I understand if you don't. I'll leave you on your own now. I just... needed to tell it, I think.

They got up, ready to leave, when Feuilly's hand landed on their arm, still as firm and strong as they remembered. They froze, and looked back at Feuilly, who was... smiling ? Smiling. He was smiling at them. He was... And he was showing him a new sheet of paper. 

- I know it's true. Because I know you're not a liar, mój drogi.

The nickname hit Jehan square in the chest. It was the final straw for them. For the first time since they didn't even remember when, they lost consciousness.

The world was still spinning when they woke up. It was rather disorienting, it had been years and years since they had last felt ill or lost. The light above them was softer than the harsh fluorescent ones in the storeroom, and they were lying on something comfortable. Looking down, it appeared to be a couch, covered with a gaudy tartan pattern that bore more than a passing resseamblance with a suit they once owned. The couch itself was situated in a small room that also contained a table, several mismatched chairs, two cabinets covered with appliances that had seen better days, and piles of old books everywhere. 

The door opened, and Feuilly strolled in, carrying a tray of cups. He set them on the table and started the old coffee machine near the window. Jehan didn't move, watching him move around. His jumper was old and hung around his frame, the pins on his collar were decidely modern and he had a phone halfway stick in his back pocket. But still, it was so familiar it made their heart ache. 

Feuilly grabbed both steaming cups and brought them to the couch. He sat down on the floor luke he did so many times, gave Jehan one of them and kept the other. He took a sip, grimaced when he obviously burnt his tongue, then grabbed his phone. His fingers danced on the screen for a few seconds before he turned the screen towards Jehan : 

- Are you feeling better ? 

- Yes, Jehan said with a nod. Thank you. Did you carry me here ? 

- Yes, Feuilly wrote again. You're surprisingly light.

- Or maybe you're just strong. 

- No, you're light. You've always been a lightweight, even with all those clothes.

The words had the merit to help Jehan sober somewhat. 

- You say "always", and you called me...

- Mój drogi. Yes.

- Does this mean you... remember ? 

- I remember.

- So are you... Did you just... remember one day, or was it... how does it work ? 

Feuilly bit his lip, seemed to ponder things a bit. 

- I didn't, he finally wrote.

- You didn't ? Then what happened ? You....

- I'm like you.

Jehan stared at him. Then stared. Then stared again. Until Feuilly finally grabbed the cup and pushed it in their hands. They took a few sip of coffee - good, warm, bitter -, grateful for the distraction. They didn't think the shock would make them faint again, once had been exceptionnal enough. But... what did Feuilly mean by "like them" ? Had he been bitten too, had he been cursed like he was ? An undead, a child of the shadows. They had banished the word "abomination" from their vocabulary a long time ago, as they had come to accept their condition, but they wouldn't wish it on anyone. And now Feuilly was... like him ? 

Something poked him in the arm. Feuilly was looking at them with concern. Jehan smiled a bit, trying to reassure him, but it didn't seem to make that much effect. 

- So you're... like me ? They finally managed to say.

- Not really. Like you, I'm a... creature. But I'm a bit different than you. 

- Different ? How ? 

Feuilly set aside his cup and moved a pile of dusty books away from him. He held his hands out, palms upright, then rubbed them together. And suddenly, between his fingers appeared a brilliant flame. Jehan's first reaction was to jump away. They hit the back of the couch, then decided that it wasn't enough and climbed on it, where they could glare at the flame. Feuilly's reaction was to throw his head back and laugh. He clasped his hands together again, and the flames disappeared. Jehan climbed down from their perch, still half-glaring. 

- What was that ? What are you ? You're not like me. I've never been able to do... that. 

- I know. I'm not a vampire.

- Then what are you ?

This time, Feuilly took a long time to answer. He started writing, erased it, started again. It took enough time that Jehan was able to finish their coffee. Finally, he showed them the screen, where only three words were written.

- I'm a phoenix.

- You're...? 

Feuilly rolled his eyes and pointed to the screen and the three words on it. 

- You don't really look like a bird to me, Jehan answered to lighten the mood while their mind was trying to wrap around this new piece of information.

Feuilly took the phone back and started typing, something longer. Jehan took advantage of it to go and make them two new cups of coffee. They added three lumps of sugar, like Feuilly used to like, and brought them back to the couch, gave one to Feuilly who didn't look up. They sat down, holding the cup between their hands, not minding the bite. The strangeness still hadn't dissipated. How long had Jehan hoped to find one of the others ? How much time spent looking at people in the street, praying that one day, they would recognize one of them through the crowd, that a flash of recognition would pass in their eyes and that they would walk to them, take their hands in theirs, and tell them how happy they were to meet them again. They had imagined time and time again how they would react to their nature, how they would settle back into their life, and... 

And it was very far from the situation they were stuck in. Well, maybe not stuck. It was of their own making. But they never imagined anything like what was happening. They had pictured rejection, acceptation, laughter and even, once or twice, a fight that they had quickly forgotten. But never would have they thought that they wouldn't be the only one with a secret like that...

Two minutes passed slowly, cut in little slices by the ticking of the clock above the tiny sink. Jehan was starting to be curious, but they didn't dare looking over Feuilly's shoulder to look at what they were writing. Feuilly was still bent over his screen, so low that his back was almost a perfect curve. How many times now had Jehan seen him like that, his face lit by the flame of the candle, his nose almost touching the page, and advised to straighten before he hurt his back ? Too many to count, really. It brought back so many memories of so many evenings spent together, reading in silence or chatting animatedly about everything from books to songs to more serious topics like politics and, of course, the revolution. Like this evening where Feuilly got so agitated writing about the November Revolution that they broke two of their best quills. So many days spent planning and scheming and working, so many nights cuddling together under the blankets and talking until the moon was high in the sky...

At last, Feuilly gave him the phone again, exchanging it for one of the cups.

- It may seem weird, it read, but I am a phoenix. Of course, I am not a bird, but as you have seen, I have the power of fire. When I use it, I must admit it looks like wings, so maybe that's how the firebird thing started. And before you ask, no, I cannot use it often or on a large scale. And it's exhausting. So what happened ? You know what a phoenix is and what is their main power. When I was shot at the barricade, it took a bit of time for me to die. And then my body burst into flames. You might think that I wouldn't know that since I was dead, but I do know about it. And then I was born again from the ashes. But when that happens, I am a child like any other child, and I have to grow up. The memories are there but... blocked. They come back on their own time. So it took several years before I could come and look for any of you. And then, you were all gone. Even Marius and Cosette, they had left. So I went my own way. I made myself a life here and there. And here I am, and you are too.

Jehan read it twice, blinking against the tears that were threatening to spill again. 

- I couldn't see any of you, they said in a whisper. The bullets... it took me time to heal from them. When I could finally be out during the day, you had all... everyone was... buried. I didn't see that you weren't...

Their voice died, but it didn't matter. Feuilly had understood what they meant. He bent forwards and took Jehan's hands in his. They were warm, way warmer than any human Jehan had even touched, warmer even than Feuilly's usually were. 

- I can feel it... the fire... they whispered.

Feuilly frowned, let go of one hand to type on the phone, keeping the other holding tight. 

- It's not the fire. It's the coffee cup.

Jehan burst out laughing. They couldn't help it. After all this, all the revelations, and they... it was ridiculous. But the good kind of ridiculous. Feuilly got hold of their hands again, squeezed them gently, with the same soft smile that only Jehan seemed to get going right to their heart, and let them laugh as they needed. 

- So... they said when they managed to calm down. What do we do now ? Do we stay here, or do we find a way to continue this conversation ? Because I really, really don't want to let you go, now that I found you again. 

- What do you have in mind ? 

- Well, either your nest, or my crypt, what do you think ? 

Feuilly made a face.

- I would not put it past you to have a crypt. 

- But do you have a nest ?

- More like a small flat. It's tiny and the bed is rickety. But I have lots of books.

- I'm sure you do, Jehan answered with a fond smile. I don't have a crypt, but I have a nice flat. There's lights, plants, a cat, and, yes, lots of books too. 

- Then let's go, to the crypt. 

He got up, grabbed an old bag that had seen better days and started gathering his things. Jehan considered the bag, the old, ratty sweater, the shoes frayed at the seams... They really wanted to grab Feuilly, hold them tight, and never let him go again. Instead, they retrieved the hat that had been abandoned on the back of the couch, and put it back. They offered Feuilly their arm, but rather than taking it, he typed on his phone again.

- Of course you dress like a vampire.

- Of course I do. Isn't it nice, though ?

- It is, because I can do that.

Delicately, he lifted the veil, stepped forwards and stood on tiptoes to kiss Jehan's lips, very gently. His lips were warm and a bit chaffed, exactly as Jehan remembered. They brought a hand at the small of his back, their fingers playing with the hem of the jumper, pulling a bit on it. It lasted only a second before Feuilly let go and dropped back on his heels. 

- You're still as lovely, mój drogi.

When Jehan looked back at him, he mouthed the nickname. Jehan lifted their hands to his lips, touched them lightly, as if to feel it there. A gesture they had done time and time again, and that they hoped they could do many more times. 

Satisfied, Feuilly took their arm this time, and together, they walked out of the library and under the rain that had started to fall. Jehan opened their umbrella and were rewarded with Feuilly coming closer to shelter underneath. They started walking through the puddles, towards Jehan's flat. Raindrops were splashing them, bouncing on their skin, fizzling when they touched Feuilly's. He waved around from time to time, causing little sparks to fly all around. Jehan bent towards him, and when he looked at them, whispered :

- Are you doing this on purpose ?

Feuilly nodded with a smile.

- To think you called me the dramatic one...

They wound an arm around Feuilly's waist to hold them closer, and he followed happily. Jehan still couldn't believe that it was real, that they had finally found Feuilly again, that it wasn't a figment of his imagination. But he was there, against them, solid and real and so, so warm. It was real, it had happened. Feuilly was back with him, and with any luck, he would stay there. Maybe one day, they would find the others, finally, and everything would be complete again. But right now, all that mattered was the body pressed against theirs, the hand on theirs on the umbrella handle, the step beside theirs, and Feuilly's smile as warm as the sun, shining for them and them alone.