Les Miserables A Prism of Ice

**Author's Note:** This was written as a Solstice fic for Tsukinokage, who requested Feuilly and fluff.

_A Prism of Ice_

Feuilly's woken by the storm.

He doesn't wake when there are storms in Paris anymore. He used to, when he was younger, the howl of the wind around buildings and the change in temperature in his room and the steady drip of water through roofs that leaked varying amounts of water enough to drag him from slumber into at least a half-conscious awareness. As he got older, though, he learned to insulate his rooms better, and after enough years it became clear that whether he watched it or not the roof would leak its desired amount.

Not that his roof leaks right now. He's doing decently for himself right now, has enough for food and actually habitable quarters.

The roof he's currently sleeping under doesn't leak, either. Not that he expected it to. Bahorel's parents might be peasants, in the man's own words, but they're well-to-do peasants, their house sturdy and well-kept, clearly built to last. The room that they've lent Feuilly is a small corner one, and he can't quite suppress a smile as he thinks of the grumpy displaced child who had haughtily shown him to his quarters earlier. The boy had been prepared to hate him for the inconvenience that Feuilly represented—the utter horror of being forced back into sharing a bed with some of his younger siblings—but Feuilly had won him over through stories of Paris and Bahorel and, especially, Paris after Bahorel.

Another rolling crash, a spate of sharp cracks that sound too much like gunshots, and Feuilly sits up abruptly.

Storms in Paris don't wake him from his sleep anymore, but this storm certainly has.

He can hear a steady, continuous pounding against the wall, and the wind shrieks past the house once more, a banshee crying for all the souls that will soon be joining it. As if summoned by the howling wind, a series of gunshot-loud cracks echoes through the darkened room, loud enough for Feuilly to feel them in his bones.

It's those cracks, more than anything, that woke him. They aren't gunshots—now that he's awake he can say that definitively, say that they aren't quite loud enough, that there isn't enough of an echo, that they last just slightly too long to belong to a human weapon—but they are close enough to the sound of gunshots for them to have penetrated his dreams and turned them into nightmares.

He had been happy to stand on the barricades, happy to risk life and limb for a chance at a better world. The nightmares had started as soon as the fighting stopped, though, and they had only become worse as it became painfully clear that the world they fought for would not come to fruition.

Not yet, at least.

Given the way the new monarchy—a constitutional monarchy, what an affront to their desires and efforts—is entrenching itself, not without another battle, another set of barricades.

Will the dreams be worse, after that next barricade?

He doesn't think they could be. There is nothing more terrible than the visions he has already seen, his friends cut down, bleeding their life away in his hands.

Again the wind howls, nature's curse on all living things, and again there is a splintering series of not-shots. The sounds of rain against the side of the house has shifted to something else, a sharp pattering noise like a thousand tiny booted feet somehow dancing on the walls.

What type of storm is possibly making all this noise?

He won't sleep again, not for long hours, not unless he wants to be dropped immediately back into the nightmares from which he has just extricated himself.

Since he won't be able to sleep, and since there is no one in the room for him to query about the sounds, he decides to investigate them for himself.

It takes him almost two minutes of fumbling by the bedside to finally locate and manage to light the candle that Bahorel had pressed upon him when they parted for the evening. He had blown it out as soon as he could, not wanting to waste the generosity of his hosts, and he hesitates before lighting it again. He needs light, though, if he doesn't want to stumble into one of the echoing walls, and the urge to get up, look around, _do_ something is becoming overwhelming.

The candle casts a soft, wan light that blinds his eyes for a few blinks before allowing him to make out the shapes of the furniture in the room. Holding the candle carefully, not allowing any wax to drip and shielding the small flame from the wind of his movement, Feuilly pads quietly to the window.

The floor is cold. He spends a few moments rocking from one heel to the other, his toes curled against the chill wooden boards as he studies the window. All the windows in the house have glass panes—not the best make, and old, the bottom of the panes clearly thicker than the top, but glass nonetheless. Does he dare to open the window and risk damaging it? The pattering sound has become more familiar now, the steady ping of hail pellets against the shell of the house, though the size of the hail must be monstrous to make the sounds that it is.

"Sounds like a damn battle out there, doesn't it?"

Bahorel's voice is low, a barely-carrying whisper that still causes Feuilly to jump and almost fumble the candle.

This entertains Bahorel more than it should, and the man chuckles as he stalks into the room, his tread silent—or at least quiet enough to be covered by the hail. "Sorry to frighten you. I saw the light under the door, so I knew you were awake, and I thought you might like some company."

Bahorel is in a nightgown, as well, and he closes the door behind him, not a creak betraying the movement.

"Your house is made for spies and thieves." Feuilly flicks his eyes from the door to his friend, willing his cheeks to cool, hoping his embarrassed blush won't show in the low light. "Aren't old doors supposed to make more noise?"

"This used to be my room." Bahorel's grin is wide. "I made sure I could come and go without attracting undo parental attention, and I taught my little brothers to do the same."

"Not your little sisters?" Feuilly quirks one eyebrow up.

"Women need no help in learning how to sneak out or up on a man." Bahorel's grin becomes more rueful. "Just ask my mistress. Though, if you must know, my sisters learned the fine art of eluding attention from my mother, and I think she's a better master of the art than I am."

"That's because you don't ever want to elude attention." Feuilly can't help but return Bahorel's smile. "You are the only man I know who has red nightclothes."

"A gift, also from my mistress." There is wry humor in Bahorel's grin as he rests against the window, gesturing wide with his right hand to show off his clothes. "She said a man like me should always be scarlet, not just during the day. I think it was supposed to be a rebuke, but she seems to like the way I look in them, and I like the material she chose—comfortable as hell. If you like, I could always offer to have her make you a set. It could be a Yule gift for you."

"No, thank you." Feuilly can feel the smile slip from his face, though he forces it back a moment later. "You and your family are already doing more than enough."

"It's no bother, Feuilly." Bahorel settles down against the window, seeming impervious to the chill that radiates through the glass. "You are doing me a favor. If my parents insist that I be home for Yule, the least they can do is allow me to bring some entertainment with me."

"They wanted to see you. After—they just wanted to _see _you." Feuilly realizes that he's reached out, his right hand resting on Bahorel's arm, and abruptly snatches his arm back to his side. "Spending a week with them is no trouble."

"I don't begrudge the time spent with them." Bahorel's expression and tone both become completely serious, for once, and he rests a hand on Feuilly's shoulder. "I'm glad to see them all. But I am also glad that you and Jehan are staying with me, and that I could introduce some of the others to my family before they dispersed to their own families."

"I know." Feuilly looks down, at his own arms hugged tight around his chest, and tries not to think of his dreams. Tries not to imagine the faint red tinge that the lamplight gives to their skin as bloodstains. "I'm—"

"They understand." Bahorel talks over the words that Feuilly was stumbling to say, his brows drawn together, his gaze on the floor. "They know what I'm doing in Paris, and they approve."

"I know." Feuilly finds a smile twitching at the corners of his lips again. "It was fairly obvious from the way your mother greeted us. 'Thought you said these new friends of yours got things done, boy. Fat lot of good trading one monarch for another does, eh? Well, nothing for it, I'll have to get dinner for the lot of you, can't go having a revolution on an empty stomach. Perhaps it was that terrible city food that impeded your endeavors this time.'"

Bahorel is bent almost double by the time Feuilly stops, suppressed laughter erupting from under his hands where they cover his mouth. "Oh… oh, my friend, you will have to do that impersonation for her some time. I believe that is the best synopsis of this morning that could be given."

"It… wasn't what I expected." Feuilly finds a bit of the mirthful edge fading from his smile as he leans against the opposite side of the window from Bahorel. "I always thought mothers were supposed to disapprove of endeavors like yours. But it was… it was nice. I've enjoyed my time here so far."

"And you'll have plenty more to enjoy, though apparently a part of that enjoyment will be unseasonable cold and one of the worst storms to strike the area in recorded history." Bahorel straightens, looking at the window. "Or at least in my grandfather's memory, but it's about the same. Now, I believe you were attempting to open the window?"

"I…" Feuilly finds himself blushing again, and he shrugs, looking away. "I was trying to figure out what was making the noise. The ones that sound like…" His tongue stumbles over the words, over the analogy that had woken him, but another series of piercing snaps saves him. "That sound like that."

For several long seconds Bahorel simply studies him, and Feuilly shuffles first one step and then another to the side, not sure of the scrutiny. Just when he thinks his friend isn't going to answer, Bahorel abruptly centers himself in front of the window. "It's the trees. It's so cold that the rain is freezing on the trees—freezing now as it falls, making the hail, but it's worse for the trees when the rain falls and then freezes. The ice builds up on the branches in a thick shell, and eventually the weight becomes too much and the branch just gives up. It's the branches breaking and the ice shattering as they fall that you're hearing. Now, are you sure you want to see it? It's going to be cold, and you won't be able to see much, not in the dark."

"Um…" Feuilly considers. "Well… if it's going to be dangerous… I mean, I just wanted to know what it was. If you'd prefer—"

"I want to see." Jehan's voice is still sleep-slurred, and Feuilly turns to see the poet rubbing at his eyes, his hair in a tangled halo around his head. "I haven't ever seen a proper ice storm. Go ahead and open the window."

"As you wish." Bahorel sketches a parody of a courtly bow to Jehan before striding toward the door. "Though if _you're_ going to be examining it, I think I'm going to go fetch a lantern. It'll last longer in the wind, and allow you to freeze to your heart's delight."

Before Feuilly can say that he really isn't sure this is necessary Bahorel is gone, and Jehan has joined him at the window.

Another crackling roll of sound, and Feuilly thinks he might be able to hear it, the splintering snaps of breaking wood and then the quieter breaking-glass sound of fractured ice, but he's not certain it isn't just his imagination.

Jehan shivers next to him. "It sounds almost like gunshots, doesn't it?"

The blood rushes from Feuilly's face, leaving his cheeks icy cold as he stares at his friend.

"And a bit like gunshots it is. Nature's salvos at her unprepared denizens, destruction raining from the sky where life-sustaining liquid should be." Jehan presses his hand up against the glass, his long fingers splayed wide. "I've heard of them, of course, but they're not common in the south, storms like this. Tomorrow everything will look beautiful, rainbows sparking from everything that has survived, but tonight… ah, I'd like to see it tonight."

"And so you shall." Bahorel strolls back into the room, closes the door behind him, and raises the lantern proudly, illuminating the room and the corners in ways that Feuilly's candle couldn't. "Everyone ready?"

Bahorel pries open the window and shutters while Jehan hovers just over his shoulder, offering suggestions that Bahorel pointedly ignores. One shutter escapes Bahorel's clutches and bangs frantically against the house for almost half a minute before the man lunges half-out the window to secure it fast.

"There." Shivering, his hair dripping tiny half-melted pellets of ice, Bahorel gestures toward the window as he backs away. "Madmen first, then the sane can take a look before we close it back up."

Jehan hadn't waited for the invitation, and he kneels, balancing precariously on the edge of the window, lantern held before him.

Feuilly backs away from the frigid draft, eyeing Bahorel's wet form. "You know Joly would say this is incredibly foolish and that you're inviting pneumonia."

"Pneumonia wouldn't dare." Bahorel's feral grin is rather ruined by a sneeze as water drips from a lock of hair onto his nose. He reaches up and runs a hand backwards through his hair, then shakes, sending tiny melting ice crystals to dance off into all corners of the room. "Whenever you feel Jehan should be frozen enough, I'll pull him back into the room and you can have a quick look."

"Is it safe?" Feuilly nods toward the window. "If those are trees—"

Bahorel's shaking his head before Feuilly can get any further. "This house is old. No trees close enough to hurt the old girl that haven't already been tried by previous storms. Just the cold and the ice to worry about."

Feuilly nods, and waits with growing impatience as Jehan observes the storm. The poet shifts the lantern, casting strange, flowing shadows back into the room, and Feuilly swears he can feel the temperature dropping by the moment.

Bahorel doesn't have to drag Jehan back into the room, though. As soon as Feuilly touches his right hand, the one that's holding the window ledge and providing balance, Jehan skitters back into the room, holding the lantern out to Feuilly.

It takes Feuilly helping him to pry his fingers loose to get the lantern out of Jehan's hand, and Feuilly leaves Jehan in Bahorel's care, Bahorel chafing the poet's fingers between his and chiding the man for foolishness.

The storm is beautiful.

It is terrible, of course, a frigid, shifting wind that immediately numbs Feuilly's face and that clenches his fingers hard around the lantern. It is water made into a thousand tiny darts that prick his skin and make him squint his eyes. It is a moon hidden by clouds so low it seems that if he could only reach up without falling he could touch them.

But it is also prisms, the rainbow reflected back to him in a thousand different ways every time he shifts the lantern. It is trees bending so far over that it seems they must break, only to immediately snap upright when the wind dies or changes direction.

It is like no storm Feuilly has ever seen before, and it takes his breath away.

He only watches for a minute, no more, mindful of the way his face and hands feel, not wanting to risk any damage.

As soon as he's retreated back into the room Bahorel closes the shutters and the window. The storm somehow sounds farther away now, though Feuilly knows it must still be as loud as when it had woken him; the room feels warmer, too, though Feuilly is certain it must be colder now than before he leaned out the window to watch the mad display of power.

Bahorel takes the lantern from him and blows it out, leaving the room seeming too dim, the candlelight full of shadows.

"Well." Bahorel sets both the dark lantern and the softly burning candle on the stand by Feuilly's bed. "This is a bit more excitement than I thought you'd have, but I hope you've enjoyed it."

Jehan's eyes glitter as he rubs his own hands together. "No one can control the weather or offer nature's majesty as a display, I know, but I would say this has been one of the better Yule gifts I've ever received."

Feuilly places his hands in his armpits, wincing briefly from the chill but then enjoying the tingling sensation of warmth returning to his fingers. "The storm is both beautiful and awful; the house and family are lovely; I haven't the means to repay you, Bahorel, because the gift has been priceless."

"I know how you can repay me." Bahorel picks up the candle. "Come with me and Jehan and share a bed with me. After this adventure, I could use a bit of extra body heat to fight against the cold, and I won't leave you to sleep here, not for an hour at least. We lost too much heat by opening the window. I don't know if it would be safe to sleep here now."

"I'll hardly freeze to death here." Feuilly pauses, acutely aware that he is probably the only one in the room who has seen a man freeze to death, who had to learn, as a child, the places and ways to sleep in order to prevent such a fate.

"Keep me up for an hour, or come share your company some more." Bahorel's words are firm. "I know which way I would go if trying to ingratiate myself with my host, but you are, of course, welcome to keep your own counsel."

"I…" Feuilly looks from Jehan, currently bouncing in place, to Bahorel, standing stoically but balancing on his heels, his toes curled away from the cold floor. "If you insist, I suppose. Though your brother won't appreciate his room being abandoned when he was kind enough to vacate it for me."

Bahorel snorts. "My brother is enjoying lording it over his little siblings. Believe me, I know. So come, both of you. Let's go get warm."

The three of them all end up squeezed together in the same bed, the bedding from Jehan's cot added to that from Bahorel's, their shared heat slowly drying their clothes and driving away the lingering ache of the storm's chill. Jehan is asleep before five minutes have passed, his knees curled up to his chest in a position that Feuilly thought only kittens could comfortably sleep in.

Sleep is more elusive for Feuilly, though he tries not to wriggle too much, aware of his friends' positions and the effect that would have on the blankets covering them.

"You and Jehan should both go outside as soon as you wake." Bahorel's voice is the barest whisper in Feuilly's ear. "He'll get some inspiration for those poems; it might give you some inspiration for your brush. The ice will melt quickly, and you'll want to be out before it does, to see how beautiful it is in the sunlight, how the trees shine and gleam. The storm is terrible and difficult, but there is beauty in the end—even from the fallen, even if the end isn't quite what is desired, there is beauty."

Bahorel's breathing takes on the even, regular pattern of sleep before Feuilly can fumble his tongue to a proper response.

That's all right. There would likely be no sense in pressing Bahorel for further clarification, as the brawler would simply insist he was talking about the storm, nothing more.

Feuilly falls asleep with Bahorel's hand in his and Jehan's arm flung across his chest, and though trees continue to snap in the wind, though the storm continues to rage outside, he sleeps deeply and well, no dreams of past or future to haunt him when he wakes in the morning.


End file.

Les Miserables, Friendship