[drabble] Starless Night (Les Miserables, Javert/Valjean)
...Given that I've already written a cracktacular Maul/Obi-Wan (my first slash pairing evar!) I really shouldn't be as embarrassed about this one, but for some reason I am. *hides* There is something about musical theatre that adds and extra layer of dorkiness I sometimes don't really want to admit is there. *hides more*
Those of who you know me in the context of my Les Miserables musical faggotry will know that I consider Colm Wilkinson and Philip Quast the canonical Valjean and Javert (10th Anniversary Concert FOR THE WIN), despite the fact that other people originated the role of Javert in London and on Broadway. I have listened to both of those recordings and having also seen Les Miserables three times, I can confidently say that in my experience Philip Quast's Javert is such a hotter and better Javert than all the others and that he is nigh untouchable in his greatness.
I actually wrote this piece about two months ago, but didn't have the guts to post it. Since I'm sitting around at home nursing a knee-injury, I figured, what the hell, might as well put my neck too on the chopping block.
Title: Starless Night
Series: Les Miserables
Pairing: Javert/Valjean
Warnings: old man snoggage!
Word Count: ~ 900
*~*~*~*~*
Javert liked the darkness, he liked the stars. He liked the peace and the quiet it brought, the stillness in which he silently reveled, closing his eyes and drawing the shadows close about him. When he was younger he used to stand on the banks of the Seine, the water reflecting only a pale sliver of moon, its liquid cresent changing with the ripples of the river, disorderly and chaotic. He used to will the water to still, will the river into a mirror in which to reflect the perfection of the heavens, but the elements of nature were not his to control, and it seemed that the Lord was content to allow the water's unruly surface burble delightedly in the night.
Javert had never questioned his predilection for the after-dark hours, rationalizing his love of night by associating it with tranquility. He convinced himself that night was orderly, with all the usual residents of Paris asleep in their homes. He used to imagine himself the pillar of order around which the darkness gathered and arranged itself in regular, predictable patterns. It had never occured to the dear Inspector that perhaps he loved the night because it loved him too--because it had breathed its life into him and he was as much a creature born from it as the prey he had hunted.
From his window now he could not see the Seine but he could close his eyes and imagine the length of his favorite stretch, how the grass would feel beneath his boots, how the wind would feel on his face, playfully whipping about the ends of his hair, sowing chaos where there was none. It had also never occured to him--given though to constant, silent reflection as he was--that he was enamored of chaos because without it Inspector Javert could hardly exist.
Javert thought about the course of his life, its gradual marches and its sudden, swerving turns. He thought of his old solitude, reaching into an empty starless night, furiously trying to claw his way out of a fate he had been too much of a coward to face. He would have been swallowed by the waters, by the relentless passing of time had not a hand found his grasped it firmly, warmly. It had turned him around and made him want to believe.
"You're still up."
The voice startled Javert out of his reverie. He had been leaning against the wall, basking in the light of the full moon, the silver-on-silver making certain strands of his hair glitter a brilliant white.
"I'm sorry I woke you," Javert replied as arms came to wrap themselves about his waist. A small smile crossed his face and he leaned into the embrace.
"I woke on my own."
Javert, still smiling uncrossed his arms and turned his gaze to his lover, half a head shorter than he. He wrapped his arms about Valjean, turning away from the window, from Paris, from the Seine which had once seemed to him to be so inviting.
"Thinking?" Valjean asked simply. It was a simple way to breach the tumult of emotions that had always stirred Javert, to reach beyond the facade of the Inspector, of the upholder of the law, and into the heart of the man who had lived so long and yet learned so little.
Javert nodded. Valjean had been gifted with some sort of keen insight into his person, and any thoughts as hidden as he might keep them had always been obvious and easy for Valjean to read. "Just thinking of...old times," the retired Inspector replied simply.
A wry grin crossed Valjean's face. "Which ones?"
"The ones where we found each other."
Valjean chuckled. "They don't seem so old to me."
Javert chuckled too, and his eyes unfocused, went distant. Valjean was content to watch his lover think, to be a bystander in his lover's nostalgia. They had once been so fragile, so incomplete. It was a wonder they had found each other and had held on to each other so tenaciously through their first storms. Seconds later Javert seemed to see him again and Valjean took a step back, placing his hand in Javert's.
"Would you care for a walk?" This time of night was not fit for men of their age, but nevertheless Valjean offered. He had promised long ago that wherever Javert would be, he would be always at his side. "I know how much you love the night."
Javert shook his head slowly. He came to cup Valjean's cheek, watching fondly as the older man leaned into the caress. "I no longer belong to the night." But he could not deny its magic and the powers of the moon that fell across Valjean's face, his beard, his eyes that as Javert drew forward fluttered shut. Javert's lips hovered for a second about Valjean's cheek. "I belong to you."
One hand found its way to the nape of Valjean's neck, the other moving down to cup his bearded chin. He felt strong arms reach up to wrap about his shoulders, and they kissed. It was not the most passionate kiss that they had ever shared, nor the longest, but one thing Javert did know as he found himself in Valjean's embrace was that here was contentment, here was peace and he would never need to look any further to find it.
(end)
*~*~*~*~*
...and I'm too embarrassed to crosspost this anywhere
Those of who you know me in the context of my Les Miserables musical faggotry will know that I consider Colm Wilkinson and Philip Quast the canonical Valjean and Javert (10th Anniversary Concert FOR THE WIN), despite the fact that other people originated the role of Javert in London and on Broadway. I have listened to both of those recordings and having also seen Les Miserables three times, I can confidently say that in my experience Philip Quast's Javert is such a hotter and better Javert than all the others and that he is nigh untouchable in his greatness.
I actually wrote this piece about two months ago, but didn't have the guts to post it. Since I'm sitting around at home nursing a knee-injury, I figured, what the hell, might as well put my neck too on the chopping block.
Title: Starless Night
Series: Les Miserables
Pairing: Javert/Valjean
Warnings: old man snoggage!
Word Count: ~ 900
*~*~*~*~*
Javert liked the darkness, he liked the stars. He liked the peace and the quiet it brought, the stillness in which he silently reveled, closing his eyes and drawing the shadows close about him. When he was younger he used to stand on the banks of the Seine, the water reflecting only a pale sliver of moon, its liquid cresent changing with the ripples of the river, disorderly and chaotic. He used to will the water to still, will the river into a mirror in which to reflect the perfection of the heavens, but the elements of nature were not his to control, and it seemed that the Lord was content to allow the water's unruly surface burble delightedly in the night.
Javert had never questioned his predilection for the after-dark hours, rationalizing his love of night by associating it with tranquility. He convinced himself that night was orderly, with all the usual residents of Paris asleep in their homes. He used to imagine himself the pillar of order around which the darkness gathered and arranged itself in regular, predictable patterns. It had never occured to the dear Inspector that perhaps he loved the night because it loved him too--because it had breathed its life into him and he was as much a creature born from it as the prey he had hunted.
From his window now he could not see the Seine but he could close his eyes and imagine the length of his favorite stretch, how the grass would feel beneath his boots, how the wind would feel on his face, playfully whipping about the ends of his hair, sowing chaos where there was none. It had also never occured to him--given though to constant, silent reflection as he was--that he was enamored of chaos because without it Inspector Javert could hardly exist.
Javert thought about the course of his life, its gradual marches and its sudden, swerving turns. He thought of his old solitude, reaching into an empty starless night, furiously trying to claw his way out of a fate he had been too much of a coward to face. He would have been swallowed by the waters, by the relentless passing of time had not a hand found his grasped it firmly, warmly. It had turned him around and made him want to believe.
"You're still up."
The voice startled Javert out of his reverie. He had been leaning against the wall, basking in the light of the full moon, the silver-on-silver making certain strands of his hair glitter a brilliant white.
"I'm sorry I woke you," Javert replied as arms came to wrap themselves about his waist. A small smile crossed his face and he leaned into the embrace.
"I woke on my own."
Javert, still smiling uncrossed his arms and turned his gaze to his lover, half a head shorter than he. He wrapped his arms about Valjean, turning away from the window, from Paris, from the Seine which had once seemed to him to be so inviting.
"Thinking?" Valjean asked simply. It was a simple way to breach the tumult of emotions that had always stirred Javert, to reach beyond the facade of the Inspector, of the upholder of the law, and into the heart of the man who had lived so long and yet learned so little.
Javert nodded. Valjean had been gifted with some sort of keen insight into his person, and any thoughts as hidden as he might keep them had always been obvious and easy for Valjean to read. "Just thinking of...old times," the retired Inspector replied simply.
A wry grin crossed Valjean's face. "Which ones?"
"The ones where we found each other."
Valjean chuckled. "They don't seem so old to me."
Javert chuckled too, and his eyes unfocused, went distant. Valjean was content to watch his lover think, to be a bystander in his lover's nostalgia. They had once been so fragile, so incomplete. It was a wonder they had found each other and had held on to each other so tenaciously through their first storms. Seconds later Javert seemed to see him again and Valjean took a step back, placing his hand in Javert's.
"Would you care for a walk?" This time of night was not fit for men of their age, but nevertheless Valjean offered. He had promised long ago that wherever Javert would be, he would be always at his side. "I know how much you love the night."
Javert shook his head slowly. He came to cup Valjean's cheek, watching fondly as the older man leaned into the caress. "I no longer belong to the night." But he could not deny its magic and the powers of the moon that fell across Valjean's face, his beard, his eyes that as Javert drew forward fluttered shut. Javert's lips hovered for a second about Valjean's cheek. "I belong to you."
One hand found its way to the nape of Valjean's neck, the other moving down to cup his bearded chin. He felt strong arms reach up to wrap about his shoulders, and they kissed. It was not the most passionate kiss that they had ever shared, nor the longest, but one thing Javert did know as he found himself in Valjean's embrace was that here was contentment, here was peace and he would never need to look any further to find it.
(end)
*~*~*~*~*
...and I'm too embarrassed to crosspost this anywhere