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popcornoncemore · 6 months ago

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I'm so sorry for cutting the deadline so close!

Here is my gift to the amazing @wilwywaylan for the Les Mis @drinkwithme-exchange 2024!

They requested Joly & Jehan, so here's a angst and fluff fix of them supporting each other through their struggles with mental health problems:

I just want to say that this exchange was amazing and that I was so honored to write for someone that I just love in this fandom. I hope that you like this!

Full work under cut: (tw raw chicken, panic attacks):

The morning started out as usual, a good day, a slow turn from night to day, Bossuet and Musichetta pressing a light kiss to Joly’s forehead, slightly interrupting the fog of his sleep. As their footsteps and hushed conversations retreated further into the apartment, Joly turned over once more in the bed and let himself drift off again.

The second time he awoke, Joly was much more alert. While he loved sleeping in, curled in the duvet that Courfeyrac had gifted them as a housewarming gift, cozy in the dappled light streaming through the curtains that had once belonged to Musichetta’s grandmother, it was hard for Joly to truly laze the day away. Spending too long in bed tended to summon a quiet yet incessant internal chatter about the merits of a rigid sleep schedule and the dangers of a lack of daily progress and simple movement, a nagging sense of conscious that refused to let Joly sleep past nine in the morning. Joly needed to start out on the right foot.

With the urging of the voice, Joly disembarked from the safety of his bed. Musichetta had left early to cover her coworker’s shift at the laundromat where they worked so that the other woman could visit her ailing mother. Bossuet, in a typical bout of his characteristic misfortune, had managed to do a great deal of damage to a neighbor’s fence the day prior in an incident involving Gavroche, a lawn mower, and approximately $15 worth of clear fishing line. Today, he had taken it upon himself to do the necessary repairs in hopes of smoothing things over with the disgruntled elderly couple.

This left Joly alone in the apartment with only his thoughts and the growing heat of the summer morning. Joly obeyed the near-instant urge to brush his teeth, making a beeline from the bed to the bathroom. When that was finished, he closely inspected his face, taking note of every new spot of acne and mentally listing off the names of the medicated creams that he needed to acquire. He tried not to pick at the spots, it would only make them worse, but it was so difficult when it made him want to crawl out of his skin. Joly then washed his hands, showered, washed his hands, put on moisturizer and sunscreen, washed his hands, dressed himself in a button-down and khakis, debated whether or not the day would be hot enough to give him heatstroke wearing a long-sleeved shirt, decided to change into a light-weight cotton t-shirt, and tried to style his hair which absolutely refused to lay correctly on his head.

Joly was overcome by a sense of dread as he tried to will his hair into place. He was not going to be able to get the results that he wanted, but he almost certainly was not going to be able to stop rearranging his hair until it was perfect. This devolved into hurried breaths and lightly pulling his hair. If Bossuet was here, he would have taken Joly’s hands in his own and told stories of his and Grantaire’s latest outing until Joly could get control of himself and move on to the next task. Today, Joly had to make do with imagining his boyfriend’s words and trying to manage his breathing. Joly squeezed his eyes shut and washed the remaining hair product off his hands, then quickly fled the bathroom before he could accidentally get a glimpse of his reflection.

Crisis averted.

Joly distracted himself with the daily cleaning, re-making their large bed and adjusting the incredibly large number of pillows that had been brought into bed by the culmination of Musichetta’s search for tasteful decor, Joly’s interest in the medical benefits of different shapes of pillows, and Bossuet’s near constant need to prop up one injured limb or another. Then it was a quick vacuum of the living room to limit the dust and potential allergens in the apartment, emptying the trash and recycling from every room, and reorganizing the perpetually undone shoe rack, lest Bossuet trip over a lose high heel coming in the door.

The next order of business was making sure to eat a hearty breakfast. As Joly checked the dates on all the food packaging in the refrigerator, he notices that the egg carton was empty. In general, there was hardly any protein in their apartment. Joly furrowed his brow. He was very tempted to resort to eating just a bowl of cereal and moving on with his day, but something inside him knew that that was a bad choice.

Breakfast was the most important meal of the day, he had to eat a balanced meal, or the rest of his day would be thrown off and who knew what could happen if Joly introduced that sort of chaos to his life. While he didn’t have class today, he was supposed to meet up with Combeferre to study. If he neglected a nutritious breakfast, his hands would shake while he took notes, and his attention span would be affected. It was only natural that the consequence of that may be failing the next test, putting him behind in the class, behind in his degree, and behind schedule. No, it was best to eat an appropriate meal.

Nothing in the refrigerator was suited to food that one would generally categorize as breakfast food, but Joly was willing to sacrifice that for nutrition. He opened the freezer, hoping to find some sort of meat that could serve as his protein.

To his disappointment, the only thing that he found was a bag of frozen chicken breasts. He cringed at the sight. It wasn’t that Joly wouldn’t eat chicken, on the contrary, Bossuet’s family recipe for lemon baked chicken was one of his absolute favorites; it was just that the idea of raw poultry was beyond revolting. In addition to its odd texture and appearance, Joly couldn’t help but imagine all the illnesses that could be caused by the raw or undercooked meat. In particular, the sight of the chicken brought up hurried thoughts about the dangers of salmonella and the image of a documentary he had once seen that tracked how the germs from poultry could be accidentally transferred about a cooking space.

There was an instant conflict between the voices in his head, debating the dangers of handling raw meat and not paying attention to nutrition. Joly desperately wished them to shut up but resolved himself to making a choice. He could cook chicken, people did that all the time and it was fine. He was being stupid, he couldn’t let his anxiety stop him from being a normal functioning person. Joly snatched the bag of chicken from the freezer, dropped it on the counter, and then immediately washed his hands.

Defrosting the meat was a nightmare. Joly removed the chicken from the bag with a pair of tongs, resting it on a plate, and then microwaving it until the it defrosted. When he took the plate out, Joly gagged at the sight of the raw poultry, sitting on the plate in a pool of melted frost and juices. He moved the chicken breast to the cutting board specifically designated for meat, leaving him with the disgusting plate of liquid.

He knew that he was supposed to dump it down the drain. It wouldn’t congeal like bacon grease and unfortunately, Joly lacked a way to incinerate it like food waste in some sci-fi film. But pouring it down the sink would contaminate the basin, the germs would spread when the water turned on, then there was no stopping the salmonella from moving to other surfaces. He put the plate down, it was a dilemma he would deal with later.

The next part was arguably the hardest. Joly had to cut the chicken into smaller pieces in order to properly seer it. How was he supposed to do that without directly handing the raw meat? With the tongs in one hand, he stabilized the breast, cutting it slowly with the knife in his other hand. It was going to be okay, it was going to be okay, he could do this, he had to do this. Normal people did this.

Joly’s trembling hand slipped on the tongs suddenly, the piece of chicken sliding across the cutting board and making contact with the hand that was still holding the knife.

Everything immediately went dark, then the color and sound and light and fear all rushed back into Joly’s perception at a lighting pace. God. God. It had touched him and… The knife slipped from his hand, narrowly missing his foot as it clattered to the floor. Joly whipped around in his panic as his breathing became more and more rapid. He made for the sink, but only managed knock the discarded plate of germs he had been avoiding to the floor, spilling its contents all over.

Joly was dying, there was nowhere to go. The situation was consuming him, he was going to pass out. His hands scrambled at his face, wiping through his tears to pick at the scabbing acne, scratching his cheeks with his fingers… His fingers that had just touched the chicken seconds before.

Oh god. His breathing got worse as he sank to the floor, to the puddle of yet more germs. He was going to throw up. He was going to die.

Oh god. Oh god. Oh god.

There was a knock at the door.

Jehan had started their morning off noticeably poorly. Their melancholy was far past the point of being poetic, rather it was consuming and disheartening, destroying his creative thinking. While a passing phase of downcast and remorseful feelings was an important given in the life of a romantic, a rain spell that spoiled the weather but watered the crops, this was less of a rainfall and more of a tropical storm of sorts.

The morning sun was too bright as it cut into his bedroom, waking Jehan from their rest early. His body was sore for no good reason, as if his back had just taken a sudden disliking to the mattress, and the street outside was unusually loud for the time of day. The blankets had partially fallen off, leaving their legs cold.

Jehan did his best to right his mood, but to no avail.

From the bedside table, they pulled their current poetry journal, a beautifully bound thing that had been gift from Grantaire last Christmas. In an attempt to channel his feelings into something appropriate, they scribbled out lines of poetry onto the creamy pages of the book, scrambling to find a way to put a voice to the way he felt. Nothing took form from the words though, no matter what he wrote, the paper just became more and more marred by messy lines of bleeding ink. It was ugly, not in a way that inspired deep thought, but in a way that forced Jehan to angrily turn his eyes from the journal, to snap it shut and throwing it to the cluttered floor.

Getting dressed proved just as frustrating. Nothing fit right, Jehan’s body just looked incorrect in anything they put on. The limey cardigan that they picked to go over their floral-print sundress and stripped slacks itched in a way that made him want to just melt into a puddle on the bedroom floor. Jehan slumped and let himself lay down on the carpet, pulling the awful sweater off and throwing it as far away as they could. He moped on the ground, trying to reason with himself. It was silly to let this pessimism get them, but it seemed just as silly to blatantly ignore it. Why was this so complicated? Why did he feel so absolutely under the weather?

Rolling to get off the floor, they spotted the book they had discarded prior. He apologetically picked the journal up and set it back onto the nightstand, brushing off its cover with care. Jehan ran their hands through his hair, resisting the urge to pull at it and scratch at his scalp. They couldn’t just waste away on their bedroom floor, let themself drown in this floor of bitter sadness that was trying so desperately to sweep them away.

Using the last of his strength, Jehan dragged themself to their feet and promptly made straight for the door of the apartment. He couldn’t just sit here alone feeling bad for himself, letting himself drown.

He knocked on the door, but no one answered it. That was odd, Jehan could have sworn that Joly at least was home, it was part of the reason they had come here, apart from the fact that the apartment the trio shared was the closest to his own. Maybe he was wrong, of course, that would follow the pattern of the day. Maybe some of Bossuet’s bad luck had accidentally brushed off on them the last time that they went for drinks together.

Jehan shook off the thought. They were here to fight their pessimistic spiral, not feed it. He knocked on the door again, listening for the sound of movement in their friend’s apartment. Instead of someone approaching the door, Jehan heard what almost sounded like sobbing, muted, but definitely still present. Without a second thought, Jehan grabbed one of the spare keys hidden about the hallway in front of the apartment, placed there in the event that Bossuet left his keys on the counter, in a car, at work, or, on one particularly unfortunate occasion, at the post office inside of the package he had been mailing to Quebec.

Jehan entered the apartment warily. Someone was definitely crying, the sound clearer once inside, coming from the kitchen.

When he reached the kitchen, Jehan was met with a truly upsetting sight. Joly was alone, curled on the wet floor, hyperventilating and tearing at the skin on his face in a mindless fashion. It appeared that the other man had previously been cooking something, from the discarded cutting board, thawed chicken, and the shards of plate that were strewn across the ground.

Jehan approached him lightly, kneeling on the floor next to the man. “Joly, my friend, please listen to me. I am here to help. I heard your distress from outside and I simply had to come in. Let me help you. Here, breathe with me.”

They took Joly’s hands in theirs, pulling them away from his face. His friend did not quite register what was happening, but he didn’t fight the action. Jehan held Joly in his arms, slowly rocking him, speaking softly into his ear. Several minutes passed like this as Jehan helped his friend regain some control over his mind and body.

Any despairing thoughts that Jehan had awoken with took a back seat to helping Joly. “Joly, dear, tell me what is wrong? You do not have to deal with this alone. We’ll make this right, whatever it is. You are so very safe.”

Joly sniffled, then looked Jehan in the face for the first time since the other had entered his apartment. “The chicken… It slipped…” He paused, gagging a bit. “Oh god, the germs are everywhere, on the floor, on my hands, my face, on you! I was just trying…”

Ah, so that was what had triggered this fit of panic. Jehan surely wasn’t as familiar with the risks of raw poultry as Joly was, but he did know the basics of cooking and killing food-born germs. And knowing Joly as they did, the idea that Joly had panicked after accidentally coming into contact with the meat, and more importantly, his complicated thought process surrounding something he saw as a health hazard, was a fairly understandable one.

Jehan hugged their friend to them. “Oh Joly. I am so sorry, I know how much that sort of thing bothers you. It will be alright, I will help you.”

Joly frowned, another tear sliding down his cheek. “I shouldn’t need help. It’s just food, people cook all the time… I need to eat healthily, I should be able to eat healthily. I was trying to eat…” He breathed raggedly. “Everything is all wrong with me, I can’t cook, I can’t look right, I can’t relax or clean enough or even fucking feed myself correctly.”

He spoke desperately, like he was finally spilling a long-kept secret. Jehan’s heart hurt in their chest to see their friend lambast himself with such vigor, with such a belief in the cruel words he threw in his own direction.

“You, Joly, are perfectly acceptable as you are. I may not know all of the details of how you feel, but I do know that you aren’t a stupid man. You do not simply feel this way on a whim, or because you are lazy or incompetent, you always have reasoning behind it. You should not have to fight your own mind like this, but you so often successfully do so. There is no shame in asking for help or feeling despair, any man would become overwhelmed in your situation.”

“I just want my head to be quiet,” Joly pleaded softly. “The second I wake up it is like I am fighting with my own system of right and wrong, I debate danger and health and the thousands of ways to do something properly. I just can’t shake the feeling that I must follow these thoughts, but then they conflict and shout at each other and I slip up trying to do right by them all.”

Jehan nodded, listening to their friend while continuing to rock him gently. They ran a hand through his hair.

Joly paused in his rambling speech for a second. “I just want to feel something that isn’t this downwards spiral that ends in me crying on my floor like cooking chicken or brushing my hair is the end of the world.”

“I understand.” Jehan gave Joly a small smile. “I completely understand. It is hard when your mind works against you and it feels like you cannot escape this moment, the pattern of your thoughts that so quickly arranges itself into a maze. But you are not weak to feel this way, many people have to fight as you do against one foe or another. In fact, I came to your door today because I felt similarly trapped when I woke up this morning. It was like there was nothing I could do to chase away the dark feeling that the world was out to get me today, and I wasn’t up to the challenge. But I managed to come here, I found you and now we are together. And I know that while I am still simply melancholy and you are so understandably distraught, we will not fall victim to that vicious spiral. Let me help you, if the voices will not quiet, I will shush them most aggressively. And if that doesn’t work, I will sing over them so that at least you may hear something relaxing rather than demanding. Let me clean you up and help you back to your feet, I think it would do a world of good for us to fight our battles together today.”

Joly buried his face in his friend’s sundress, letting a few more tears fall. “Yes. Okay. Please help me to get out of this mess, it’s too much, and I feel faint even beginning to think about what may go wrong as a result.”

Jehan gave him a squeeze. “Of course, my dear friend. I will help you, for you have helped me so greatly already.”

Jehan had scrubbed down the kitchen, doing their best to meet Joly’s standards of cleanliness as they mopped, wiped, and bleached every inch of the room. The two friends then took as shower together, Jehan helping Joly to wash his face gently.

The clothes they had been wearing earlier all went straight into the old washing machine down the hall. One of the benefits of having all three occupants of the apartment share a room was that there was more space for some of the utilities that helped Joly to feel more sanitary and Bossuet to get the never-ending tie dye of stains out of his clothes.

They re-dressed in assorted clothing. Jehan pulled one of Bossuet’s zip-down hoodies for Joly, an easily removed layer in case of a sudden change of temperature. Joly brought Jehan one of Musichetta’s flowy blouses and a pair of his own plaid shorts. Jehan felt themself relax into the fabrics, their textures safe and comfortable.

Jehan combed Joly’s hair, and the two talked quietly about life; Bossuet and Gavroche’s recent run in with disaster, Grantaire’s (latest) blunder in front of Enjolras, Bahorel’s supposed mistress.

“Thank you for coming, Jehan.” Joly said the words as their conversation drifted into a pleasant silence. “I didn’t know that I needed someone today, but apparently I did.”

Jehan pressed a quick kiss to his friend’s forehead. “Of course. Absolutely any time. Thank you for being here. We’re going to be okay.”

When they finally set the brush down, Joly turned and crushed Jehan in a hug and the pair burst into laughter. When Joly finally released him, Jehan grinned at his friend in a way that seemed impossible only a few hours ago. “Would you like to go out to get some breakfast before you meet up with Combeferre? They say it’s the most important meal of the day!”

Joly smiled back, “Sure.”

It was looking to be a good day, it was only just getting started after all.

#les mis #les miserables #friendship #writing #drinkwithme2024 #joly #jolly #jolllly #jehan prouvaire #Jean prouvaire #fan fiction #ao3

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