Chapter Text
‘Home’ was a kind word for it, the little slum where they grew up. Or rather, that was how an outsider would see it. To the youth inside, the word home was not kind, since the slum was the only home they had ever known. Regardless, the place had its own versions of family and community tucked in each corner. There, men would meet and drink any hour of the day. There, women would shield their children from the cold with their frail bodies. There, children played and learned and fought.
One of the many youth of those streets was a boy who called himself Javert. If he had ever been named something else, there was no record of it. He had long waves of dark hair which he kept pulled back tightly to create the illusion of sleekness. The summer saw his skin tanned to a neutral brown, but his hunger saw it paled to a stony greyness. This boy, tall and wiry at thirteen, spent each day the same as the last. He ran errands and cleaned the letterblocks for the Printer in the morning, earning him a humble wage. He chopped vegetables and organized the pantry for the orphanage in the afternoon, earning him a roof to sleep under and food to eat. In the last bits of daylight, he would practice his letters and sound out passages of the Bible in his softest whispers. Javert was not an urchin. He was a hardworking and upstanding young man of principles. Despite that fact, he had little escape from his peers: urchins all.
As he exited the back door of the Printer’s one day, Javert found a band of his fellow orphans waiting for him. The group of boys varied in age, but were led primarily by one about Javert’s own age, whom they all called Mouche. Mouche, a small but quick boy with shorn-short hair, approached Javert directly. He came so close that by watching him, Javert had to remove his focus from the other urchins.
“Whattaya make from that printer anyway? Show us.” He made a quick reach for the pocket of Javert’s oversized old jacket, so the latter stepped back.
“No. Not a chance I let you… wastrels take off with my wage.” He lifted his chin, refusing to bow his head in order to look at the shorter boy.
“What did you call me? You’re the waste. Waste of a job and food and a bed, I say.” Mouche grabbed hold of Javert roughly and shoved him. Unprepared and in the middle of an awkward growth spurt, the scowling Javert slammed back against the brick wall. “Bet you don’t make more than spit in that place. Still, it’s no fair for you to get all of it. The good thing’s to share.”
Standing straight once more, and standing stronger now, Javert pushed back and made some distance between himself and Mouche. “Only an idiot would think that’s what wastrel means.” In truth, Javert did not know the full meaning of the word he had used, but he had gathered enough from context. He could even spell it if he had letterblocks in front of him. Regardless, the insult hit its mark and the little gang started to circle him. He squared up to fight, imagining the urchins as rats and himself as a sharp-toothed terrier. In an instant, the boys were flying at each other.
Javert wasn’t one of the boys that would spend their leisure time roughhousing. As aforementioned, he was learning to read. Unfortunately, that fact only made Mouche and other boys like him want to tackle Javert more. They thought Javert felt superior to them. In fact, he did feel superior, but that was hardly the point. Javert, as a scholar, was less of a wrestler- at least as far as hobbies went. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t hold his own. While the others swung and scratched and bit with wild abandon, Javert made use of his height and any other advantage he could piece together. He fought well, given the circumstances. Still, he was outnumbered by far, and it came to be that the smartest choice he could make, once he had maneuvered to no longer have his back to the wall, was to make a break for it. He ran, and they followed. But while numbers are a boon in a fight, they can get in the way in a race through the narrow alleys of the gutters.
After a few frantic minutes, Javert had managed to shake off all of the gang but one, a stick-thin boy appropriately named le Brin. Under a footbridge, Javert came to a stop and turned to face his pursuer. Le Brin never seemed to be much of a leader. He was somewhat timid in nature, and likely only joined up with Mouche’s gang for his own protection. Now realizing he was alone, le Brin halted and shifted his weight between his feet. His freckled, pale face, marked with a welt on the cheek and a scratch by the eye, held an expression of worry.
Javert saw le Brin’s hesitation and jumped at him, grappling him to the ground and pinning his arms. He twisted the other boy’s joints until le Brin cried out, yielding tearfully. Javert stood up then, allowing le Brin to get to his feet and dash away. Javert tucked himself into a crevice between the bridge and a building and caught his breath. He shut his eyes briefly, calming his nerves. Then he noticed the light through his eyelids dim and he went back to full attention.
Blocking the exit from the crevice was a boy Javert had never seen before. He was older, probably by a year or two, and strong in build. He wouldn’t be able to fit in the crevice, but he would be able to wallop Javert if he came out of his hiding spot. “What do you want?” Javert spat.
To Javert’s surprise, the stranger backed up, making enough space for Javert to escape if he wanted to. “I’ve seen you before.”
Javert wouldn’t take the bait. “I’ve never seen you. Didn’t think there was anyone your age foolish enough to follow Mouche, but I suppose fools come in every size.”
Another surprise came in the form of a smile. The strange boy’s eyes had a crystalline glimmer despite their dark colour. It seemed to be caused solely by his mirth. “I wasn’t following la mouche, I was following la guêpe.” He gestured to Javert.
Javert squinted, frowning with every inch of his face. “Why?”
“You are in worse shape than that skinny one was. I figured you must have been attacked by a pack of them. In which case, you’re who I’d root for.” He reached into the crevice, a ratty excuse for a handkerchief in his hand. Javert pushed the offering away.
“So you’re fond of the underdog?” Javert’s tone held disdain and defensiveness.
The stranger shook his head as he replied. “No. We’re all underdogs down here. I like the dog who doesn’t want to be in the ring.”
Javert was so annoyed by that answer that he squeezed himself out of the crevice just to look the boy in his eyes while he insulted him. “That’s even worse. If you bet like that, you’ll end up deeper in the gutter than this. Besides, la Brin didn’t want to fight either.”
“If neither of you wanted to fight, why’d you fight?” He smiled again, all teeth and glittery eyes.
“I-“ Javert paused. He probably could have chased La Brin off, but that didn’t feel fair. “So that maybe he’d think twice next time,” he lied. “Who are you, anyway?”
The older boy reached out a hand again, this time sans rag. “Jean Valjean. I live on the near edge, by Rue de la Fontaine.”
Javert rejected the handshake with little more than a twitch of his frown. “Javert. Sounds nice, up on the hill, away from the stench.”
“I’d rather be near the docks.” Valjean shrugged.
“I must get back before those scoundrels tear apart my bunk.” He sighed tiredly, then turned on his heel and began to walk off. Strangely, Valjean followed, coming to walk beside Javert. “What are you doing?”
“Walking. You do work at the printing house, right? Do you need to read for that?”
Javert was pulled between curiosity and suspicion, annoyance and interest. He resolved to allow Valjean’s presence for the time being. “It is helpful that I know my letters, yes. That way I always put the blocks back in the right places and know them by name. What did you mean before, when you said you had seen me?”
“When I can get work doing deliveries, it sometimes leads me down to the Printer’s. Some folks like it better for a delivery boy to have no way to know what he’s carrying.” Valjean faced forward as they walked, only his eyes sometimes moving to read Javert’s face. As they moved through the streets, Valjean would offer nods and waves to many of the people they passed.
Ignoring the frustration he felt over Valjean’s lack of attention to the conversation, Javert also looked forward. “You can’t be an errand boy forever. If you want to get anywhere worth going, you’ll have to learn to read.”
Valjean hummed thoughtfully. “That’s why I like you, Javert.”
“I thought it was because I don’t like to fight,” he rebuffed dryly.
“That’s not what I said. I said you didn’t want to be in the ring.”
Javert shook his head, but the corner of his mouth which Valjean couldn’t see ticked up in a slight smile.