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He knew exactly where he was. Well, he had a general idea of where he was. But not really.
It was almost a week into his first semester and Combeferre had finally convinced him to “at least try” the English class that he’d taken on Combeferre’s advisement. Courf sulked all the way across campus to the English building, and within nearly an hour became utterly lost inside the twisting labyrinth that was the poetry department. There was barely anyone around to ask for directions, and those who were seemed too consumed in their books, and Courfeyrac didn’t dare interrupt them. As a last resort, he walked through the nearest open door in hopes of finding someone who could help him.
He found himself in a small library, an eerily silent room where he couldn’t walk more than two feet in any direction without bumping into a bookcase. The books on the yellow wooden shelves were old and delicate. The gilded titles on the creased spines were barely legible, but you could see where someone had carefully re-bound several of the oldest books. He walked around corners slowly, scanning the books, and didn’t see when he stumble right into a small desk.
The boy sitting at the desk started.
“Can I help you?”
The boy looked younger than Courf, his long black hair neatly braided to the side of his face and sweeping bangs covering his forehead. A tight black waistcoat hugged a tiny frame over a dark blue dress shirt that was pushed up at the elbows, exposing bony white forearms and delicate wrists. Long fingers stilled where they had been tracing over the words of a huge book open in front of him. Thick black eyeliner defined bright green eyes as they looked up at Courfeyrac expectantly.
Courfeyrac froze in his place. The boy blinked at him and repeated himself.
“Can I help you?”
Courf shook he head and let out a breath he forgot he was holding.
“Yeah, um, I’m looking for the-uh, room.”
The small boy’s lips quirked in an amused and endearing smile. He spoke softly, his voice like music.
“Which room are you looking for, dear?”
Courfeyrac laughed and collected himself.
“Sorry, room 119. You caught me off-guard there.”
“Terribly sorry sir, if I had known you would have been stumbling in this direction I would have moved my desk beforehand.”
The boy’s smile spread across his face and stretched around his words so beautifully that Courfeyrac found himself momentarily staring at his lips. The boy furrowed his eyebrows.
“Sir?”
Courfeyrac laughed again, this time with a hint of nervousness. What was wrong with him? He’d been around plenty of beautiful people before, and usually it was them who tripped over their words. But it seemed that with one look this boy taken his cool articulation for a stuttering tongue and blushing cheeks.
“Right, sorry. The room?
“Oh, yes, room 119 is on the other side of the building…I could take you there if you’d like.”
“Don’t you work here?”
The boy waved a hand in dismissal and he climbed over the desk and stood in front of Courf, “I think it’s about time I took a break. I’m Jehan, by the way.” He extended a hand towards him.
“Courfeyrac.” He shook and his hand and followed him as Jehan lead him out of the library.
Jehan started leading him back down the hallway that he had come from, and Courfeyrac was anxious to break the silence.
“What were you reading?”
Jehan looked at him fondly. “Robert Browning.”
“Isn’t he that creepy poet who killed his wife or something?”
Jehan laughed. “No, My Last Duchess was written purely for entertainment.”
Courfeyrac wrinkled his nose. “Kinda morbid entertainment, then.”
Jehan hummed in agreement. “But the language is beautiful.”
“Yeah, it is.”
And they once again fell into that uncomfortable void of silence.
“Do you like poetry?”
Courf smiled, glad to be continuing the conversation.
“I’m afraid the extent of my knowledge is the guy who wrote Alice in Wonderland. And I only read it because it was the shortest book on the reading list in seventh grade.”
Jehan beamed. “Oh, I love Lewis Carroll.”
Courf opened his mouth to speak again, but Jehan was already reciting, the words floating from his lips like blown kisses.
“Twas brillig and the slithy toves,
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe,
All mimsy were the borogroves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.”
He continued on with the entire poem as they walked, forming each syllable slowly and with a quiet passion. It ended just as soon as he stopped in front of a door. Courf barely noticed.
“Wow, that was- that was amazing.” He almost gasped, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand.
Jehan looked down and blushed. “It’s nothing really, it’s a rather short one. Maybe next time I’ll tell you The Walrus and the Carpenter.”
Courfeyrac smiled. “I look forward to it.” And Jehan looked up to meet his eyes and return his smile with one brighter. They stood and stared at each other for only a moment before Jehan blinked and looked away.
“Well, here you are.” He said, gesturing to the door beside them.
“Oh, yeah. Thank you.”
“No problem,” Jehan reached out and took his hand, “This was nice.” He leaned down and gently placed a kiss on the back of Courfeyrac’s hand. He gave Courf one last grin before turning and starting to walk away. Courf turned to watch him leave, grinning as he shouted down the hallway.
“Same time tomorrow?”