Chapter Text
Courf, in his self-declared position as “the slutty pansexual who is the glue of the group”, had fooled around with most of les amis. He considered it to be a sort of gesture of friendship – “buddy blowjobs” was a phrase that he used far too much, and his friends (although Joly had tried to start a programme called Safe Sex in the City, and had gone as far as to speak to his professor about it) were cool with this, once they’d stopped freaking out (because okay, no matter how good a friend you are with someone, there are probably boundaries in the real world). But he’d never touched Enjolras (for obvious reasons – he valued his life), or Grantaire (because consent).
And he’d only kissed Jehan when he was sober, which meant a lot probably. Or it meant nothing at all.
Jehan had always blushed painfully to hear Courf talk about his exploits, although at least he’d stopped squirming as if in pain (okay so what, Courf liked talking about fucking – but then Jehan probably called it “making love” or some such godawful phrase) and looking like he might cry. Courf’s crudeness bothered him, then, and it always upset him that Jehan felt like that about the crudeness because – well, he didn’t really know why. But there was a feeling at the bottom of his stomach, and it wasn’t just the Corinthe’s terrible bread.
So, nobody ever took him seriously, which was the way he liked it. If he saw a pretty person (for although he preferred boys, he still appreciated a beautiful girl just as much) he’d endeavour to add them to his “collection” – a phrase he’d used until Enjolras had made a pointed comment about him having a “binder full of women… and men”, and okay so the Romney connotations made him think – everyone hated Romney, obviously. That was when he’d started paying attention to the people he slept with, and he’d realised that love might actually be a thing.
He’d obviously heard of love, and he’d loved many beautiful girls and boys – for as soon as they fell laughing into his bed, he’d laugh with them – but he’d never been in love. Courfeyrac decided, there and then, to learn about Love. He asked Combeferre, who gave him a book on human relationships (very boring but suggested interesting sexual dynamics) and a box of hankies – which was just rude. Feuilly had sneaked a glance over at Bahorel, and muttered something about how “you won’t mind if they’re argumentative or, always bruised, or had awful fashion taste, you know? Like they’ll just be… themselves and that’s fine,” and had folded a rose out of a newspaper, and told him to give it to the “unlucky victim” and wow, someone was grumpy today. And unappreciative of that time Courf had spent a whole night complimenting his ass.
Marius had almost jumped in the air (terrifying since he was all limbs and gangly self-awareness) and started jabbering at breakneck speed about soulmates and hearts and desire – and Cosette smiled at him and pressed her hand to the small of his back, before smiling softly at Jehan in the corner. (Had he missed another orgy? Again?)
Éponine and Grantaire, sitting together and smoking, rolled their eyes in union. Ép declared it a “waste of time, and only fools fall in love,” and Grantaire had smirked and said “love is a lie that we tell ourselves in the dark when we’re afraid of dying,” but with a sour note that suggested perhaps he was bullshitting slightly, and he threw his eyes over to where Enjolras usually sat (for today, he was at a meeting with Father Mabeauf about promoting the orphanage)
Musichetta had said “Love is made in the gritty ups and downs of being with someone who is as flawed as you,” and Joly had smiled at her because he and she and Bossuet were not perfect, but “perfect for each other despite our flaws,” as he’d whispered to her in the night once when she was crying – and Bossuet simply pulled them both closer to him, and murmured something about serendipity.
So, that hadn’t exactly been much help – he had gibberish guff and cynical comments, but nothing about how to find (or avoid) it.
Jehan had been curled up in the corner with a book of poetry, and today he was wearing yellow jeans and a pink jumper with rabbits on it, which was hideous. But Jehan had that note of delicateness about him – he was tall, but skinny, and his wristbones stuck out where the sleeves of the monstronsity had fallenback slightly; his skin was gossamer. Or some poetic shit, probably.
“Jehan, light of my life, what are you reading?” Courf flung himself over the sofa to land next to him to peer over his shoulder. The book was old and had been mended (inexpertly) more than once, and he couldn’t see the cover for the sticky tape that bound it. He leaned futher over Jehan’s shoulder, tucking his chin into the cleft when neck met shoulder, and hair tickled his face (because he’d neglected to tie it up today), and then he breathed in and realised that Jehan smelled of the rose-water shower gel Courf had bought him for Christmas..
He leaned back again, and forced himself to calm down. Seriously, he’d always known how attractive Jehan was (and softly-spoken little forest creature that he was, who could blame him?), and kissing him was maybe one of his top three activities (although he could never think up good enough excuses) and when he was sure that his body wouldn’t betray him, he leaned back over.
““To be nobody but
yourself in a world
which is doing its best day and night to make you like
everybody else means to fight the hardest battle
which any human being can fight and never stop fighting.”
and then below this (e.e. cummings, apparently, and Courf thought about the turtle brooch that Jehan had put in his hair, and his yellow jeans, and maybe he understood), in Jehan’s neat script, “you shine like the sun on the trolleys in the river, you glitter like the moon in a landfill – you are a pearl amongst oysters, a breath of wind in a stilted shadow – “ and Jehan slammed the book shut.
Courf looked at him, full in the face, and noticed that he had faint constellations of freckles across his nose. “What do you know about love, Prouvaire?” he asked, and Jehan uncurled himself and stood to go, but turned at the doorway as if to see why he wasn’t being followed – and that was weird, the fact that the poet had no words for once – and so Courf stood too and followed him, stashing the book under a cushion.
“Smoke break,” he shot in answer to Chetta’s raised eyebrows (who knew about the blindingly obvious feelings for each other, especially since when they were drunk they’d phone her individually and cry about it), and shut the door behind him. Today, they were in his and Marius’ flat, which was across the hall from Jehan’s (who currently lived alone in the flat – apart from his words and his kittens, obviously – but there were tentative plans to move Cosette in with him), and he lead the way down the stairs to the grass below. It was warm, even though it was February; the crocuses and daffodils were just starting to appear from the ground. Courf preferred flowers to be ostentatious, though, and so he longed for the days when the enormous roses that Jehan had planted up the side of the building (nobody was sure who even owned the place, but they imagined that they did).
“So, Prouvaire, tell me about love,” he said simply, and Jehan simply closed his eyes and shoved his hand (nails painted green with tiny kitten faces, which was a new low for decency in Courfeyrac’s opinion) to Courf’s, turning it over so that the words which spidered across his palm could be read.
“I’m in Paris with you,” and Courf wished that he knew more poetry (at least he assumed it was poetry because okay he knew where he was) so that he could reply, but instead he just took the hand, and kissed it (because he’d been forced to watch enough Merlin that he knew what to do with beautiful people who say beautiful things), and then stood back and waited for a reaction.
“I liked you from when we first met, you know. Where was it? Pancake day, the canteen - someone took the pancake off my plate before I could eat it, and you ran after him and retrieved it. And I just realised how made-up that sounds, like the kind of thing you’d find in a cheap romance novel. And maybe I’m fine with that? Like, I tried – I ran out of clichés to describe you.” Jehan paused, and curled his fingers round Courf’s. “And then you’d always be talking about your “conquests” and that day you bought me Keats for Christmas,” and he smiled at the little grey kitten he’d found under the tree, but went on: “and I told myself to stop being stupid. Because you’re – you’re a light, and I’m just – “ he folded his hands together, forgetting he had Courf’s trapped.
Courf tried not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation. “Jehan, if I’m a light then you’re a light. And maybe that is a slight steal from the Notebook but it is a classic, and I know for sure that you’ve seen it at least twelve times because I was there. And I know I hold your hand all the time and I know I kiss you (mostly when I’m drunk and that is not my fault) but I realised that I want to hold your hand for real. Like, I think you’re fucking brilliant.” and he grinned at Jehan, and Jehan smiled back because for everything Courf was, he definitely wasn’t a poet, and then Jehan pressed a light kiss to his cheek and the sun came out from the clouds that were drifting lazily across the sky.
And Courf realised that love was the feeling when something slots into place (and he almost laughed at his own monologue then because sex), like a jigsaw piece you didn’t know was missing, and he wondered at all why he was trying to force uncooperative words into meaning because there was something Jehan did with his tongue –