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The beach house had been in Courfeyrac’s family for generations -- and as was typical of a house belonging to a family whose money was older than the republic itself, it was a model of shabby chic. Gray and rambling, but with peeling trim and missing shingles and an overgrown rose garden, it perched on the dunes of the outer Cape, likely destined to make the national news someday when a hurricane swept it out to sea in dramatic fashion.
The summer after he graduated from college -- just before he took on his predestined slot as a 1L at Harvard -- Courfeyrac decided to spend his summer there, tending the family manse as best he could while enjoying his last summer of freedom before he was tethered by the golden shackles of a law career. His parents were spending the summer at their other beach house -- a house up in Maine with considerably more modern amenities, so Courfeyrac would be alone -- he had tried to persuade Enjolras and Combeferre to join him, but Enjolras preferred to remain in the city and Combeferre was already consumed with his medical studies.
Courfeyrac’s plan was simple: he would spend mornings puttering around with a hammer or a paintbrush, doing the projects his parents were nagging him to take care of from their other beach house in Maine. Afternoons would be devoted to sunning himself on the beach, followed by evenings on the winding streets of nearby Provincetown, partaking in the pleasures of the flesh with a series of excessively good-looking young men.
The arrangement generally agreed with him -- he let his beard grow out, and his skin glowed with a golden tan. But Courfeyrac was the eternal extrovert, and it didn’t take long for the solitude to wear on him.
For the first time he could remember, Courfeyrac was actually lonely.
**
On a sweltering Sunday morning in July, Courfeyrac decided that rather than work up a sweat puttering around the house, he would go for a morning swim. The beach was mostly deserted, save for a couple of walkers, which gave Courfeyrac the giddy feeling of having the entire Atlantic Ocean to himself. He plunged into the waves, enjoying the salty coolness against his skin..
When he emerged from the ocean half an hour later to towel himself off, shaking the water out of his dark curls like a rambunctious puppy, he heard a male voice behind him pronounce, “And Poseidon emerges from his watery kingdom...alas!”
Courfeyrac turned around to see a young man standing behind him, wearing nothing but a threadbare pair of cargo shorts and a pair of aviator sunglasses. He was young -- no more than 20, Courfeyrac estimated -- with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a halo of sandy curls. Courfeyrac had sampled many of the young delicacies that populated Provincetown in the summer, but none of them were as lovely as this one.
And none of them had ever shown up on his stretch of beach before comparing Courfeyrac to a Greek god.
“I must have left my trident back at the house,” Courfeyrac quipped.
“No matter,” the young man said, his smile as brilliant as the sun that was already beating down on them. “You can still make the earth shake, I’m certain.”
Courfeyrac couldn’t help smiling back at him, intrigued by this enchanting creature. “Do you live in town?” he asked, wrapping his towel around his waist.
The young man shook his head. “My family has a house down the beach,” he said, gesturing toward a house even larger than Courfeyrac’s -- albeit a newly constructed one. “I’m Jean Prouvaire,” he said, extending his hand. “But you can call me Jehan.”
“And you can call me Courfeyrac,” he replied, shaking Jehan’s hand firmly. “Or Courf, if that’s too much of a mouthful. That’s our house up there,” he said, pointing it out. “I’m here for the summer, fixing some stuff for my parents, hanging out on the beach -- you know, not much. Just me, in that big house, by myself--” He trailed off, realizing he was babbling.
“Courfeyrac,” Jehan repeated. “I have no doubt you are a mouthful,” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up again.
Courfeyrac felt himself blushing -- and he almost never blushed. “Would you--would you like to come join me for dinner tomorrow night,” Courfeyrac blurted impulsively. “I was going to get some lobsters. I always make too much food for just me -- if you don’t already have plans, that is.”
“I’d love to,” Jehan agreed. “I have the house to myself most of the time, which is wonderful for writing -- but it gets a little quiet, you know. Can I bring anything?”
“Just yourself,” Courfeyrac purred. “That should be plenty.” He started walking back to the house, calling over his shoulder, “See you at 7:00?”
Prouvaire flashed his brilliant smile again and set off down the beach.
And in that moment Courfeyrac felt a little less lonely.
**
As 7:00 approached the next evening, Courfeyrac was bustling about the kitchen, putting various pots of water on to boil, shucking corn and scrubbing potatoes while ripping off pieces of baguette and popping them into his mouth.
He was still chewing when the doorbell rang and he opened the door to greet Prouvaire, who was bearing a bottle of wine in one hand and a bouquet of wildflowers in the other hand.
“These are for you,” Jehan said, thrusting the flowers toward Courfeyrac before he could say anything. “From my parents’ garden. I putter around there a lot. I take Voltaire to heart and tend my own garden -- literally and figuratively, really,” he said.
“You’ve read Voltaire?” Courfeyrac asked incredulously, trying not to choke on the piece of bread in his mouth. Most of his summer hookups would have thought Voltaire was the famous fashion designer who owned five different condos around Provincetown.
“Indeed. And In the original French,” Prouvaire said airily. “I’m a double major in linguistics and literature at Harvard.”
“Harvard, eh?” Courfeyrac said, gesturing to Jehan that he should enter. “Me too. Just graduated in June, and starting at the law school in the fall. Just like generations of Courfeyracs before me,” he said with a knowing eyeroll as he ambled back toward the kitchen.
Jehan grinned as he followed along. “Not me. My father is a Princeton man, so I’m clearly the rebel in the family. But I can’t believe I’ve never seen you around the Yard. I think I’d have remembered you,” he said, putting the bottle of wine on the table. “Where is your corkscrew?”
“In the drawer next to the sink,” Courfeyrac answered as he rooted around in the cabinets for a vase, finally fishing out a crystal vase that had probably been in the family for years. “And I spent most of my time at the Musain, this shithole in Davis Square,” he explained, as he filled the vase with water and arranged the flowers artfully. “My friends are very political. Well, I am too. I mean, not in an annoying way or anything. Just -- I care about politics is all,” he stammered, fetching two wine glasses out of another cabinet and placing them on the kitchen table. Why did this man render him so inarticulate?
“It’s good to be passionate about something,” Prouvaire said, pulling the cork out of the wine bottle with a small pop. He filled each glass to the brim with wine and picked them up, handing one to Courfeyrac. “To passion,” he said, touching his glass to Courfeyrac’s.
Courfeyrac took a long gulp of his wine, knowing the heady feeling he had was not completely wine-induced. “To passion,” he murmured.
After dinner out on the deck -- where they talked about politics and friendships and the best places for fried clams on the outer Cape -- Courfeyrac stood and leaned against the railing, gazing at the clear night sky. “You see so many more stars out here than you do in the city,” Courfeyrac remarked.
“The evening star, the star of love and rest!/And then anon she doth herself divest/Of all her radiant garments, and reclines/Behind the somber screen of yonder pines/With slumber and soft dreams of love oppressed,” Prouvaire recited, rising to stand next to Courfeyrac, their bodies so close they were practically touching -- but not quite.
“Voltaire again?” Courfeyrac asked, shivering as Prouvaire ran the back of his hand down Courfeyrac’s bare arm.
“Longfellow,” Prouvaire said delicately, leaning over and kissing Courfeyrac on the cheek. Before he could move away, Courfeyrac caught his chin in his hand, and kissed him gently, tasting the wine on his lips.
“Stay the night,” Courfeyrac murmured against his lips. “You can recite more poetry and I’ll make you breakfast tomorrow morning.”
Jehan kissed him gently, then pulled back to study his face. “Not yet,” he said, touching a finger to Courfeyrac’s mouth. “Not yet.”
And he smiled and departed without a word, leaving Courfeyrac completely breathless.
**
For the next week, Courfeyrac maintained his daily routine -- but it wasn’t quite the same as it was before.
In the mornings, he continued doing projects around the house, but as he worked he found himself idly recalling snippets of their conversation, which led to paint spillage and at least two whacks on the hand with a hammer.
In the afternoons, he would go to the beach, but instead of swimming, he would go for a walk along the tide line, always taking a route that passed by the Prouvaire house, craning his neck to see if he could spot him on the expansive deck.
And in the evenings after dinner, he often found himself lying in the hammock on the deck, reminiscing about their kiss and wondering if he would ever see Jehan again. A couple of times he went into town to get a drink and contemplate the selection of tanned and muscular young men who strutted up and down Commercial Street -- but he couldn’t bring himself to make a move.
None of them could hold a candle to Prouvaire.
He eventually texted Combeferre for advice -- even though Combeferre was not the most experienced of his friends when it came to relationships, he could always be relied on for a dose of reality. “Forget about him,” Combeferre texted back. “It will be August soon and you’ll be back here. Weed the garden and get on with your life.”
So Courfeyrac tried to do just that, channeling his frustrations into overzealous pruning with the garden shears and long icy sessions in the outdoor shower.
But Jehan had clearly taken up residence in his head.
**
When another heat wave came through -- even hotter than the first -- the old house got too stifling to sleep, so on an especially hot Friday night Courfeyrac wandered down to the tide line with a picnic blanket and a pillow, figuring the ocean breezes would cool him off and allow him a couple of hours of rest. He had just closed his eyes against the brightness of the full moon when he heard a familiar voice.
“May I join you?” Prouvaire asked, his voice at once familiar and foreign to Courfeyrac.
Courfeyrac sat up quickly, startled, his heart beating quickly. “Of course,” he blurted, patting the blanket beside him. His mind raced with all of the possible things he had wanted to say to him, the things he had rehearsed in his mind as he trimmed the rosebushes -- but ultimately he came up completely blank, staring at Prouvaire with his mouth slightly open.
“Sorry I’ve been so elusive,” Jehan said, tucking his legs underneath him. “Since I first met you I’ve been so inspired. I’ve written more poems than I’ve written in my life -- the words have just been pouring out of me, and I needed to get them on paper before they dripped away.”
“Inspired?” Courfeyrac asked, raising an eyebrow at him. “Inspired by what?” he asked, hoping he already knew the answer.
“Well, the water, and the sunsets, and the moon,” Jehan mused, his smile teasing. “The majesty of the dunes and the ephemeral nature of the sand. And perhaps a Greek god or two--”
Courfeyrac couldn’t stand it any more and interrupted his teasing with a determined kiss. As the kiss deepened, he pushed Jehan onto his back and covered his body with his own. “God, I’ve wanted to do this for days,” he exhaled when they came up for air. “I know I sound like a character in a bad romance novel, I know. I’m not usually like this, but--” he trailed off, as he buried his face in Jehan’s neck, inhaling his scent.
Jehan stroked Courfeyrac’s back. “I know, know,” he breathed.
“Come back to my house,” Courfeyrac said, bestowing kisses on Jehan’s face. “You can write poems about me all night and I’ll make you breakfast in the morning.”
Jehan kissed him long and hard, as if he was contemplating the offer -- then wiggled away. “Not yet,” he said, getting up from the blanket and walking away.
Courfeyrac lay back on the blanket, swearing under his breath.
This wasn’t going to be easy.
**
The heat wave broke with a series of wild thunderstorms, which ushered in a week’s worth of cool, cloudy days. The gloomy days echoed Courfeyrac’s mood -- he spent the next week moping around the house, not going to the beach or into town. He threw himself into cooking huge meals that he would eat while standing in front of the sink, and watching sappy romantic comedies on the ancient television in the corner. He started texting Combeferre at all hours of the day and night about matters both profound and mundane -- ignoring the fact that Combeferre’s responses were getting shorter and terser each time.
He was lying on the couch in his boxers on a Sunday afternoon, eating Ben and Jerry’s right out of the carton and watching Love Actually for the fourth time that week, when he was startled by the sound of his phone ringing. Courfeyrac dug around in the couch cushions and fished the phone out, peering at the screen to discover the identity of the caller.
It was Enjolras.
And Enjolras hated talking on the phone.
Courfeyrac sighed as he answered it. “What do you want, Enj?” Courfeyrac was the only one of their friends who dared to call him Enj.
“I want you to stop texting Combeferre,” Enjolras said. “We’re working on organizing a protest here and I need him to focus. Especially as you decided to take the summer off and disappear on us,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain.
“I’m working here,” Courfeyrac said indignantly. “There’s a lot that needs to be done here, you know,” he said, looking around at the increasingly squalid conditions in his living room and cringing slightly.
“Look, Combeferre told me exactly what’s going on -- some poet and something about how he won’t sleep with you,” Enjolras said bluntly. “So I need you to stop moping and get on with it. I put up with enough moping from Grantaire, God knows why. Go to that boy’s house and find him and leave Combeferre alone, okay?”
Courfeyrac groaned -- but he knew Enjolras was right, even if he didn’t want Enjolras to know he thought he was right. “Yes, sir,” he said mockingly. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“I mean it,” Enjolras said just before he abruptly terminated the call.
Courfeyrac tossed his phone on the couch, picked up the remote and turned off the television, and headed upstairs to the shower.
He had somewhere to be.
**
Courfeyrac approached the Prouvaire house with apprehension and a bouquet of roses. Jehan was a complete mystery to Courfeyrac, who was used to men succumbing to his charms so easily. Jehan would come on so strong, flirting like crazy, but then back off as soon as Courfeyrac proposed they take it further.
And for better or for worse, it was driving him crazy.
Courfeyrac knocked on the sliding glass door -- he could hear music playing faintly, so he assumed Prouvaire was in there somewhere. He knocked again, calling out, “Jehan?”
The man in question appeared at the door, wearing a ripped t-shirt and jeans. “Courf? What are you doing here?” he said, sliding the door open and joining him outside. He looked surprised to see him -- but not displeased.
“I wanted to see you -- I needed to see you. Jehan, I just--I can’t stop thinking about you. I keep replaying our conversations in my head and imagining your smile and thinking about when we kissed and--look, I know you’re probably not interested, but I haven’t been with any other men since I met you and I just--I want to be with you and I don’t know why you’re pushing me away,” he said, letting his inner monologue out.
Jehan looked down at his bare feet and shoved his hands in his pocket.. “And I want to be with you.”
“Then why do you keep pushing me away?” Courfeyrac said, his face as red as the roses he still held in his hand. “You come on so strong, and then you tell me “not yet’?” He knew he sounded petulant but he didn’t care. “I just don’t know how to handle it.”
“Oh Courf,” Jehan said. “I like you. I like you a lot. But after I met you I asked around about you, and they told me you were quite the player around town. And I just--I just fall in love so easily, and I’ve gotten hurt before so--I wanted to take it slow. That’s all.” He dug his toe under a loose plank on the deck. “I’m an idiot.”
Courfeyrac shook his head. “You’re not an idiot. You’re lovely. And brilliant. And sexy as hell. And you make me want to give up all other men -- which has never happened to me before.” He thrust the bouquet at Jehan roughly. “I’m sorry, Jehan, I made a mistake coming here,” he apologized, and turned to leave.
“Courf, wait!” Jehan said hastily, approaching Courfeyrac and kissing him langorously and intensely. Courfeyrac felt his knees buckle underneath him as Prouvaire ran his hands up under his shirt, leaving a trail of goosebumps as he did.
When they finally broke apart, Courfeyrac stared at Prouvaire, his mouth open as he tried to catch his breath. “I should--I should go home,” he stammered, feeling light headed and staggering slightly.
“Not yet,” Prouvaire murmured with a small chuckle, pulling him into the house by the collar of his shirt. “Definitely not yet.”