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His first thought upon waking was that he had not fallen asleep alone, and yet alone he was. His second and third were that he was cold, and that there was an ache deep within him he had not experienced before, drawing a hot blush to his cheeks even as his arms and back broke out in goosebumps.
Courfeyrac turned and sat up, scrubbing his hand through his hair and over his face. The bed was cool, enough that he knew he hadn't been left alone for long, and the scent of fresh coffee floated through the closed door, pulling him further into wakefulness. It was far too early for a Sunday morning, he could tell by the bright, yellow light filtering beneath the door from the living room, and yet he was awake now, and the temptation of coffee was too strong. Stifling a yawn, he swung his legs from the bed.
And immediately tangled them in a pair of bright yellow jeans. He groaned as he stumbled his way out of them, shivering as his naked body was exposed to the cool air of his room.
"One night and he's already trying to murder me," he muttered under his breath, cursing the poet whose clothes seemed to be scattered all over his bedroom floor. They were bright and unmatching and there were a ridiculous number of layers. Courfeyrac could see at least half a dozen bits that weren't his. Which did beg the question - what exactly was Jehan wearing?
He pulled on soft blue pyjama bottoms and a tatty old white top, now able to hear the low murmur of voices in the other room. For a wild moment, he thought Jehan was out in the living room without any clothes whatsoever, making small talk with Enjolras and Combeferre, which he could only hope was untrue.
He burst out of his room, jealousy (hopefully unfounded) gripping him. It was dispelled almost immediately as his eyes landed on Jehan sat on the floor of the living room, wrapped in his white blanket.
So that was why he was cold. And it was large enough to cover him completely, just his head and arms visible.
Jehan’s fingers were wrapped around a chipped mug - Courfeyrac's own favourite with a cartoon slug, a salt shaker, and the words ‘help, I’m being a-salt-ed’, a present from Bahorel last Christmas - steam still rising around his face. Those long, intelligent fingers had drawn noises from him he hadn't even known possible until last night. His hair, so delicately plaited and braided the night before, was dragged up into a large, messy bun, not unlike the one he knew Enjolras favoured, odd, straggling locks of hair falling over his face and neck. Courfeyrac vividly remembered trailing his fingers gently through and loosening his hair until it fell around his shoulders, and gripping it when his hands didn't know where else to land. Pulled up, it revealed a soft, purple bruise on the side of his neck, standing proud against pale skin and light freckles scattered down to his shoulder. Courfeyrac distinctly remembered making that bruise as Jehan pushed inside him, a desperate attempt to remain quiet after remembering Enjolras was only in the next room. He sat on the wooden floor in the light coming in from the window, cross legged, back curved forward as he turned to look at Courfeyrac. It cast him as a silhouette, skin glowing and hair shining, his face cast in soft shadow.
The smile on his face turned from one of amusement, a vestige of the conversation he'd been having not moments before with Enjolras, to one of fond affection, and it turned the small knot of 'maybe' in Courfeyrac’s chest into a big tangle of 'yes definitely please'. Last night, a relationship with Jehan had only been a passing thought every now and then, little glimpses in his imagination of what they might be able to be together. Now, he was certain that he wanted this morning after morning, for as long as he could hold onto it.
"Morning," said Jehan, pushing easily to his feet and walking to him. The smile was still on his face, and it was blinding Courfeyrac.
"Morning. You're naked," he pointed out, still dazzled. Jehan only laughed, tip toeing to press a soft kiss to his cheek. Courfeyrac, therefore, took the opportunity to slide his hands under the blanket, coming into contact with warm, soft skin, and drawing a gasp from the other.
“Cold hands,” he whispered against his jaw, blinking innocently up at him even as Courfeyrac’s hands found his hips, thumbs pressing into the crook of his thigh, where he was warmest. It was only the clearing throat behind him that stopped his progress. After all, that look, wide eyes and curved lips, was the exact one on Jehan’s face when he had held Courfeyrac down and slid inside him, both sweet and mischievous and now delightfully suggestive. Still, he withdrew his hands, holding them up in mock surrender as he looked over Jehan’s shoulder to where Enjolras was sat, as he was every morning, with an enormous mug of coffee and no less than three different newspapers spread around him.
“It’s PG, honest,” Courfeyrac retorted, returning Jehan’s kiss on the cheek. Enjolras sighed, but it was good natured. Such events were not rare in their front room, Courfeyrac and his last night’s companion, though his graciousness had waned over the months. Never had Courfeyrac emerged with a known friend of theirs, though, and it seemed Enjolras was more inclined to remain friendly.
“Coffee is in the pot,” Enjolras told him, gesturing towards the kitchen with his mug and somehow managing not to spill it. “Jehan made it.” The aforementioned stepped back, pushing him towards the kitchen.
“I’ll go get dressed,” he said, and in a flurry of white, woven blanket, disappeared into Courfeyrac’s bedroom.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Courfeyrac said, filling his mug. “I don’t need to see you to know there are disapproving eyes. No disapproval needed.” He sat, yawning widely, and took a long sip. And immediately spat it back into the mug. Enjolras huffed a smug laugh.
“What you get up to sexually is none of my business. There are no disapproving eyes here.” A rule which had to be established early on. Courfeyrac loved Enjolras dearly, he truly did, but while he was never judgemental, he was awful at hiding his opinions. “But he is a good friend of ours. And-”
“Jehan has more casual partners than anyone else. I’m sure I’m… no different,” he finished after a pause. The thought of being a casual partner, while it had been fine the night before, now seemed far less attractive. Already, he wanted to come out of the bedroom and see Jehan sat in the sunny patch again, or to wake up and find him still in the bed with him. He wanted to pull the hair out the night before, and thread it back together the next morning. For him, he’d learn how to braid it. He wanted to teach him how to not burn the coffee.
It must have shown in his face, for there was a knowing look on Enjolras’, and he placed his hand on Courfeyrac’s shoulder as he passed him on the way to the kitchen.
“Just make sure you communicate.”
“Communicate? What about?” he said with a humourless laugh. And when he looked up, there was a disapproving look on his face. “For someone who never dates, you’re rather astute.”
“You like him. He hadn’t stopped smiling or talking about you until you came out. You looked at him when you came out of your room like you were seeing the sun for the first time.” Courfeyrac turned to look at him, surprised. “And I’ve never seen you look so pensive or thoughtful than I did just a moment ago. You need to speak to him. This might not just be a one night stand, Courfeyrac.”
For a long moment, Courfeyrac was quiet, mulling over what Enjolras had said. His friend was almost always blunt, but he never tended to get involved in matters of the heart, not even when it was his best friends involved. He nodded to himself, coming to a silent resolution, and he saw a smile flit over Enjolras’ face. “So speaking of communication, where is Combeferre? He’s usually up before either of us.”
“He went out. New exhibit to set up at the museum.” Enjolras leant back against the side, arms folded across his chest.
“On a Sunday? Blasphemy! He works too hard. Only the other day, he was talking about the late nights he was spending there.” A hand stroked through his hair, and Courfeyrac turned to see Jehan stood beside him, dressed, lips in a soft almost-smile. “Hey.” He hadn’t even heard his own bedroom door open and close.
“I’m off out,” announced Enjolras, quickly excusing himself, smiling pleasantly at Jehan and glaring pointedly at Courfeyrac. “Have a nice day, Prouvaire.”
Jehan took up the sunny spot on the floor again as the front door closed with a quiet click, even though all of the sofas and chairs were free, and Courfeyrac felt a lump settle in his chest. It was a flutter of nerves, he realised. This wasn’t a conversation he had ever had after a night together with someone, and that someone was too important to him as a friend to want to risk fucking things up. He didn’t want to bring up feelings and make things awkward with Jehan, a person he knew was very rarely inclined to feel romantically towards someone.
“Do you want to get breakfast?” Jehan asked, before Courfeyrac could even psych himself up enough to admit how he felt. “As a date. We’re good friends, but I’d like to see if we could be something more. I really enjoyed last night…” Courfeyra’cs surprise must have shown on his face, for the other frowned and trailed off. That deer in the headlights was something he never wanted to see on his face again. “What is it?”
“No, breakfast would be… perfect,” he said, smiling widely, and he felt a hopeful swell in his stomach. It wasn’t a one night thing. “I’ll get dressed.”
“I’ll help.” Jehan was instantly back on his feet, holding out a hand to pull Courfeyrac up, the confident smile back on his face.
“Help?” he asked, lifting an eyebrow at him, questioning.
“Eventually.” Jehan bit his lip. They missed breakfast, but they did made it to lunch.