Archive of Our Own

You said Tell me about your books, your visions made
of flesh and light and I said This is the Moon. This is
the Sun.

jehan is a flower.

he’s the flowers in his hair and on his jeans and on his shirts. he’s the roses he scribbles in the margins of his notebooks, the daisies he braids to crown enjolras with, the violet he offered to musichetta the night they met. he’s in the trail of flowers inked along his spine and the ones he tends to on his windowsill. and like every flower, he blooms when showered with sunlight.

there’s a knock on the door and jehan is tripping over his own feet as he runs to open. he’s still got two fingers hooked in his hairband, so he snaps it around the end of his braid before placing a hand on the doormat and steeling himself. well, at least he tries to, breathing uneven and cheeks flushed, steadying himself with a hand on the doorknob. there’s another knock, and jehan kind of wishes he could disappear. but instead, he takes a deep breath, and swings the door open.

and there, standing on his doorstep, is courfeyrac, all bright smile and dark curls and fuck, that boy is too gorgeous for words, even jehan’s. it’s still a wonder to the poet, how courfeyrac seems to take everyday like a new challenge, like the world is his to discover and eventually possess, like there’s something in the air that says, “come. come, and take it all”. it’s a wonder to jehan, because courfeyrac doesn’t even seem to realize it. he just lives, and it’s so rare to find someone so utterly alive, and unapologetic. even enjolras doesn’t compare.  

and it just adds to the list of reasons why jehan can hear his blood rushing, and his heart pounding. because courfeyrac, this wonder of the world, is standing on his doorstep, smiling, and about to take him out on a date.

they’ve been friends for as long as they’ve known each other, since the day they met in their first year at university. courfeyrac was a burning star, jehan was a burgeoning rose, and somehow they’d found each other tangled in enjolras’ little group, after a particularly agitated class.

that was one thing that enjolras was particularly grateful for, even if he’ll never say it. having courfeyrac by his side always brought more and more people to the weekly meetings he organized at the musain, because no one could resist him.

that’s the thing about courfeyrac. people are naturally drawn to him, like his smile is magnetic, like his arms are wide enough for all of these people that gravitate around him to fit in. everyone loves courfeyrac, whether they like it or not. and jehan is no exception to that.

he’s spent days, weeks, months writing about courfeyrac, composing sonnets about his eyes and his smile and the way his hair moves in the wind, imagining what it would be like to hold his hand and cuddle up to him while watching reruns of ‘friends’ in the winter, how it would feel to wake up curled up in his arms. he’s seen courfeyrac with a lot of people, always flirting and trading kisses that don’t mean much, and he’s always been afraid of falling into that category. he wants courfeyrac to kiss him, alright, but like he means it. like he’s never meant anything that much before. jehan dreams of romance. and for a long while, he’s not sure courfeyrac even understands that word.

so he keeps his infatuation to himself, until one day combeferre picks up his notebook, flips through it, throws it at jehan’s face, and says “this is getting out of hand”.

it’s a summer’s day and being alone with courfeyrac only makes it brighter. usually, they’re with the gang, dreaming up worlds and shouting out words, and courfeyrac always outshines enjolras in jehan’s eyes. today, he outshines even the sun. but even the warm july air doesn’t stop the shiver going down his spine as courfeyrac holds the building door for him as they step outside, the streets of paris overcrowded and alive, as usual, but as they walk side by side they’re alone in jehan’s world.

there are a few things jehan prouvaire likes more than poetry. grantaire’s paint-stained fingers, cosette’s vanilla scented shampoo, and bahorel’s raw knuckles. but there’s not much he loves more than love, and there’s definitely nothing he loves more than courfeyrac. so when the latter shoots him one of these smiles, like spells, that make him go weak in the knees, takes him by the elbow and drags him into a narrow side street, it takes jehan all of his might not to grab his hand instead.

the memory of how it happened replays in his head as they make their way through crowds of tourists, and he tries his best to control the grin creeping up on his face. they’d been hanging around in the café after a particularly heated meeting, that had ended up with enjolras barricading himself with his books while grantaire and bahorel threw straw wrappers at him. courfeyrac and jehan were playing an animated game of shi-fu-mi, and jehan could feel combeferre’s eyes burning through his back. that’s when he’d looked up, and held courfeyrac’s hand where it had ended up trapped in his after he’d won for the third time in a row. courfeyrac smiled, didn’t move his hand, and shuffled closer.

“are you doing anything this saturday afternoon?”

it’s always like that with courfeyrac. blunt and unexpected, and you can never say no. not that jehan wanted to.

the café that they end up in is tiny and smells of violet. there are battered armchairs around hardwood tables, jacques brel is playing faintly in the background, and jehan feels as if he’s just stepped in another dimension. he wouldn’t be surprised if it were the case. with courfeyrac, you never know.

but as strange as the place looks, there’s also something quite familiar. maybe it’s the scent of violet that lingers in the air like it does sometimes in jehan’s apartment, or maybe it’s courfeyrac’s hand on his shoulder. he looks down to hide the blush on his cheeks, and blushes harder at the words written in chalk on the wooden floor.

‘i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees’

at that, jehan’s heart jumps in his throat, and he topples over, faceplanting on the inscription.

they’re sitting opposite each other at one of the tables, and jehan is playing with the end of his braid, purposely avoiding courfeyrac’s piercing gaze. his eyes fix themselves on the smudged inscription on the floorboards, courfeyrac’s looping handwriting imprinting itself behind jehan’s eyelids. the silence is uncomfortable, almost palpable, and jehan kind of wishes he could shrink and slip through a crack on the floor. instead, he detaches himself from the words he still can’t believe are written there, and takes a sip of his tea. it burns his tongue, in a good way, that makes him look up and suck in a deep breath before he tries to hold courfeyrac’s stare. the other man doesn’t look nearly as embarrassed, smiling sweetly at jehan over his coffee, and fuck, this isn’t going nearly as bad as jehan had expected it to go, and therefore he has no idea what to do.

then, courfeyrac does something that utterly destroys all of jehan’s attempts at staying calm and collected. he sets his cup on the table, leans over, and brushes his thumb over the tip of jehan’s nose. the poet feels himself turning bright red, and shakes his head in an attempt to hide his face with his hair, that only results with a loose strand getting caught in his mouth and he almost chokes. it takes another sip of tea and fighting a strong urge to bang his head against the table before he finally blurts out, “why’d you do that?”

“you had a bit of chalk left on your nose.”, courfeyrac says, and resumes sipping at his coffee like the most important event of jehan’s love life hadn’t just happened.

“do you mean it?”, jehan says, and his heart is beating so fast he thinks it might make a run for it and break out of his ribcage. but the moment is right there, and if he doesn’t take it, he knows he’ll regret it.

courfeyrac stays silent for a while, and when he opens his mouth and replies, jehan thinks he might start crying.

“everyday you play with the light of the universe.” he says with a smile, and then, “i’ve never meant anything as much as i mean this.”

“you... want me.” jehan breathes, still unsure of what’s actually happening.

“i do, i do.” the reply comes, like a promise.

“i don’t...” i don’t believe you, jehan wants to say, but one look at courfeyrac’s eyes tells him that it’s the truth, and jehan knows these eyes better than anyone else. “why me?” yes, that’s the real question. “you could have.. anyone in the world. literally anyone. i’ve seen them all. the boys, the girls, they’re all so beautiful. they shine. like you. and i’m... well. i’m me.”

the words come out before he can stop himself. and it’s not that jehan thinks lowly of himself. he’s pretty comfortable in his own skin, and people often tell him that he’s pretty, but.. he’s nothing like the people he’s seen courfeyrac flirt with, dance with, take home. they’re everything that jehan’s not. he’s shy and kind of awkward and loves flowers and words, he leaves poems on napkins and always has a song on his lips. they’re sexy and confident and don’t need words when they have these ways around people. they shine, he merely glows.

the sound of a chair shifting and the warmth of courfeyrac’s hand on his make him snap out of his thoughts, and he’s met with these eyes he knows oh so well, except he’s never seen them like that before. the sun is chiming in through the big windows up front and forming a halo around courfeyrac’s brown curls, and this time jehan does start crying.

“that’s exactly it.”

Let me name the stars for you. Let me take you
there. The splash of my tongue melting you like a sugar
cube… We were in the gold room where everyone
finally gets what they want, so I said What do you
want, sweetheart? and you said Kiss me.