Work Text:
Courfeyrac is paying attention. He is. Or, well, was. He’s only human. Jehan, for reasons best known to himself, had insisted on drinking Courfeyrac’s coffee that morning instead of his usual tea, and as a result is somewhat- animated. He spent the first twenty minutes of the meeting writing on a napkin, random phrases barely legible in his elaborate, clustered handwriting. When he ran out of space, he folded the napkin into a rose, which he slipped into Courfeyrac’s hand under the table. And now…
Well, now his hand is on Courfeyrac’s thigh.
Courfeyrac takes in a deep breath. Jehan’s fingers are long and slender, his nails bitten, with traces of pearly nail varnish in very pale pink. There are a few freckles on the back of his hand, a tiny cluster around his wristbone. He tries to focus on these things, and not the things he knows those fingers can do.
Jehan’s thumb is moving back and forth just above the seam of his jeans. It’s the tiniest movement, and yet he doesn’t think he’s imagining the way his jeans feel just a little tighter.
‘Jehan…’ he whispers. Enjolras and Combeferre are deep in discussion, hunched over Combeferre’s laptop with their heads almost knocking together, but Combeferre’s hearing can be eerily good, usually at the worst possible time.
‘Mmm?’ Jehan’s eyes are wide and innocent, but the corner of his mouth is twitching. ‘I’m paying attention. Are you? You should really pay attention, Courf.’
Jehan stretches and shifts. His hand just happens to slide an extra few inches up Courfeyrac’s thigh. Courfeyrac takes several more deep, calming breaths. Bahorel glances back at them over his shoulder from his armchair. His gaze flicks to Courfeyrac’s lap and he smirks.
‘I am never letting you drink coffee again’, Courfeyrac hisses. ‘Also, I hate you.’
The look Jehan gives him is deeply wounded. ‘You hate me?’ He slides closer, resting his head against the back of the sofa, inches from Courfeyrac’s ear. His voice is barely more than a breath. ‘Then I guess you wouldn’t be interested in pinning me down and fucking me when we get home.’
‘Oh god’, Courfeyrac moans, before he can stop himself. Sure enough, Combeferre turns round and gives him a Look. He can practically feel Jehan’s smirk. In one lightning-fast moment, Jehan’s teeth scrape his earlobe, and then he’s sitting cross-legged at a respectable distance, chewing the hangnail of his thumb and paying rapt attention to Combeferre.
Courfeyrac curses whoever invented skinny jeans.