Chapter Text
They weren’t living together. Both were insistent on that point.
Jehan liked having space. He enjoyed being alone at times, surrounded only by books and plants, a notebook in his lap turned to a fresh page, one of his favorite pens held loose between his fingers. His apartment was his sanctuary.
So he wasn’t living with Courfeyrac.
Nevermind that a fine layer of dust seemed to cover those books. Nevermind that some of his plants seemed a bit neglected (especially nevermind the fact that some of the ones he liked best had somehow found their way into bright corners at Courf’s apartment). Nevermind that one of his favorite places to write had become Courf’s couch while he was at work.
And Courfeyrac, for his part, enjoyed his independence, the last remnants of his bachelor days. He could go out when he wanted, come back when he wanted. He could drink his coffee black and drink milk straight out of the carton and walk around naked because it was his apartment, and his alone.
Because Jehan wasn’t living with him.
They ignored the fact that Jehan spent every night in Courfeyrac’s bed. They ignored the fact that when Courf got up in the morning, when he managed to disentangle himself from Jehan’s koala-like grip, he made coffee the way Jehan liked it and automatically poured two cups. They ignored the fact that all of their friends eventually just assumed that Jehan would be at Courfeyrac’s, that Courfeyrac, more and more frequently, traded nights on the town for night’s in, curled on the couch with Jehan as they watched some shitty movie or TV show together, Jehan’s head resting against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, Courfeyrac playing absentmindedly with Jehan’s braid.
They weren’t living together. They weren’t.
But then one day Courfeyrac casually handed Jehan a key. Just in case, he said, still casual. You never know when you might need it.
And then one day Jehan casually asked if he could bring some of his books over. Save him the journey back to his place when he needed a specific book, after all.
Space is made on the bookshelves. Space is made in the drawers and closets, on the shelf in the shower.
And one day Jehan goes to see his landlord, to hand in his last rent check.
Jehan can write in the library, or in a coffeeshop, or down in the park. Courf can walk around naked so long as Jehan can leer suggestively at him and tell him that they need more milk.
And then one night at the Musain, Jehan slips his hand in Courf’s and says Let’s go back to ours.
So maybe they’re living together after all.