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Courfeyrac peered around his and Jehan’s bedroom door, where Jehan was still curled up in bed. The poet was awake, he knew; when he’d woken up and gotten out of bed to shower and start breakfast, Jehan had roused with him, as he always did. Jehan was not an early riser (though, neither was Courfeyrac) but he was a light sleeper. His grey-blue eyes were open, but dull, staring at the wall opposite, but also staring through and beyond it.
Courfeyrac carefully ventured further into the room, sitting at the end of the bed, near where the blanket-bundle that was Jehan ended.
“Darling?” He prompted, gently, quietly. Jehan sighed a little but didn’t turn to him. Courfeyrac shuffled further up the bed and placed a hand on Jehan’s hip, leaning over him slightly to try and catch his eye. “Jehan? What’s the matter, love?”
Jehan rolled over slightly, turning his head to look at Courfeyrac. He looked tired, his eyes seeming to shine a little, as if with gathering tears. Courfeyrac carefully brushed a stray lock of honey-blonde hair from his face.
“I don’t feel right.” Jehan murmured, barely a whisper. Courfeyrac frowned in concern, pressing the back of his hand to Jehan’s forehead.
“Are you sick?” He asked. Jehan brushed his hand away and turned back onto his side.
“I just feel... wrong.” Jehan’s voice was soft and thick, and he pulled the covers tighter around himself. Courfeyrac continued to play with his hair, gently scratching circles into his scalp and sifting the hair between his fingers.
“Is there anything I can do?” He offered.
“It’s not something you can make better.” Jehan said. Something in Courfeyrac’s chest tightened, and he found himself desperately wanting to try anyway, to try and prove Jehan’s words wrong, to do anything to bring even the tiniest smile to Jehan’s face; but he knew that it wouldn’t help. He recalled words he’d heard from Grantaire before, words the drunken artist had slurred to him on a dark night or hissed angrily at Enjolras, when they had thought Combeferre and Courfeyrac were asleep and they were failing at arguing quietly. The association of the source and reason for this knowledge to Jehan made Courfeyrac uncomfortable.
“I’ve made pancakes for breakfast, if you want them.” He said instead.
“I don’t want to get out of bed.” The quiet monotone of Jehan’s voice wasn’t helping Courfeyrac’s discomfort.
“I’ll bring them to you then.” Courfeyrac murmured, bending to drop a kiss at Jehan’s temple. “Breakfast in bed; a little treat for my little love.”
Courfeyrac tried a smile, hoping the affectionate nickname would at least give Jehan a little comfort or happiness. Jehan made a little noise that sounded more like a choked whimper than a hint of a laugh, and Courfeyrac left the room to bring the pancakes through.
Courfeyrac ate his pancakes in silence, sitting beside Jehan. Jehan picked half-heartedly at his, eating only a little before he murmured that he was tired, and rolling over to curl up and sleep. Courfeyrac couldn’t even bring himself to eat the rest of Jehan’s breakfast, instead simply stacking the plate on top of his and placing them on the bedside table. For a while he curled up against Jehan’s back, propped up on one elbow to study Jehan’s face, as one hand trailed slightly over his body, tracing idle patterns onto his arm and side and hip, carefully brushing hair from his face and following the line of his jaw and cheekbone. Eventually he picked himself up, careful to avoid disturbing Jehan, and padded through to the living room.
~~::.::~~
It was the first time he’d ever experienced Jehan’s depression first-hand. The next day Jehan forced himself out of bed, but didn’t dress, didn’t shower, barely ate. In the evening he curled on Courfeyrac’s lap and sobbed, the sound tearing from his throat, his whole body shaking so much Courfeyrac was worried he’d literally shake to pieces, and so clung to him tightly, trying to keep him together. Jehan didn’t offer any words or explanation; he just cried. Courfeyrac cried with him, because he was so, so scared, and nothing hurt him more than to see Jehan hurting and being unable to help him at all.
The morning after he almost cried again when he saw the marks peeking out of Jehan’s long sleeves.
It was another day until Jehan emerged from the bathroom, hair falling loose and damp down his back, a clean shirt and leggings replacing his pyjamas, a weak smile of greeting in Courfeyrac’s direction.
“I’m sorry.” He said, voice soft and tired. Courfeyrac lurched forward to hug him.
“Don’t apologise.” He murmured. Jehan teared up and cried quietly into his chest, not the same heart-wrenching sobs of before, just soft tears of emotion. Courfeyrac rocked them gently, stroking Jehan’s back and murmuring a gentle, soothing mantra, “It’s alright, it’s okay, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.”
“Thank you.” Jehan whispered eventually, rubbing the tears from his eyes. Courfeyrac cupped his face, brushing away the tear tracks with his thumb.
“I will always be here if you need me. I will always help if I can. Please, tell me if I can help.”
“I will.” Jehan nodded. Courfeyrac kissed him gently and pulled him into another tight embrace.
“I love you.” He whispered against the shell of Jehan’s ear.
“I love you too.” Jehan replied.