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He feels restless.
Something in his chest is tight, and he feels like he’s fighting the urge to fall into hyperventilation.
He wonders briefly if it’d be easier to just let himself breathe too fast, too shallowly, until he faints.
His chest hurts, and there’s a lingering feeling in his throat, as if he’s about to cry.
He doesn’t have the energy to cry.
Courfeyrac has Bahorel and Grantaire over and they’re playing videogames, shouting at each other and either crowing in victory or groaning in defeat. They’re laughing, shoving each other and playing dirty, slapping the controllers out of the others’ hands or leaning over to block their view of the screen.
He can’t cry in front of them. He stretches his lips in a smile and kicks Courfeyrac to make him behave when Bahorel complains to him like a child.
Grantaire has bandages up both his forearms underneath his hoodie, but everyone is resolutely ignoring them. Jehan’s eyes are drawn to them. They all know what is hiding underneath them.
Jehan’s own hoodie sleeves are hiding red biro lines. It’s his and Courfeyrac’s next attempt at ‘helping him’.
He really wonders how much it ‘helps’, sometimes. The longer he bottles it up, the worse it is when it finally bursts. Sometimes, times like now, when his mind is heavy and his limbs are restless, he wishes he could just continue on, go back to when he hurt himself and didn’t care, didn’t feel guilty, didn’t feel ashamed. Tearing his skin apart with his nails, once, twice, when he needed it, a week or so hiding the scab, a few months until the scar faded enough that it was invisible to eyes that didn’t know and weren’t searching.
“Jehan?”
Courfeyrac’s voice pulls him from his thoughts, where he’s been idly tracing a biro line with his fingernails. There’s a glint of concern in Courfeyrac’s eyes. Bahorel and Grantaire are playing still, but he can practically feel the way they’re listening for a tremor in his voice, the way Grantaire must be watching from the corner of his eye.
“Mhmm?” He hums, a small smile flitting across his lips, easily pulling the sleeve of his hoodie down again.
The red lines make Courfeyrac uncomfortable. He knows this. They’re too similar to lines of blood.
Courfeyrac relaxes a little at the smile, and Jehan is both pleased and guilty that he can hide himself.
“Wanna come and help me make sandwiches for these mooching butts?” He asks, smiling.
“You’re a butt.” Bahorel says, flipping him off without turning away from the TV. Courfeyrac laughs.
“I’m not a butt. I do have a great butt though, right, Jehan?” Courfeyrac says as Jehan heaves himself up from the couch. In answer, Jehan smacks his arse as he walks past, shaking his head. He hears Bahorel whistle, and then shout out as Courfeyrac presumably knocks the controller from his hands and Grantaire overtakes and wins. Courfeyrac comes into the kitchen, cackling, and wraps his arms around Jehan’s waist. He presses a gentle kiss to the side of his neck and rests his chin on Jehan’s shoulder.
“Are you alright, love?” He asks softly. Jehan sighs and turns to smile at him.
“I’ll be fine.” He says. It’s not ‘I’m okay’ but it’s not ‘I’m not okay’ either. Courfeyrac squeezes him around the middle and leans forward to kiss him slowly, lovingly. Something in Jehan’s chest swells and melts, filling him with warmth. Something else cracks and breaks and shrinks away.
Jehan kisses back and doesn’t try to hold onto Courfeyrac as he pulls away to make toasted cheese-and-ham sandwiches for their friends.
“Do you want one?” Courfeyrac asks. Jehan shakes his head.
“I’ll be fine for now.” He says. Courfeyrac frowns a little, but doesn’t try to press him into eating. He makes coffee and tea and asks Jehan to bring the four mugs through as he takes in the plates of toasties. Jehan nods.
He considers what would happen if he were to spill the steaming drinks over his hands.
He sets the coffee down on the coffee table Grantaire and Bahorel are sat in front of, the tea closer to where he sits on the couch. Courfeyrac moves to join him, lounging across the length of it and gesturing for Jehan to sit between his legs and lean back onto his chest. He wraps one arm around Jehan’s chest, and Jehan curls his hands around his forearm.
He lets himself doze to the friendly chatter and the hand rubbing soothing circles into his shoulder. He’s tired and there’s a lingering ache in his chest and an itch in his wrist, but there’s warmth against his back and a more comforting weight on him than the one that wraps itself around his brain and drags it down.
For now the company forces him to keep afloat.
Take deep breaths, and stay afloat.