Chapter Text
Jehan is just shy of seventeen when Olivier, his boyfriend of six months, breaks up with him.
It was about time, too.
Which isn’t to say that Jehan isn’t a little sad and a little heart-broken, because he is, but he recently discovered what his friends had suspected for months: Olivier is a lying douchebag. All those times Olivier had bailed on him, citing excuses of sick relatives or an overload of homework? Yeah, it was all bullshit. He lied to get out of things he thought were boring or stupid—like going to The Bowery Poetry Club together or even attending Jehan’s music recital—and he lied to get Jehan to feel bad whenever he legitimately couldn’t do something Olivier wanted him to. He knows now that almost everything Olivier ever told him was a lie and all of those lies were designed to turn Jehan into an obsequious little fuck-toy, because that’s all Olivier really wanted in the end.
And what hurts the most isn’t necessarily the idea that the relationship is over (because it wasn't that good of a relationship, and Olivier wasn't nearly as good at sex as he thought he was), but the fact that Jehan didn’t get to dump him and didn’t get the chance to list off his grievances before kicking him to the curb.
But he still has his friends. Friends so close that they’re practically brothers—a practically made more practical by the fact that they all lived on the same street and at one point or another Jehan has spent more time at their houses than he has at his own. And once word got to them that Olivier had tried to rip his heart out of his chest (word got out, naturally, through Courfeyrac, who is usually Jehan’s go-to man in matters of the heart), all three of them had rallied around him and were doing their best to keep his mind off things.
Over the weeks since the break-up, even Enjolras, whose tolerance for matters of the heart is low even at the best of times, is doing his best to help.
Although, his definition of helping is dragging Jehan to protests and rallies and getting him involved in local political matters that Jehan didn’t even know existed before Enjolras explained them to him.
Jehan appreciates his efforts, even if the last protest almost turned violent.
Combeferre is always good to have around in a crisis, of course. Calm and steady and level-headed and not without a large dose of sympathy. But sometimes Jeahn doesn’t want calm reassurances that no, this isn’t his fault and he’s better off without Olivier anyway. And sometimes, when Jehan mentions something that Olivier did that still stings particularly bad, Combeferre gets that terrifying look in his eyes like he can’t think of a punishment bad enough for anyone who deliberately hurt one of his friends, and frankly, Jehan’s a little terrified of that look.
Jehan’s biggest boon in this whole matter is Courf, who has been with so many girls that he knows the perfect way to handle heartbreak (even if he is more of the heartbreaker than the heartbeakee). After school, they usually head about to Jehan’s home—mostly because Jehan is an only child and they don’t have to worry about little siblings bugging them—and they’ll sit around and talk and joke and plot revenge while they (attempt to) do homework.
More often than not, the homework doesn’t get done until the late hours of the night.
Today they’re sitting in the entertainment room in the basement, because here they can close the door and have real privacy. His parents started a “No boys allowed in your bedroom behind closed doors” policy when he was dating Olivier (because they, like everyone else Jehan knew, seemed to see the darker side of Olivier that Jehan missed completely). The rule hadn’t stopped Jehan and Olivier from fooling around, of course, it only meant that they couldn’t fool around here. And besides, there was the basement loophole, which Jehan hasn’t mentioned to his parents (nor does he have any intention of mentioning it to his parents), because the rule only covers his bedroom and conveniently forgets the fact that it would be just as easy to have sex in the basement as it would in a bed.
Not that he’s having sex with Courfeyrac.
And it’s not like Courf has ever thought about having sex with Jehan, because of course he hasn’t and Jehan likes to pretend that he’s never thought about having sex with Courf either, even though it’s a big fat lie.
Courfeyrac is sitting on the floor with an open physics book in front of him, but Jehan knows he’s not actually studying because he’s carrying on about his latest conquest at school.
Not that Courfeyrac thinks of the girls that he flirts with, kisses, and has sex with as conquests. He’s not out to rule them or dominate them—his goal is to love them. And he does. Thoroughly. But Courf’s not the sort of guy whose attention can be held long by just one girl, and he carries with him a string of hearts he doesn’t realize he’s broken.
Jehan is only half-paying attention to Courf’s speech about the virtues of the latest girl. Normally he tries to pay attention because he knows he’s subjected Courf to enough talk of his crushes and his boyfriends over the years that it’s only fair to return the favor. But he can’t focus. He can’t.
At least not on Courfeyrac’s words, because there are plenty of other things about Courfeyrac that Jehan can’t seem to get off his mind. Like the way his v-neck t-shirt matches his eyes perfectly. The exact same shade of brown (brown is to boring of a word it’s more like cinnamon and chocolate), like the shirt was made to be worn by him. And the way Courfeyrac talks with his hands? Mesmerizing, as though he’s painting out a scene with his hands as he speaks. What his hands say is just as important as the words that come out of his mouth.
And his mouth. It’s perfect. It’s sinfully perfect, with his bottom lip just a shade smaller than the top. But they’re the perfect shape, really. And when he smiles, which he does pretty much all the time, his whole face lights up, but Jehan still can’t look away from his mouth. And he still can’t focus on anything except that he really wishes Courf would just shut up and start kissing him already because a mouth that perfect will give perfect kisses and—
Stop it. Just stop it.
It’s just the rebound talking, he thinks. He tugs at the end of braid and stares down at the text book in his lap. Courf is his best friend. But there’s nothing between them, not romantically anyway. Besides, Jehan knows that while Courf is attracted to boys—still no word on whether Courf has admitted that to himself yet or if he still pines after boys from afar—there’s little chance that Courf will ever act on that attraction because his family’s pretty conservative.
And even if he does act on it, Jehan knows that Courf’s bisexuality will probably just be a phase in his life, because it’s far easier to be straight than it is to be gay, and while the sex might be better with men (in Jehan’s opinion, at least) the family drama will be much easier with a girl.
So staring at Courf’s lips and wondering what they taste like and what it would feel like to have Courf’s hands under his shirt is pointless. It just is. It doesn’t matter that all the girls Courferyrac’s been with consider him to be a perfect lover, it’s not something Jehan will ever have or ever know. So he might as well just forget about it.
Or maybe write a couple of poems that he’ll never show anyone and then forget about it.
Henri Courfeyrac is not for him.
He’ll get over it. He’ll adjust to it. It’s not like this is the first time he’s had a crush on one of his friends. He spent a full month when he was fourteen crushing on Enjolras because he’s just so damn attractive and it was completely ridiculous, because it’s not like Enjolras is attracted—romantically or sexually—to anyone at all. Besides, this is probably just the rebound talking anyway.
That’s it. Just the rebound. Courf is a safe option to love. He’s someone that Jehan can love from afar, as he’s done for various crushes over the years. He knows that Courf cares for him, that Courf would do anything for him (he’s already offered to key Olivier’s car for him), and right now his heart needs that loyalty and that compassion and that honesty. He’s heart-sore because Olivier was a lying piece of crap, but Courf has never lied to him, and that’s what Jehan needs right now. So Jehan can quietly, secretly, silently leave his heart with Courf for a while—never telling Courf that he has it, of course—and then take it back when it’s healed up a bit and he’s ready to start dating again.
Yes. The perfect plan. Courf doesn’t even have to know.
He hears Courf mention the name of an actor from a superhero movie that just came out, and he jumps on the idea of being able to change the topic.
“He’s really hot, though,” he says, refuting Courf’s claims of bad acting. “Like so hot that I want to have his babies.”
Courf looks at him like he’s lost his mind, which is fair enough because Jehan’s not sure he’s ever said something so stupid. “You want to have his babies?”
“Not like give birth to his babies,” he says, trying to make himself sound like less of an idiot. “Because that’s gross. But I’d marry him and we could have really hot sex and then adopt babies. That’s kind of the same thing, right?”
Courf laughs. “Forget marriage and babies, you just want to have sex with him.”
“Okay, maybe,” he says, because sex is good and great, but he thinks it’s so much better when there’s actual love and commitment and dedication behind it. But he probably wouldn’t turn down someone that good-looking, even if there wasn’t love and commitment and dedication behind it. “But that’s not really the point, is it?”
“What’s it like to kiss guys?” Courf asks a little abruptly.
He’s been asking questions like this for years now. For Jehan, it was the first real indication that Courf was bisexual, or at the very least bi-curious. Asking a question like that once could just be curiosity from a boy who’s in love with the physical aspects of love. Asking it in almost every conversation they’ve ever had about romance? Yeah, that’s a sign that something else is going on.
“We’ve been over this,” Jehan says. “I’m not exactly the best person to ask.”
Courf rolls his eyes. “You’re the perfect person to ask.”
“Except I can’t tell you what you want to know.”
“I want to know what it’s like to kiss boys.”
Jehan shakes his head. “You want to know what it’s like to kiss boys in comparison to kissing girls—which I’ve never done. I can’t help you.” He pauses for a moment, then says, “That lying douchebag Olivier has kissed girls and boys. You can ask him.”
He only brings up Olivier because he wants to hear that noise of disgust that Courf makes in the back his throat whenever Olivier’s name is mentioned. Jehan isn’t disappointed and he tries to pretend that the warmth he feels is from knowing his friend supports him and not because it makes Courf sound like some sort of romantic rival.
“Like I want to ask that lying piece of shit anything,” Courf says. “And this isn’t a compare and contrast question, Jehan.”
“Well, I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Haven’t you written poems about this sort of thing? Just describe it to me!”
He has written poems about this sort of thing, but those aren’t the sort of poems that he’s in the habit of sharing with people. They’re too close to his heart and the idea of anyone reading them still feels a little too much like unzipping his skin and exposing his insides.
“I don’t imagine that it’s all that difference from kissing a girl,” he says. “It’s just lips.”
Which he knows isn’t quite true because the idea of kissing a girl just feels wrong to him, but theoretically, lips are lips and mouths are mouths.
But Courf shakes his head. “Girl lips are fundamentally different from boy lips. Girls always have stuff on their mouths. Their lipstick tastes wretched, but the chapstick is pretty good.” He cocks his head to the side. “Have you ever kissed a boy wearing chapstick?”
“No,” he says, but now that Courf has mentioned it, Jehan’s back to staring at the other boy’s mouth and wondering what it’d be like.
He forces himself to stop, even though the act of dragging his eyes away from Courf’s lips is a herculean trial.
“Huh,” Courf says. He flops backwards to stare at the ceiling, and Jehan hates him for it a little because his shirt rides up just so, exposing an inch or so of skin above the waistband of his jeans and he wants nothing more than to touch it. “Boys lips are probably rougher,” he continues, unaware of the situation he’s just tossed Jehan in. “Maybe a little more chapped. I bet their hands are different too. Bigger, stronger, more calloused.”
Courf’s words are completely innocent, but Jehan’s imagination is not and all he can think about is Courf touching him, caressing him, and—
No. No. Absolutely not. He forces himself to recite The Wasteland in his mind because it’s probably the worst poem he’s ever read, and not to mention the most depressing, and if T. S. Eliot’s self-aggrandizing rants can’t calm the heat in his blood then nothing can.
Courf is still talking because he has no effing idea what he’s doing to Jehan—though if he looked up, he’d probably get a pretty good idea because it’s not as though he can hide the fact that his pants are practically tenting. “Hugging might not be as nice,” he says, still having a philosophical discussion with himself on the anatomical difference between girls and boys. “Boobs are soft. They’re really kind of nice, but at the same time, the sex is probably better mostly because it can take a long time for girls to get in the mood, but with guys, I’d think both of you are just ready to go, so—”
“You know what, just stop,” Jehan snaps. He’s on his feet, his textbook tossed aside and long-forgotten. He knows he’s being unreasonable. He knows it, but he’s not going to sit here and let Courf carry on like this.
Courf sits up. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Did it ever occur to you that if you wanted to know what it’s like to kiss a boy, you just had to ask?”
“What do you think I’ve been trying to do? You keep shutting me—”
“No, you idiot! Ask me. Ask me to kiss you. Ask if you can kiss me. Seriously, what’s wrong with you?”
Courfeyrac looks up at him in stunned silence and Jehan wishes the floor would open up and swallow him whole because now that those words are out of his mouth, he can’t take them back and Courf was never supposed to know.
“It’s not that simple,” Courf says quietly after a long moment.
“Isn’t it, though? ‘Hey, Jehan, I think boys are hot and I want to kiss one. Do you mind?’ Or maybe, ‘Hey, Jehan, you’re gay and I’m too afraid to admit to myself that I’m bisexual, so could you please kiss me to help me come to terms with this?’ Dammit, Courf, it’s not like I’m expecting sonnets from you!”
“I’m not afraid!” Courf snaps. “And I’m not bi!”
“Oh really? Because thirty seconds ago you were just fantasizing about having sex with another dude. I think that makes you pretty bi!”
“I wasn’t—that’s not—”
“Face it, Courf. You are just as interested in getting laid by guys as you are by girls.”
“That’s easy enough for you to say! Your family doesn’t think being gay is some sort of aberration!”
Jehan feels his stomach turn to ice. “Is that what you think of me? Is that what your family thinks of me?” Because he loves Courf’s family. Loves them. And he can’t stand to think that every time he leaves their house that their conversations turn into It’s such a shame that the poor Prouvaire boy is gay. I wonder what we can do to fix him.
“Shit, Jehan, no. I—”
“Then why is a big deal that you like boys? If they’re fine with me and who I am—and let’s face it, I’m practically the poster-child for gay teenagers—then why wouldn’t they be fine with you?”
“Because you’re not their son! You’re not the family’s heir! You’re not responsible for upholding the family name! You’re—”
“Fuck, Courf, this is your family we’re talking about, not Enjy’s. And this isn’t nineteenth century France! You’re free to love whoever you want—and I’ll bet ready money that your family will be fine with it! Nobody cares about heirs and family names! I’ve never once heard your parents say anything negative about me, and I’m sure they’ve heard me talking about one of my boyfriends or one of my crushes before because I’m not exactly shy about that kind of thing!”
“I don’t know what you want me to do about all this!”
“I want you to kiss me, damn it! Why is that so hard to understand?”
There’s silence again, and all Jehan can hear is his heart pounding against his rib cage. This is it. There’s no going back.
“You want me to kiss you?” Courf asks as he stands up.
“Yes.” There’s no hiding the desperation in that one word.
But Courf doesn’t move and they just stare at each other. Jehan feels exposed. He’s laid everything out for Courf and he’s met with silence and stares and—oh hell, why did he do this? He’s ruined everything. They’re friends. They’re practically brothers. And now Courf is going to be mortified and embarrassed and he won’t be able to look at him.
He spins around to leave, feeling some sort of pressure building in his chest and he wants to be out of Courf’s sight when that pressure becomes too much and he breaks.
But Courf grabs his arm and pulls him back around. They’re inches from each other. Jehan feels Courf’s breath on his face. And in another moment, Jehan is pressed up against the edge of the pool table and Courf’s body has meshed itself against his. Courf’s mouth is moving against his and their movements are in perfect harmony, like they are a duet designed for each other. He tastes like chocolate and cinnamon—a taste to match the perfect color of his eyes—and Jehan needs more.
He slips his hand under Courf’s shirt and he loves the smooth skin and the toned muscles and the way Courf has one hand in his hair and the other cups his hip, his thigh and why had no one ever told him that kissing could be this perfect?
Courf makes a sort of moaning sound against his mouth, and he opens his lips to invite Courf in. Teeth and tongues and lips expanding their duet into a full blown orchestra. Courf moves his hands to Jehan’s waist and lifts him just a little so that he’s sitting on the pool table and he wraps his legs around Courf’s waist, pulling him closer—he wants to be closer, he wants to be so close—and he grinds his hips against Courf’s. He leans into it—
And Courf is suddenly gone. He’s pulled away and he’s back up and his eyes are wide and he’s got a hand pressed to his mouth like he’s not sure what just happened.
“I’ve gotta go,” he says quickly. He doesn’t even bother to grab his textbooks or his backpack. He just turns around and takes the stairs two at time till he’s gone.
Alone in the basement, Jehan stares at the wall. His mind is trying to process and internalize, but this is beyond processing and internalization because Jehan knows that’s the best damn kiss he’s ever had.
It’s also the best damn kiss he’s ever likely to have, because the girls at school are right. Courf is the perfect lover and he knows exactly what to do with his hands and his mouth.
He leans forward so that his forehead is practically against his knees, and he knows he’s well and truly fucked because without a doubt he’s in love with Henri Courfeyrac.
And without a doubt Henri Courfeyrac breaks the hearts of everyone who loves him.