A/N: Jehan sits by a slowly darkening window and ponders his love for a dark haired centre by the name of Courfeyrac.
This is my first attempt at this pairing who I absolutely adore the idea of but have never written yet, so please bare with me!
Disclaimer: As I am not Male, French or living in C19th Paris- how can I possibly own Les Miserables? I am simply trying to convey my love for Les Amis de l'ABC into something cohesive- please don't sue me!
Poetry by candlelight
He sits at a window watching the city slowly sink back into a soft blanket of inky velvet that is studded with silver stars. There is a pen in his hand and parchment on the bare wooden table in front of him but he does not feel like writing anything. Not yet. The creamy coloured flattened wood pulp illuminated by the flickering light of a guttering candle that is slowly dribbling a stream of wax onto the knife scarred wood below gapes up at him like some white cavernous mouth silently pleading with him to fill it with the sweet nectar of words dripping slowly off his pen. Far below him he dimly hears the rumble of a fiacres' wheels and the snorting stamp of a lone horse straining through its' harness; a rippling ball of muscle and flesh, of a flickering flash of colour streaking through the inky darkness and out of sight and thinks of Courfeyrac.
Almost unconsciously he feels his free hand reaching up to tug at a stray lock of hair that has twisted its ' way out of his braid; allowing the tendril to loop itself over the shivering digit as he pauses; trying to remember how the clouds had danced like fluff filled ballerinas over a canvas of periwinkle blue when he and Courfeyrac had taken a detour to the University that morning; trampling over the sweet smelling perfume of summer flowers crushing under their feet as they had swung their satchels and laughed like schoolboys; knowing that for one blissful moment they could be just that; free from the beloved leaders' revolution, free from everything like butterflies living just six sun baked summer days; their rainbow wing tips smelling of August as the colours danced through eyes the colour of hazel, swirling through irises flecked with the dying embers of the golden fires of freedom.
The weight of his pen suddenly feels oddly alien in his hand; the cold metal pressing painfully into the crook between his thumb and index finger as the nib rests expectantly above the parchment. From outside the half shut door into their shared bedroom he can faintly hear the sound of footsteps; the deliciously tantalising wafts of cinnamon making him think of a mop of ebony curls; of large hands adorned with callouses from years of rough leather satchels cupping themselves around a chin, the digits shivering slightly with suppressed expectation as they slowly explore each part of their lovers' face; of a fully fleshed rosebud mouth dripping with the scent of coffee laced kisses…
He can feel a smile tugging at the corners of his lips as he hears the creak of the rusted hinges of their front door audibly complaining as they pull themselves apart, feeling it broaden as two hands land on his shoulders; thick, calloused palms pressing firmly through the thin fabric of his shirt as a mouth slowly reaches up to press itself in a whispered kiss against the taught tendons of his neck. He leans into the touch; the hand holding the pen relaxing as his instrument slips from suddenly nerveless digits and falls in a graceful, spinning arc onto the parchment; feeling his fingers reach up to trace the line of the silently laughing dandy's cheek. The poet can almost taste the tang of expectancy dripping like honey off the centre's being as he presses himself further against the chair; the steady, throbbing iambs of his heart reverberating in a steady iambic rhythm through the bare polished wood.
The fingers reach higher, tangling themselves within his hair; softly carding themselves through each strand of auburn coloured brilliance as they silently begin to undo the braid; cupping themselves around the purple ribbon as it falls in a waterfall of indigo velvet into a waiting palm. He leans his head against the chest; relishing in the regular steadiness of the heartbeat he finds there and thinks of Combeferre, of Joly, of Enjolras, of Bahorel, of Feuilly, of Bossuet, of Grantaire, of Gavroche, of Eponine, of Marius, of all of them and yet somehow even though he tries not to think of him; his thoughts always come back to the dark eyed centre with the mop of unruly ebony curls and whispered kisses as he slowly allows himself to be gathered into a fierce embrace and held as Courfeyrac kisses the nape of his neck; his fingers entangling themselves still tighter within his hair.
'Do you love me?' The question is little more than a whisper and he sighs back in response; twisting himself around in the centres' lap to place a whispered kiss on the snub nose that is adorned by a rising bridge of freckles.
Yes. He thinks as he leans closer into the capable, clutching hands. Yes, of course I love you. I will always love you. He thinks suddenly of the ink and parchment on the desk in front of him; of the words tumbling through the nib of his pen in a swirling ribbon of charcoal coloured inspiration. He thinks of the words he could use to describe Courfeyrac; a rainbow mirage of nouns and adjectives swirling onto flattened wood pulp as he slowly reaches up to lose himself within the rosebud lips that swirl with the aftertaste of coffee and chocolate and vows that for as long as he lives; he will never love another.
A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, suggestions, questions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain!
Much love and enjoy! x