A/N: A request from AO3 - how Jehan and Courfeyrac got together. Starts a year after chapter 2 of Compatibility.
The first Jehan knew of anything was just after Courfeyrac's graduation. The celebrations hadn't been as boisterous as the year before, when Bossuet, Bahorel and Grantaire had all graduated, with everyone unable to forgot the missing politics student who should be have collecting his degree on the same day, but they had still taken place. It had taken Jehan three hours to clean the house the next day, with no help from his friends thanks to Grantaire still sleeping, Courfeyrac and Feuilly having to work despite hangovers and Combeferre attending his last lecture of the year, but the poet hadn't complained once. Opening the front door to take the black bin bags out to their bins, he almost tripped over the small plant which had been placed there. The rubbish soon forgotten he crouched next to the basket full of Columbines, quickly carrying them indoors to water them and put them in the sunlight.
When Grantaire finally shuffled into the kitchen in time for lunch and Combeferre arrived home from his lecture, dropping his bag in the corner with a sigh of relief at some time off, Jehan proudly showed off his new plants.
"Aren't they just gorgeous?" he beamed.
"And you say someone just left them there?" Combeferre asked. "Well they were definitely for you. None of the rest of us are that bothered about gardening and flowers."
"Why would someone just leave random plants on doorsteps?" Grantaire mumbled, waiting eagerly for his coffee to brew so he could wake up properly.
"Maybe Jehan has himself a secret admirer." The poet blushed furiously at Combeferre's suggestion, and he shook his head quickly.
"No no, it can't be that. Maybe someone left it for Courfeyrac, as a congratulations on his graduation."
A pause followed his suggestion.
"Nah," Combeferre and Grantaire said as one, laughing. "Anyone who knew Courfeyrac well enough to want to congratulate him would leave him booze, not flowers."
"Well, does it really matter who they're off? They're beautiful, let's just leave it at that." Jehan glared at Grantaire when he opened his mouth to continue the teasing. "I mean it 'Taire. Leave it at that."
Relunctantly, the artist agreed, though the look he shared with Combeferre spoke volumes about what they truly thought.
A few days later, there was another basket of plants sat outside their front door - Bellflowers this time. This started happening on a regular occurance, with plants such as Sweet Peas, Dianthus, Pansies, Phlox, Forget-me-nots, Cornflowers, Black-eyed Susans, Evening Primrose, and Arabis showing up. On the first day of August there was even a single Orchid appeared. Jehan loved every one, planting them around his favourite tree in their garden so he could admire them whenever he sat outside.
Not long after the Orchid, Jehan opened the door to find a book of Shakespearian sonnets resting on the doorstep, but this time with a typed note resting on top.
For whom only the best is good enough.
Grinning excitedly Jehan completely forgot where he was meant to be going, instead curling up under his tree in the garden and losing himself in the poetry, surrounded by his beautiful plants. Combeferre found him there several hours later asleep, with the book clutched to his chest, as if he were afraid of losing it.
More and more poetry books were soon arriving, each containing the works of another of Jehan's favourite poets and each one with a short note accompanying it.
"You have to admit it now," Combeferre commented one day when Jehan waltzed into the kitchen with the complete works of Fredrich Schiller held in his arms and a dreamy smile on his face. "You definitely have a secret admirer. They seem to know you better than anyone."
"Maybe," Jehan agreed, nodding as he sat at the table and sipped at the tea Combeferre handed him.
"So what did the note say this time?"
"'Poetry is the first and last of all knowledge-it is as immortal as the heart of man.' It's William Wordsworth, part of the Preface to Lyrical Ballads."
"Yep, this person definitely know you well. Any ideas as to who it is?" Jehan shook his head silently.
"I wish I did," he said sadly. Indeed, he wished it were one person in particular, but he doubted he would be so lucky as to gain his best friend as an admirer.
Schiller was the last book to arrive for Jehan, his collection of favourite poets now being complete, but the very next day a beautifully decorated notebook was sat in the middle of the step, a fancy fountain pen atop it. The note was this time handwritten, but whilst Jehan recognised the words, he did not recognise the writing and was bitterly disappointed.
I could never live a life bereft of quills -
What a barren crux for humankind -
A dearth of scholars' tomes,
An author's prose no more to share -
The belletristic want would kill the mind
In such a bleak affair.
"Go on then," Combeferre said right next to Jehan's ear and making him jump. "Who and what?"
"Pen, by Mark R Slaughter. It was the first poem I studied at university and is one I've always agreeed with."
"What's in the book?"
"Nothing," Jehan said softly. "It's for me to fill."
And fill it he did, spending the rest of the day taking advantage of the sun and sat under his tree again, jotting down sections of other people's poetry which meant a lot to him, or scribbling away a verse of his own as the inspiration took him. The pen felt like it had been made for his hand, and within a week the book was filled. Jehan was filled with sadness on that day, a sadness he could not quite understand because he had never felt it before upon finishing a notepad.
"It's because it's from them," he told himself, flicking through the pages to reread what he had written.
The following week was his twenty-first birthday.
"I wonder what your admirer will get you," Grantaire teased as he handed over his own present - a sketchbook filled with pictures of Jehan and his flowers, and carefully crafted bookmarks, enough for every book to have one of its very own. Jehan had insisted on celebrating the night before the actual date, most of his friends having to work the following day or night.
"Oh Grantaire, they're beautiful!" he squealed, throwing his arms around the older man and hugging him tightly. "Thank you so much! And I really don't care because I already have the most perfect presents in the world from my best friends." He beamed round the room at the eleven of them, the three girls having decided to join in that night as well. "Besides, there was a bottle of red wine there this morning. He never leaves things two days in a row."
When the following day dawned, Jehan opted to allow himself a lie-in for the first time in two years. "It's your birthday," he told himself, pulling a book off the bedside table to read instead of getting up. "Relax a little."
"JEHAN!"
The cry was from Combeferre so Jehan leapt to his feet and only just remembered to grab his dressing gown before setting off charging down the stairs.
"What is it?" he gasped.
"Your admirer came after all," Combeferre grinned, and Jehan scowled at him.
"You got me out of bed for that? I thought it was something serious!"
Two of their fellow housemates had all appeared at the shout as well, and Grantaire and Feuilly burst out laughing as Jehan stopped berating Combeferre and looked round the door to see what was there.
"Oh my god!" the poet squealed, dropping to his knees and peering down at the cage in front of him. "It's a Blackcap!"
"What's a Blackcap?" Grantaire murmured to Feuilly, getting a shrug in answer.
"It's a bird of some sort," Combeferre told them, crouching next to Jehan to get a closer look.
"It's my favourite songbird," Jehan whispered, hugging himself with joy. "It's perfect."
"There's something under the cage," Grantaire pointed out as he padded forwards to look himself. His eyebrows shot up when Jehan pulled the two pieces of card out. "Oh wow."
"What is it?" Feuilly demanded.
"Two tickets to see Cats." Jehan sounded stunned. "It's the best seats in the theatre as well. These must have cost a fortune!"
"When are they for?" Combeferre asked.
"Tonight. But... Who do I go with?" Jehan looked round the trio in panic, getting only shrugs. "I mean, I don't know who it is!"
"If they haven't come forward by this afternoon, ask Courf to go with you," Feuilly suggested. "He's your best friend, so it's not weird for you to ask him. Besides, he's been working so much recently that you've barely seen him. A night away from the law firm will do him some good."
Courf agreed readily when Jehan asked shyly if he'd like to accompany him to the theatre.
"I've never seen Cats," he commented. "Didn't you once say it was your favourite musical?"
"I love the poems, and the dancing is just so beautiful," Jehan admitted with a shrug. "Nothing could ever beat it."
Jehan couldn't help but feel nervous that night. Even though he had a secret admirer, and the gifts he had been left were perfect in so many ways, he still had a small crush on Courfeyrac which had never quite gone away fully, and going to the theatre with the man felt a lot like a date.
"I would so be Rum Tum Tugger," Courfeyrac grinned that night as they left to head back home, hooking his thumbs in his belt like the cat had done. Jehan couldn't help but laugh.
"I don't know who I'd be," he said thoughtfully. "I reckon Feuilly would be Skimbleshanks, and Combeferre is Munkustrap. I mean, second-in-command and everything."
"Not anymore," Courfeyrac murmured, but he apologised instantly when Jehan's face fell. "What about 'Taire? Who'd he be do you reckon?"
"Mistoffelees," Jehan said firmly. "Remember that failed magic trick he tried to do for Gavroche? And Eponine would so be Rumpleteazer, with Bahorel as Mungojerrie."
"You'd be that white cat," Courfeyrac announced suddenly. "Whatshername. Victoria."
"You think so?" Jehan's entire face lit up at the thought. "I always loved her. She's so beautiful, and her dancing is just perfection."
"Yeah, definitely you," Courfeyrac smiled, resting an arm on his friend's shoulder. "So have you enjoyed your birthday so far?"
"Absolutely!"
"Oh good."
The next morning there was a new notebook waiting outside the house, one which Jehan gratefully accepted and immediately started writing in. The following day there was another bottle of wine - Jehan's favourite rose this time - and the day after that dawned to find a cut-glass vase full of tulips sat there.
"The gifts are speeding up," Combeferre commented, but Jehan said nothing. The gifts of wine, flowers and notepads kept streaming in however, as if the giver knew exactly when Jehan had finished with one.
"It's like he's psychic," Grantaire murmured to Combeferre. His friend nodded in agreement, but on the inside he was starting to seriously wonder about who it could be.
The morning after Jehan arrived home and announced that his first poem was to be published, there was a bottle of pink champagne outside, one of Sleur next to it.
"Whoever it is knows Grantaire doesn't drink," Feuilly noted, but Jehan didn't care, still lost in a world of happiness.
When they were forced to move out that November, Jehan's heart broke slightly at the thought of leaving all his flowers.
"And it's winter so I can't even dig them up and replant them," he cried, shoulders slumping as he flopped into the kitchen chair. Try as they might, none of the friends knew how to comfort him, and Jehan soon tried to pretend that leaving them behind would be so bad.
Their new garden looked okay, he admitted when they moved into the new house on the other side of town. Courfeyrac and Grantaire instantly started planning on hanging a hammock between the two trees, Feuilly bagsied himself a herb garden having just found an Italian cookbook, and Combeferre marked out a small area by the side of the pond as his own, but Jehan didn't really bother finding his own territory outside. The first morning in their new home he rose early as always and started ordering his books on the shelves, fingers trailing over those special ones which had been left outside his old home.
The doorbell ringing interrupted his silence and, remembering that he was the only one at home that morning, he headed downstairs to find out who it was.
The last person he expected to see was Courfeyrac.
"I got you this," the lawyer said nervously, thrusting a plant towards his friend. Jehan slowly took the lilac Hyacinth from him and smiled.
"Thank you," he said softly, wondering what Courfeyrac had to be so nervous about.
"And I thought you might like this as well," Courfeyrac continued, holding out a sketchbook. Jehan placed the Hyacinth on the side and started flicking through it, gasping when he realised what the book held.
Each page had a different flower pressed on it, and each flower was one from Jehan's collection at their last house.
"I collected them in summer," Courfeyrac explained, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Just in case we had to leave before they had the chance to regrow. Cosette helped me press them." He regarded his friend nervously as the tears started to slip down Jehan's cheeks. "Jehan, are you okay?"
"Oh Courf!" Jehan cried, throwing his arms round his friend. "I love it. It's perfect!"
"Then why are you crying?" Courfeyrac asked, hugging Jehan back.
"Because it's perfect." Suddenly a thought occured to him and he pulled back. "Aren't you meant to be at work?"
The next day, the position of the gift had changed. The basket of Peonies was outside Jehan's bedroom door, and for the first time there was a note standing up in the soil.
Roses are red
Violets are blue
I'm crap at poetry
But I still love you
How about it?
The handwriting was instantly recognisable and Jehan flew down the hall to Courfeyrac's room, hammering on the door. His friend opened it instantly, as if he'd been waiting on the other side.
"Well?" he asked, eyes frantic. He was cut off when Jehan grabbed his face and kissed him, standing on tiptoes so as to better reach him.
"Hell yes," Jehan murmured when they paused for breath, Courfeyrac's hands now curled round Jehan's waist.
"Well thank god for that," Courfeyrac laughed, pressing their forehead's together.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Jehan demanded. "It's been six months!"
"If one is going to court a person by being a secret admirer," Courfeyrac said, putting on a posh accent, "then one must go about it properly." He sighed. "It was when you were crying about the flowers that I couldn't wait any longer. Plus I was kinda running out of ideas."
Their laughter echoed down through the house until Jehan kissed Courfeyrac again.