Disclaimer: No I am not that brilliant, no I am not that inspired, no I cannot elaborate the events of Waterloo to the extent of physical pain, no Les Miserables does not belong to me.
A/N: Well, I have nothing to do, so I seek out a plot generator and with my decided "plot" came the realization that Courfeyrac and Jehan weren't paired enough. Thus, it is here for that reason, if no other.
As it was early March, the air had grown pleasantly warm, though the precipitation remained insufferable. That morning, I had risen with a desire to wear my crimson jacket, a fine velvet piece of attire, which I was very fond of and, seeing as the sky was clear, I had no fear of damaging it during my trek to the cafe. Upon arriving, I took possession of one of the center tables and indulged myself to a particularly delightful vintage, with no intention of remaining for more than a few hours. But as it was March and the weather was unpredictable, I ended up stranded inside the Musain to wait for an unsuspected onslaught of rain to subside. My companions, who I had joined in discourse that afternoon, had long since departed, paying the rain showers little heed and I was left disgruntled and bored.
It was then that I noticed him, poised by the window, his gray eyes cast out across the deserted street with an expression wistful and serene. Perhaps I would have been moved by such a creature, but I was immediately distracted by the manner in which his vest clashed with his trousers. The former was a rather dingy shade of salmon and the latter an odd, dull beige. I couldn't suppress a chuckle.
The sudden breach in his precious silence startled him, his eyes coming to meet mine from across the room, wide and vaguely perplexed. He hardly held my gaze for more than a few passing seconds when he cast his eyes to the floorboards, his cheeks florid.
I was struck by a strange and sudden affinity towards the awkward creature, a smile pulling at the corners of my lips as I observed the rosy shade of his cheeks deepen to scarlet. He was well aware my vision remained focused on him. He was not aware that I rose from my seat, carefully picking up my bottle and approaching his table, however. It was only when the tinted glass met the mahogany that he looked up, glancing briefly at me and then at the bottle resting upon his table.
"Wine alone is no cure for boredom, but wine and company are splendid. Would you share a drink, mon ami?" I inquired, offering an amiable smile.
"If you wish it," he replied in a soft whisper, his eyes again downcast, shielded by his long lashes. My grin subsided into a softer smile as I lowered myself into the chair across from his, resting an elbow upon the table and jovially adding "Wonderful!"
He smiled nervously in response, tucking away a notebook that had been resting in front of him. I did not inquire as to what purpose it held, despite my curiosity. I had no intention of causing my new companion any more discomfort. Instead, I remained upon less personal topics.
"I have seen you here before, no?"
He nodded, raising his head slightly. "Yes, I come here often. For the insurrection Monsieur Enjolras speaks of. I am Jean Prouvaire, or Jehan, if you'd rather."
I clasped my hands gleefully. "Ah, marvelous. We have more in favor of revolution than I believed. I am-"
"Courfeyrac." My baffled expression prompted him to continue. "That is what the other students call you, is it not?"
I smiled, nodding. "It is. You are observant, Jehan." His smile mirrored mine, if not slightly more bashful. I slid the bottle towards him. "Drink."
Hesitantly, he took it, indulging himself to a very small sip, swallowing with some difficulty. Immediately he was taken by a fit of sputtering and coughing, setting the bottle down. "It's quite strong."
I chuckled jovially, clasping his shoulder. "Hardly. You must drink rather mild wine," I replied, the amusement probably visible in my eyes by this point.
He blushed, folding his hands on the table and neglecting to respond. It was at this point that I decided to bring about the topic of the horrid fabric beneath my fingers.
"Might I inquire as to where you purchased that vest?"
Jehan was stunned. He blinked repeatedly, then glanced down at the salmon piece of attire he was sporting.
"My, I do not remember. Perhaps it was my father's...""Ah! A relief! It would be a pity to waste one's money on such a thing!" I replied, laughing heartily. He appeared somewhere between taken aback and a bit intrigued but made no move to respond, thus I continued. "There is no need for bad taste to be passed through the generations, however. Here, stand up."
He obeyed, albeit hesitantly, his eyes remaining cautiously locked with mine. I attempted my best reassuring smile, surveying the horrid outfit. After a moment's contemplation, a bid him remove the dreadful vest.
"W-what?" was his baffled response. I shook my head, taking the liberty of removing it myself, much to poor Jehan's astonishment.
"Well, that is a vast improvement, already."
"Was it really such a dreadful vest?" he inquired, tilting his head curiously to the side, hardly offended by my critique by this point.
"It was."
He nodded rather somberly, gazing at it with a newfound air of perplexity, as though unsure of what to make of the strange, salmon vest, constructed of a tawdry satin.
"I suppose I have always had a rather prominent lack of style," he murmured, chuckling faintly.
"Oh! That is nothing that cannot be corrected. Why, with a proper-"A sudden idea struck me. I removed my own jacket and assisted Jehan in adorning it. His fingers shook slightly, though this was hardly as notable as his disbelieving eyes.
"Courfeyrac, I... Why, it is such wonderful fabric... Are you sure I should...?"
"Of course, mon ami!"
I chuckled, holding him back at arms length. The jacket fit him faultless, for a moment banishing all his awkwardness and allowing him to appear no less than eminent.
"Ah, you look quite dashing, if I do say so, myself!" I chirped, grinning as his cheeks turned a shade that nearly matched the jacket. I dropped my hands from his shoulders rather reluctantly, allowing him to do as he pleased.
First he observed the coat, carefully running his pale, graceful fingers over the fabric. For a moment, I think he forgot I was present, sweeping about the room with an elegant stride, marveling at the way the coattails danced behind him. Finally, he returned to me, smiling warmly.
"Merci," he whispered, hardly able to hold my gaze.
I took his hand in my own, returning the smile. "But of course!"
"Perhaps I shall write of the texture of velvet, its superiority to satin. Perhaps I shall compose verses pertaining to gray weather and vibrant waistcoats, write of the bitter taste of wine and the sound of the rain upon the windows. Perhaps... Perhaps I shall write about you."
And in a fluent motion, he leaned towards me, his lips grazing my cheek, so lightly I could barely detect the sensation. A poet... he was a poet.
"Good day, Courfeyrac."
"Good day, Jehan."
A warm smile again graced his features before he disappeared from the café. As the door creaked shut, I fell back into my chair, grinning in a reminiscent manner.
It was then that a thought struck me.
I clambered to my feet and ran to the window, helplessly watching as Jehan and my beloved waistcoat disappeared into a torrent of rain.
Fin