It's nights like these that Jehan adores: when lightning flashes, followed by the crashing cymbals of thunder, and the rain pounding on his window. It's nights like these when he's most inspired: when, come midnight, his collection of notebooks is filled to the brim with words. It's during nights like these, some of the coldest of the season, when he wishes for the person he loves to finally love him, too.
/
It's nights like these that Bahorel loathes: he jumps out of his skin with every loud clap of thunder, he flinches with every lightning strike. It's nights like these when he's most ashamed of his irrational fear of thunderstorms. It's nights like these when he wants a certain poet to hold him tight, kiss him, and whisper poetry in his ear.
But Jehan loves Courfeyrac; and Courfeyrac is too smitten with Combeferre to notice. But Bahorel notices. He sees the longing and utter love with which his roommate looks at Courfeyrac. And as much as Bahorel wants Jehan to look at him that way, he knows that the poet will never stop loving their little circle of friends' center. But, hey, a man can dream, right?
/
It's another one of those nights. A weather disturbance slowly makes its way across New York. It's two in the morning.
/
Bahorel can't sleep. The thunder, combined with the torrential rain hammering on his window, is just too fucking loud. And, although he'll never admit it to anyone, the man everyone else thinks is fearless has been deathly scared of thunderstorms ever since he was a child.
It shouldn't be raining this hard in May, he thinks as he tries to block out the noise by burying his head under a pillow. I wonder if Jehan's awake, is his next thought. Having lived with the poet for around two years now, he's fairly certain that his roommate is dead to the world and blissfully oblivious to the storm raging just outside.
The knowledge that Jehan is fast asleep, and that his bedroom door is always unlocked, seems to give Bahorel's legs a mind of their own. Soon, he's shaking his head and wondering, just what the fuck am I doing, as he pads across the hall to the only other bedroom in their small apartment.
He silently pushes the door open and, sure enough, Jehan is curled up in a ball near the foot of his bed. Bahorel takes a few seconds to admire his roommate: how the momentary flashes of lightning seem to make his handsome features glow, how peaceful he looks even in the midst of a storm.
Suddenly, Bahorel's feet have a mind of their own again and in mere seconds, he's lying down beside Jehan. It's the closest they've ever been, and the physical proximity makes Bahorel uncharacteristically nervous. He's used to taking risks—in fact, he loves them—but he's never taken the plunge and told someone he genuinely loved how he felt about them. Is this really happening? Or have I finally fallen asleep and started dreaming?, he thinks. Well, dream or not, can I really tell Jehan how I feel about him and risk ruining our friendship? It's thoughts like these that almost make him return to his own room and wait out the storm. But who is he if not a risk taker?
So he stays.
With the little reluctance left in him, he slowly drapes his arm over Jehan's waist and closes his eyes, waiting.
"Bahorel?" The man in question opens his eyes to find Jehan looking at him through half-closed lids. His voice, groggy from sleep, is probably both the sexiest and cutest thing Bahorel had ever heard.
"Can I stay here for the night? Can't sleep," Bahorel answers in a whisper so as not to ruin the tranquillity—and for him, absolute perfection—of the situation.
In response, Jehan only turns around on the bed and throws an arm over Bahorel's considerably larger, more muscular frame. Within seconds, he is asleep again and snoring lightly into the latter's chest.
Bahorel takes this as a yes, and he soon falls asleep with a smile on his face and the man he loves in his embrace. All traces of the thunderstorm are gone from his mind when he finally drifts off into an uninterrupted sleep.
/
When Jehan wakes up, he notices four things. The first thing he registers is the sunlight spilling into the room. It's as if the previous night's thunderstorm was only just a dream. The second is that his clothes, as well as his blanket, smell distinctly of Bahorel's favorite detergent. So that wasn't a dream after all, he realizes. Third, Bahorel is nowhere to be found. The fourth and final thing he notices is the mouth-watering aroma coming from the direction of the kitchen.
It's not unusual, finding Bahorel cooking. What is unusual is that aside from his usual stack of pancakes, he's cooking bacon, eggs, and French toast.
"So what's the occasion?" Jehan asks, startling Bahorel.
That in itself is also unusual, for Bahorel is never caught off guard. Something's bothering his roommate, and Jehan intends to find out.
"Oh, nothing special," Bahorel shrugs as he expertly flips a pancake. But Jehan can see the tense set of his shoulders.
"Seriously, Bahorel. You're worrying me. What's wrong?"
The next seconds pass by too quickly for either of them to register what's happening until it's over. All of a sudden, Bahorel has crossed the kitchen and is kissing Jehan, frantic and sloppy. The poet, for his part, doesn't pull away.
But he doesn't kiss him back, either. Still:
Damn, Bahorel is a really good kisser.
When the kiss ends, he doesn't admit that maybe he's a bit disappointed.
/
"Look, Jehan. I'm not as good with words as you are, but I don't know how I can keep this a secret anymore. I love you, Jean Prouvaire. I've been in love with you ever since I first saw you in the Musain; since Enjolras introduced us. And even though I know you'll never stop loving Courfeyrac—don't look at me like that, it was the most obvious thing in the world to everyone except Courf—I just thought you should know that somebody loves you."
/
Bahorel falls silent, waiting for a response—any response—from Jehan. The rest of the latter's features are virtually unreadable, but his blue eyes betray the conflicting emotions he must be feeling.
After an indefinite period of time during which the two roommates unwaveringly stare at each other, Jehan shifts position, as if to stand up. "Jehan, I'm sor—," Bahorel starts to say, fearing the worst—that he's destroyed their friendship—but is cut off when Jehan leans forward and kisses him.
He can't believe it, really. At first he thinks he's dreaming all over again, but the feel of Jehan's (very soft) lips on his is anything but imaginary. In fact, as cliché as it sounds, he wishes that he could preserve this moment in time forever.
/
Jehan doesn't know if he'll ever get over Courfeyrac. But as he kisses Bahorel, all thoughts of him are erased from his mind. Maybe he'll never stop loving Courfeyrac, but it's more than likely that he'll learn to love Bahorel as well.