Jealous

Summary:Courfeyrac is jealous when Combeferre doesn't pay enough attention to him.

Pairing: Combeferre/Courfeyrac, they're already a couple in the beginning of the story. It's slash so if you don't like that or it offends you in any way – you've been warned.

Disclaimer: The characters belong to Victor Hugo, and since I'm not a male, dead, French writer they're obviously not mine. The quote used is really from Rousseau, it just fitted in, not mine either.

A/N: Another one of my silly writings, my friends thought it to be absurd but liked the story anyway. I still think something's missing though but I can't put my finger on it.

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They sat silently on the bed together, Courfeyrac had rested his head in Combeferre's lap and the latter was absentmindedly playing with his hair. His attention however wasn't fixed on his lover but rather on the book he was reading. His eyes moved swiftly over the pages while he softly mumbled something to himself. He lifted his hand from Courfeyrac's head only to flip a page and then tangled his fingers in his hair again.

"Are you still awake up there?" Courfeyrac asked teasingly, looking up to the other man from his comfortable position, "You haven't spoken a word for at least two hours and you know how bad I get when you don't give me the proper share of attention I deserve."

At that he rose and placed himself behind his reading friend, snaking his arms around the other's waist and pulling him close so Combeferre sat with his back against his own chest. He untangled his arms again and began massaging his shoulders with experienced hands.

Slowly he traced circles over his shoulder blades and wandered to the base of his neck where his fingers played with the strand of hair that had managed to free themselves from the ribbon that held them together.

He dipped his head into his neck and traced the neck's curve with his lips, showering a quick flurry of kisses over his skin. Combeferre moaned softly, in evident pleasure, but didn't turn around to return the favour.

"Okay, now what is important enough for you to neglect me." Courfeyrac now stood up and sat in front of the bed so he could look at him.

"I hardly neglect you," The other replied, "I'm just reading."

"Am I not good enough for you anymore?" Courfeyrac pouted in an adorable way the other couldn't possibly resist in his own –humble- opinion. "I am better than any book you'll ever read," he continued. The next reply, he had to admit, surprised him immensely.

"Not every book. You don't mean to say that you're placing yourself above great philosophers like Voltaire or Rousseau."

"I place myself above their books for I am a living creature with bruised feelings who demands that you take your words back immediately. Or I shall never touch you again." He crossed his arms in a child-like manner to emphasize his point and looked at the man opposite him.

Combeferre smirked when he realised what it was all about, "You're jealous of a book. You just can't stand that I have spent the last hours reading while you were so close to me."

"Jealous of a book? It is a thing! No thing can ever match a human being in warmth and comfort." He stepped back to make sure the other couldn't touch him. "I am not jealous of a bundle of papers lined with sentences that aren't even spoken out loud. And like I said, I will not let you touch me again until you have told me that's true."

"Oh you don't truly mean that mon cher," Combeferre tried in an attempt to calm him down, he stepped closer to him again and lifted his chin with his finger, "And I'm not going to apologize for that matter, not for something as silly as this. You're throwing a fit over absolutely nothing." He placed his book down and tried to kiss him. Courfeyrac only turned his head so lips met cheek.

"Don't do this," he pleaded again, stroking the cheek he had just kissed with tender fingers, "You know you won't last long at that anyway."

"I will as long as you compare me to a book 'Ferre." He stood up and started walking to the door. A hand grabbed his upper arm and pulled him back into a warm embrace. His lover's deep voice whispered in his ear: "You are so very different from a book," Courfeyrac could stay mad over little things for a long time and it wasn't worth losing him over such a small comment. When the man in his arms leaned in to his body he continued to speak, knowing he would have to persuade him. "You are so much better than a simple book and I am really, truly so-"

He didn't get the chance to finish his apology because Courfeyrac had already sealed his lips with his own. "Don't. You don't have to," he breathed when they broke apart, the corners of his mouth curved up and he smirked, "I'm acting really childish aren't I?"

"A little."

"And besides," now he grinned wickedly, "It gives me the chance to prove to you that I am better as a book. I'll give you clear evidence that not even Voltaire can match me." He laid his hands against his chest and pushed him back to the bed, pinning him there. The book fell to the ground but neither of them noticed it.

"Mmhm," Combeferre snuggled closer to the warm body lying next to him, inhaling the scent of his lover. He smelled of amber with a little hint of vanilla, it was a comforting smell, one he knew almost better as his own. Courfeyrac had his arms wrapped around him and didn't mind a bit that there were two of them on the small bed.

"Point proven," he mumbled after a while as he turned around in his arms and kissed him lingering on the lips, "I have yet to see a book do that."

Courfeyrac smiled against his lips, "Will you read to me?" he asked in an almost seductive tone while their lips were still only inches apart, "You may prove to me that books can also hold the power to capture one's soul. And it allows you to give me all the attention I deserve while you can read." He smiled at himself for this innovative solution to their problem.

Soon the book was swept of the ground and they were back in their old position, Courfeyrac's head resting on the other's lap. Combeferre started to read, it was a book by Rousseau and not the ideal lecture to read out loud but they didn't care. They were just happy to be together and savoured the moment for as long as it lasted.

Half an hour later he read the last sentence, "I have always said and felt that true enjoyment can not be described." It put into words how he felt right now and when he looked down at Courfeyrac's sleeping features he knew those words were true.

He brushed the other's forehead with his lips and smiled softly, "I wouldn't trade you for a thousand books, you know?" he spoke to himself. In his sleep Courfeyrac smiled too.

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A/N: Reviews make me very, very, very, very (and so on)… happy! Constructive criticism is very welcome, I always like to improve my writing with your tips! But please don't flame, I have a very tender soul (ahem…).