"Promise?" The poet asks softly, earnestly, as Courfeyrac's fingers entangle in his hair.
"Of course I promise," he answers, placing a kiss to his poet's jaw. "Swear," the poet returns, smiling slightly.
Courfeyrac removes his fingers from his poet's hair, placing his hand on the ginger's cheek.
"Jehan, I swear. Don't worry. I'm sure everyone will love it."
"But how can you be certain?" Jehan asks, still smiling, though now a bit more puppy-eyed.
"Because they all love you. They're our best friends. They're our family. And they love you no matter what." Courfeyrac reassures, honest and sweet.
"And I love you," he continues, "no matter how short your hair is."
Jehan is beaming now, lighting up the whole room with his smile.
"I'm sorry 'Taire got gum stuck in your braid," Courfeyrac offers.
"It's okay. I'm getting used to it. I kind of like it, actually."
Before Courfeyrac can reply, Jehan slings his arms around his neck, kissing him, laughing all the while. His laugh takes the shape of Courfeyrac's smile, and the flower-entwined braid on the coffee table is forgotten.