A/N Well. What is there to say? I wrote this several months back, before Bahorel/Jehan was really even a heard of ship, and didn't post it because I imagined people wouldn't be all that interested. Now that I'm seeing them pop up now and again on Tumblr, I decided I might as well put it out here for anyone who's interested. My interpretations of both of the characters have changed quite a bit since this, and I have a much larger (30k) piece featuring them that I might post eventually. For now, though, I'll just leave this out.
He comes in for the first time on a Monday, just after lunch break, and slams his hands flat on the desk.
It's a sharp and sudden enough motion that Jehan jumps in surprise, and his pen's delicate ink trail swerves and runs off the page, dark blue cutting through the paper's pale lines, while his glasses slide precariously to the very end of his nose. He fumbles for a second, breath catching, then catches the scattered objects, blows a stray strand of blonde hair out of his eyes, and looks up in astonishment, pen clutched between two fingers and notebook pinned to the edge of his desk with his elbow, thoroughly harried.
"I didn't know you wore glasses."
"…Bahorel?"
It's definitely him, all six-plus feet, ginger-fringed and snickering as he reaches out and slips the glasses off of Jehan's ears, ignoring the smaller, still shocked man's attempts to fend him off. He spins them between his fingers with anxiety-spiking carelessness. "Do you really need them?"
Jehan winces, leans forward. "It—would you mind keeping it down a bit? I only just got the job, and I—" And my boss will fire me in a second if one of my friends is in here making a ruckus, I have no idea how or why you're here anyways, and it's probably aggravating me much more than it should be, in fact it's rather concerning—
"What're you writing?"
He slams an arm across the notebook just in time to keep Bahorel from snatching it up, as well, then grabs his glasses back and jams them into his shirt pocket, not quite meeting the other's eyes. He can feel an unwilling flush coloring his cheeks at his own hastiness, and covers it by drawing his sleeve over his nose with the pretense of a light sneeze. "You're dusty," he mumbles by way of pathetic excuse, eyes fixated on the desk. There's no need to feel guilty—the writing is private, it really is, and yet—his heart is thrumming just a bit too loudly in his ears, as it often seems to in the copper-haired young man's presence, something that he never pauses to attribute any meaning to.
"Or you're just allergic to me."
His patience strains. "Are you going to… um, check out a book? Or ask a question? Or do anything even somewhat library-like?"
"Probably not."
"Okay." He waits, chewing slightly at the inside of his lip, but he can still feel Bahorel's presence above his lowered head, and nervousness squirms inside of him. There's probably a queue forming—or maybe he's overly flattering himself with that thought, since it's his first day and everyone uses the electronic checkout machines anyways. That thought wanders around in his head for a bit, keeping him occupied for only a brief moment before it suffocates under the pressure of Bahorel's intent green gaze.
The clock keeps ticking.
"Really, though, what are you doing? Writing novels? Sure doesn't look like schoolwork." Bahorel's fingers move towards his again, and he quickly pulls the notebook away, shoving its red leather bulk under the lip of the desk.
"It's not. Schoolwork. Or novels," he mumbles, tacking each word onto the previous ones and ending up with a handful of uncertain afterthoughts whispered into the still air. He shifts, elbows tucked in close to his body. "Do you, um…" His teeth tremble together. He probably should look more seriously into that speech therapist that Courfeyrac mentioned last week, but the thought, fleeting and distracting like all the rest, only twists his stomach. Grantaire would never shut up about it, if word got out somehow. Neither would Bahorel, come to think of it, but he's trying quite hard not to think about Bahorel right now, a feat that proves virtually impossible with the other man watching him with wide eyes and a curiously quirked half-smile.
"Do I what?"
"Do you have… did you come to tell me something, then?" Clumsy. He tries to keep his wince to a minimum.
To his surprise, Bahorel actually stands up more fully at those words, his previously bent shoulders rolling back, and his voice comes out at a much more library-appropriate tone, words swift and intent.
"Enjolras is letting everyone know that we're on for the night. R found us a nice little bar, mostly clear, and everyone's meeting there at ten." He nips a pen and notepad from the array at the end of the counter, then scrawls down a few brief words, before ripping and folding the paper, passing it across. "Much as I'd love to stick around and give you a bad reputation, even I've got classes once in a while." He lifts his hand in an almost jaunty wave before turning away. "Hope you can make it, Blondie!" The farewell, in contrast to his other murmured information, is practically bellowed, and Jehan stiffens, his lip fleeing back under his teeth as the rowdy presence finds its way out the door.
He doesn't have to look over at the other checkout desk to know that he's being glared at, and his lips stutter a soundless apology as he shoves the paper into a back pocket.
It doesn't come out again until two hours later, when he's let off for the afternoon. He heads straight for the restroom, being far too aware of curious eyes to check the address anywhere other than in complete privacy, and unfolds the scrap next to the sinks, taking care not to get it water-stained.
He narrows his eyes. The words are scribbled in a tight hand, barely decipherable—especially without the assistance of the reading glasses that he now finds himself far too self-conscious of to wear. Still, after nearly a solid thirty seconds of failed translation, he's reaching into his pocket, pulling out the stupid things and forcing them back onto his nose.
The lines of ink, though still tight-pressed, quickly swim into a much more readable alignment. Café Musain, Place Saint-Michel. And there's something else below, even more cramped… he has to tilt the paper slightly sideways before the letters achieve legibility.
The glasses are pretty cute.
He drops the note.
He's tense throughout the second shift, constantly looking up and not even contemplating the act of taking out his poetry notebook for fear that he might be unexpectedly approached again. Or perhaps fear isn't quite the right word, because it isn't that extreme—he's anxious, certainly, that Bahorel or really any of the others might find him here and disrupt him again. Only anxious. And it's truly reasonable, since this is the best sort of relaxation that he's managed to attain throughout the school year. He'd known from the minute that he asked for a job interview that this would be the ideal occupation for him; there really is nothing more calming, he thinks, than the atmosphere of a good library, all pale air and lofty windows and rustling pages, with the hum of an air conditioner coming from the back, carrying with it the sharp scent of potted plants positioned throughout the building. This is the ideal way for him to earn the spare euros that he so sorely needs, and he absolutely refuses to lose it due to the intrusion of someone like Bahorel.
Still, by the end of Tuesday, there's not a single ginger hair in sight, and he's almost calm the next time, relaxing enough to even slip on the reading glasses that he's never been so utterly embarrassed of. They were tucked away in his pocket for the past few days, him having been far too on edge (still, for no identifiable reason) to consider wearing them even while studying. The result was nearly constant headaches, but he told himself resolutely that it was a better alternative to distraction from the heat brought by the pressure of the glasses' metal on his skin. Because the basic problem now was that he couldn't wear them without thinking of the whole incident, which, added to the fact that there was no way to avoid wearing them without bringing it to mind, left him locked in a very frustrating dilemma that he only just now decides to rupture.
It's probably more satisfying than it should be, just to be able to slide the things on and savor it as the words on the signs and posters around him sharpen into more than abstract, bleared squiggles. Almost laughing with relief, he catches his own nametag between his fingers, glancing down at it—sure enough, Jean P couldn't be more clearly cut into the bronze-hued plastic. Reading glasses, he decides, really are one of those things that don't feel needed until they're gone—
"Forgot your own name?"
His jaw stiffens before anything else, the slight smile falling from his lips, and then he's carefully releasing his nametag and wishing his eyes weren't as wide as he knows them to be as he slowly looks up.
He wonders, briefly, if somehow the stupid reading glasses have actually summoned Bahorel here. It's an extremely frustrating coincidence, in any case, and now he can't take them off, because doing that will let Bahorel now that he's the cause of Jehan's self-consciousness, and now his heart is pumping faster and his breath is too warm and he really, really wishes he could at least figure out why his reactions to Bahorel's presence tend to be so ridiculous. He breathes, or at least gets close to it, and straightens his shoulders, meeting those green eyes straight on with what he hopes is a confident enough gaze of his own.
"No, I was just... adjusting it," he mumbles, after taking far too long to remember what he'd even been asked in the first place.
"It's not even spelled right." And then the hand on the tag isn't his, and he has to suck in a quick breath of air and hold his lungs absolutely still as Bahorel twists the little plastic plaque, squinting at it as though the harsh white lights of the library aren't bright enough for him.
"I—well—that's my real name, I mean... that's how it's technically—"
"What sort of rubbish library doesn't even give you your preferred spelling?"
And of course his voice is as loud as always, carrying the phrase rubbish library right over to the desk of Jehan's senior worker, where it seems to settle directly onto her already furrowed brow, turning her face positively hawkish. Jehan sinks down a bit lower in his seat under her glare.
"It's not a rubbish library!" he hiss-whispers, voice rising almost to a squeak with agitation. "It's a brilliant library, and one that I'd really love to be able to keep working at, if only you'd leave me alone for five minutes!"
"I gave you five minutes. I gave you a day."
"Does Enjolras have anything else to say, or are you just... here?" He's getting desperate.
"Just here." Bahorel's hand, which has remained suspended just above Jehan's chest, suddenly jerks away, and then he's lacing his fingers together, pressing them into the counter and hunching in closer. His lips quirk with manic energy. "I'm curious, man. This whole library business... isn't it a bit stuffy, even for you? And do you even need a job? Your apartment is practically glitzy."
"You've never been to my apartment."
"Courfeyrac has."
"Do you just... get Courfeyrac to tell you things about me?"
"Jehan, darling, you flatter yourself. I do have interests outside of this little bookshop and its delightful blonde clerk."
"You really seem to imply the contrary."
"Getting feisty, now, are we?"
"Will you leave me alone?" he finally sighs, cutting the half-whispered back-and-forth to an abrupt halt. Bahorel looks almost offended, but Jehan doesn't give himself time to feel bad, because he's irritated, truly and genuinely upset with the other's refusal to just let him be. "Honestly. I come here to get away from you lot; there's no need to follow me."
The truth slips out unwillingly, and then his own thin fingers fly to his mouth in astonishment at how outright he was—he doesn't want them to know that he has to take a break every once in a while; they really are fantastic and lovely and he wants them to know that, but at the same time he's not going to lie, not now that he's said what he means. He hesitates, concerned, but Bahorel couldn't be less affected—or, if he is, he does a magnificent job of hiding it. His wide green eyes are as warm as ever, and surely the stiffness in his grin is imagined as he finally backs away, arms instinctively folding over his chest.
"Right, right. Not trying to harass you, flower, not a worry."
And then, quite suddenly, he's gone entirely, and Jehan is left staring at the wall like an idiot and mouthing the word flower like some foreign expletive.
Tuesday of the next week, Jehan is startled out of a pleasantly sleepy reverie by the thump of books hitting his counter.
He blinks his way into alertness, hastily taking in the sight before him. The spines, all hardcover and ranging in shade from pale green to dark maroon, are thick and numerous enough that they completely fill the space before him, obscuring the form of the person ridiculous enough to check them out. The letters along the spines generally seem to be titles of medical volumes, and the first thing that comes to mind as he reaches for his scanning device is Joly, though he also knows his friend to quite nearly detest libraries due to the "astounding prevalence of germs that those old books must surely hold after being shared so constantly and carelessly." It's nobody he knows, then, and with that in mind he begins to un-stack them, whipping the scanner over each barcode until it emits a light beep, then setting them aside.
With three volumes completed, he can see the customer's face.
Damn.
He pauses with a study of the nervous system clutched in his right hand, struggling to keep his mouth from falling open in surprise as Bahorel laughs far too loudly and drums his fingers over the thick covers of the books piled before him.
"I thought it would be rude to come again without explanation," he explains languidly, rolling his shoulders like a cat roused from a nap, "so I brought some books this time."
"You don't even study medicine," Jehan mumbles disbelievingly.
"No, but I don't really read books at all, as it is, and they were on the closest shelf."
He's torn somewhere between being humored and scandalized, and shakes his head slightly, setting the nervous system brick on the smaller pile between them. For a moment, he doesn't speak at all, simply considers the man across from him, then nods and stands up.
"Okay. Come with me."
"Come with you?" Bahorel repeats incredulously, tucking his hands into his pockets and skipping slightly backwards as Jehan rounds the desk and steps up to him. "Where? I thought I was checking out books."
"Books you aren't going to read," Jehan corrects softly, and he can actually feel a smile beginning to warm his cheeks, tentative but definite. "Really, it's almost offensive."
Bahorel's already arched eyebrows seem to lift even higher as Jehan reaches out and takes him by the edge of the dark jacket sleeve, fighting down the flush that purrs inside of him at the mere physical contact. He leads the way, solacing himself internally with the reminder that this technically is part of his job, and the other trips eagerly behind him as they make their way through the rows of tall shelves.
"The whole point of a library," Jehan coaches under his breath, fully relaxing amidst the sea of pages that soften everywhere he looks, "is that you can find what you want to read. There's something here for everyone."
"Nobody wants to read," Bahorel objects. "It's a chore."
Before he thinks about what he's doing, Jehan whips around, and the taller man almost crashes into him, stumbling in hasty surprise at the sudden movement. He keeps his hand on Bahorel's wrist, and the near-crash lands them centimeters away from each other, almost uncomfortably close, so that they're practically breathing the same air. A stray ginger lock half-obscures one of Bahorel's eyes, but otherwise they're completely clear, vivid and sparkling green. It's almost an abnormally gem-like color, and Jehan is inexplicably glad that he's actually wearing his stupid glasses, so that he can see every minute detail contained within the exquisite, feline irises.
"Reading," he reprimands, elevating his voice as much as he dares while keeping it constrained to a technical whisper, "is fantastic, and anyone who says otherwise is just flaunting their ignorance."
The emerald eyes widen in humored alarm at his assertiveness, but he doesn't feel the least bit of regret—just steps backwards and guides the hand still caught in his clutch to one of the spines on the shelf that they're next to now, laying Bahorel's fingers against it.
"There. Guillaume Apollinaire. Read it, it's beautiful."
"What is it?" He removes the book in an action laden with far too little respect, like its contents aren't worth just about all the wealth in the world, and lets it fall open. Columns of text march along the slightly yellowed pages, ink blotching in some areas. It's not an old copy, but it's worn, well-loved by the library's visitors. "Poetry?" Bahorel questions, sounding caught between disgust and apprehension.
"Yes, and some of the best out there," Jehan confirms, undisguised pride in his voice. Apollinaire is one of his favorites, after all, and he's never shared his works before, either. Courfeyrac is the only one who knows of Jehan's adoration, but he prefers to stick to novels, and Jehan can respect that. Bahorel, however—Bahorel, apparently, doesn't have any sort of reading preferences at all, and this is the absolutely perfect place to start him off. "Here," he says without thinking, "listen."
He takes the book back carefully, holding it like something a thousand times its value between delicately poised fingers. It's open to "Le pont Mirabeau," The Mirabeau Bridge—his favorite, by a coincidence that warms a smile onto his lips—and he plunges himself into the first of the words without thinking, letting the sounds drift off of his tongue in soft ripples.
"Sous le pont Mirabeau coule la Seine/ Et nos amours/ Faut-il qu'il m'en souvienne/ La joie venait toujours après la peine/ Vienne la nuit sonne l'heure/ Les jours s'en vont je demeure…"
Below Mirabeau Bridge flows River Seine/ Just like our loves./ Must one recall it to my mind that when/ Pain went away that joy would always come./ And when the night arrives and sounds its bell,/ The days are gone, but here I surely dwell…
He's so absorbed in the words that he lets everything else fade away, wound up in the taste of the syllables on his tongue and the soothing patterns of the ink on the page, letters and meanings flowing together to create utterly beautiful images, those that never fail to captivate and astonish his mind, even though he's read this particular poem hundreds, thousands of times before—has it tacked over his desk in his apartment with twenty others like it, where it warms him every morning and cools him every night. And the familiarity adds to it, even, helps to completely overtake him with the atmosphere that he imagines its original penning to take place in—a quiet little world painted of rich mahogany and golden candle flame, dried flowers and a crackling fireplace, silver pens and spun glass ink-pots—
Abruptly, he realizes that the sounds flowing over his tongue have died out, and that he's reached the end of the poem, done nothing but stare silently and affectionately at the page for the past several seconds. Embarrassed, he hastily shuts the book and pushes it into Bahorel's chest, stepping back.
Bahorel blinks, as if emerging from some sort of daze, himself, and for a moment, he looks almost vulnerable—the usual lazy smirk is nowhere in sight, and without it, his face is rendered young somehow. Not sad, only soft; innocent in a way that the most riotous member of the Amis de l'ABC never is.
"There," Jehan mumbles, managing to punctuate the single syllable with a forced cough. "Read it." He attempts to shoulder by, but is stopped almost instantly by warm fingers on his forearm, the touch of which sends an almost violent prickle down his scalp and spine.
"Hang on."
He looks back to see Bahorel grinning again—he can't decide whether the swoop in his stomach is disappointed or relieved. It is a nice smile, really, he recognizes, full and bright in a way that illuminates his entire face. And yet it has that strange effect of bringing Jehan's blood to a boil, and though the sensation isn't strictly unpleasant, it certainly can't be called anything close to relaxing.
"Read more to me."
"No," he forces out, ignoring the fact that Bahorel's words are actually the most tempting offer that could have possibly been presented, that he'd love nothing more than to sit down and crack open the book again and just go through it, weaving his way amongst the sentence fragments, sharing what he considers to be the most powerful, gorgeous thing on the planet.
But he can't, because this is the real world, and he has a job, not to mention a booked course of college classes—besides, the last thing he needs, as he tells himself insistently, is more of Bahorel in his life. The heavy, unsuspecting doses that he does receive are stressful enough. "No, I can't, I—"
"Hey, I mean it. Sometime—are you open tonight? Courf and Com have a boatload of studying ahead of them, so Enjolras isn't even trying to get everyone together until Saturday. Come get dinner with me—the Musain's good for more than just wine—then we can head back to my apartment and you can read to me. I'd love to listen."
He gapes.
Because there's really no other way to react—the words are spoken so easily that he almost mistakes their meaning, but as he finds himself running them over and over again in his mind, the significance grows more and more utterly unmistakable. There's no denying what Bahorel is asking, but it's so unexpected, here and now and from this person, that he finds the need for clarification tumbling out of his mouth before he has the time to even consider the blatancy of what he's saying.
"Are you asking me out on a date?"
The smile twitches up even more fully, and Bahorel settles one hand on his waist, the other still firmly gripping the poem book. Jehan is suddenly vividly aware of just how tall he is. "Sure."
"I—I'm busy," and those words are the same as the ones before, escaped from his lips before he has the time to consider whether he wants them to be spoken or not. Because he's not busy—well, there's research to do for a psychology paper, but it really won't take more than an hour, so it's a weak excuse. And yet this, this is so utterly out of the blue, and he honestly doesn't think he can bear the stress of all it carries with it, not on top of everything else—everything else, of course, being practically nothing; but he is easily harried.
"All week?"
"Indefinitely." It's practically a squeak.
"Aw, shame. I'll have to try again later, then, won't I?" And he's cuffed over the ear with the book—not painfully at all, but a light, playful motion, and Bahorel squeezes past him with a whiff of air that smells oddly like spiced orange. "Hey, librarian, do me a favor and check this book out for me."
Even with the added pull of the summons, it takes him several seconds—several long, burning seconds, during which he realizes that he's practically suffocating under the weight of his own breath—to actually make his feet move again.
"You know there's a… return slot right out front, right? And another place to dump them… up by the doors. You don't need to talk to an actual librarian at all, really."
"Sure, but I need some sort of excuse to chat with you. We both know what happens when I come up here without books in my hands—it makes you look sort of like an anxious cat, really. I swear your hair fluffs up."
They're standing on opposite sides of the counter once more, only the next day, and Jehan, ignoring the dead giveaways of his cheeks' flush and his voice's tremble, is attempting to seem as if nothing whatsoever passed between them the previous day, or even like Bahorel is any other customer at all, not one that seems determined to come in and drive him insane every day, let alone one who—who asked him out on a date, but he's still not thinking about it. He's strictly forbidden himself from even letting the contemplation cross his mind. Which, of course, hasn't worked—if anything, has only caused him to unwillingly obsess yet more—but it's not exactly a bad thing to dwell on, even gives his stomach an extra excited twist every time his thoughts touch on it, and that's rather nice to have, actually.
"My hair doesn't do anything." He places his palms flat on his knees, feels their sweat through the thin corduroy barrier. Then, in his constant attempt to avoid Bahorel's fern-green gaze, his eyes suddenly settle on the object between them—sure enough, it's the book of poems, being returned already. Vexation pummels his chest. "I told you to read it," he sighs, breaking through his petty acting and looking up with his mouth downturned and his eyebrows drawn tight together.
"I did read it," Bahorel replies, and Jehan, with a tiny starry shock, suddenly processes the heavy shadows under the redhead's eyes, powerful underscores that suggest no sleep at all. "Kept me up almost all night, but I read it. Like you said—beautiful stuff."
He blinks. "You read the complete Apollinaire in a night."
"Alright, it'd be cheating to say I did. I fell asleep at two-thirty, but got up at six to finish the rest of it this morning."
Jehan's fingers clench and then loosen, and his lips press tightly together, almost miffed at Bahorel's speed. It is impressive—very impressive, in fact, enough to render him momentarily speechless, but he doesn't dwell on it externally, just nods mutely and takes the book without another objection, tucking it behind the counter to return it later. Its heaviness seems to mock him.
"You know," he mumbles, almost defensively, "it would have been better if you savored it."
"I still want to hear you read more. You've got a nice voice, flower."
"Don't call me that." He suddenly notes how dry his throat is, and proceeds to swallow forcibly, keeping his head down. In actuality, he doesn't mind the nickname at all, but some part of him insists that it's just a bit too endearing, that he shouldn't encourage it unless he plans on getting Bahorel's hopes up again. And of course he doesn't intend to get his hopes up at all, because what Bahorel wants—and now that's obvious, really, in every one of his motions—he's not going to get, because Jehan has no idea how to offer it. Simple as that.
The rapid pace of his heart suggests that it's anything but simple, and he hastily swallows again, as if doing so will somehow calm it.
"Apologies. Hey—they got your name right!"
"What?" He looks up again in confusion at the sudden delight in Bahorel's voice—which is still far too loud, he hasn't done anything to hush himself despite how many times Jehan has attempted to remind him that they are in a library—to see the verdant eyes gleaming with pleasant surprise, and fixated on something just below his own chin. He glances down and is rewarded by the sight of his nametag, new as of this morning. Jehan P, it reads, the extra letter impossible to miss.
"Oh, yeah… my boss, Madame Villeneuve, she heard you bring it up the other day and was actually nice enough to give it to me… honestly, though, I think that it was more of a warning than anything else."
"A warning, huh?"
"She was reminding me that she can, um… hear you talking. In a… subtle way, I guess."
"Hear me talking." Bahorel snickers, then sneaks a glance over his shoulder at the very Mme. Villeneuve in question, gray-haired and frowning as usual from the desk on the other side of the slim entry hall. "Because that's violating the fundamental laws of book places, of course. Do librarians even have bosses?" he questions as an afterthought, but Mme. Villeneuve has just managed to catch Jehan's eye in a way that could definitely be considered a warning, and he reaches out, pushing slightly on Bahorel's bicep.
"Right, you've returned your book, now get out of here."
"Before your boss comes and murders me?"
"Before my boss stops being my boss, you idiot. Now hurry up and go!"
He's still laughing as he leaves.
The next day, Jehan is already watching the door as three o' clock ticks its way around—it's the time, he's noticed, that Bahorel tends to drop by; most likely just after the end of one of his classes. He doesn't quite know whether or not he wants him to come, but he's confident enough that he will—he's made four visits in the past week and a half, after all, and two of them have been the consecutive previous days, so there's really no question as to whether he'll come. In fact—rather unwillingly—Jehan has been preparing himself for it, considering Bahorel and Apollinaire, wondering what other poets he might be interested in if he really did read the other book in one night (something that Jehan is still struggling to comprehend, even after it was quite solidly confirmed.) He doesn't know if he's looking forward to or dreading the inevitable visit, but he's certainly excited in one way or another, enough so that he glances up at every tiny sound, feels a light shove of what could be disappointment just as easily as relief when he spots no glimpse of red hair and green eyes flashing through the glass doors.
By the time three-thirty arrives, he's begun to convince himself that he's being ridiculous, and that the only reason Bahorel came two days in a row before was to return the book, that he doesn't have any reason to come now and that it's completely ridiculous for Jehan to be teased apart by the doldrums of abandonment just because he hasn't turned up. If anything, he deserves to be relaxed at the break, and yet the opposite can't help but occur, accompanied by anxious little doubts that prick his stomach and throat—what if he was too rude last time? Or if turning down his first offer of a date had been enough to extinguish that spark of interest entirely, if it's dissolved into apathy despite the fact that Bahorel supposedly was going to "try again…"
At three thirty-four, a plastic cup of iced coffee is set on the counter in front of him.
He feels himself smiling as he looks up, instantly recognizing the spiced orange scent that warms his sinuses. Bahorel stands over him with his arms folded, a second takeaway cup clutched in one hand, eyebrows high and mouth quirked.
"Miss me?"
"Of course not," Jehan replies evenly, eyeing the milky brown liquid. Ice cubes press against the thin plastic, hints of condensation forming on the outside and tempting his achingly dry throat. He suddenly becomes far too aware of just how heavy the sun is; even though it doesn't touch him within the building, it assaults the wide windows with no lack of intensity. "What's this about?"
"Oh, nothing big. Just me courting you—it's all very traditional, you know, for the prince to give the princess gifts and all... try to win over her affections."
Jehan pretends that the words, now incredibly outright, don't cause a swift quaver in his stomach. "You're far from a prince," he replies simply, and leans forwards, setting his elbows on the counter as his hands close around the cup. It's refreshingly cool to the touch. He isn't sure why he's suddenly so comfortable, but something about Bahorel's arrival really has done more to soothe than upset him, and he has no reason not to express it.
"You'd be thinking differently if you gave me the chance to show you otherwise, flower."
For some strange reason, he doesn't correct the absurd nickname this time, but instead takes a slow sip of the coffee. It's bitter—though, of course, nothing better can be expected. Excessive time spent in the company of men like Enjolras and Combeferre has exposed Jehan to his share of coffee, and also given him ample reason to dislike its heavy, acerbic flavor. He says nothing to Bahorel, though, because it's still nice to have something cool what with the late-summer heat cloaking the building, and he's not the type to look a gift horse in the mouth, anyways.
"Good?" Bahorel checks.
"Decent. Tea is nicer," he murmurs, keeping his head low but still unable to shake the slight smile on his face.
"Tea. I'll keep that in mind for next time."
Next time. The thought is enough to widen his smile, and Bahorel leans in closer, until their foreheads are inches away. The green eyes across from him are wide with delighted amusement. "What're you grinning about?"
"Mm... nothing." He drinks again, swallowing quickly, and tips his chin up to get a glance over the top of Bahorel's head. Mme. Villeneuve, thankfully, seems to be ignoring them for the time being, occupied as she is by a harried-looking student with a massive pile of books to check out. Good, since he's positive that he's not meant to have any sort of liquid other than water in the library. A couple of days ago, he'd probably be extremely anxious about sticking to the rules, himself, but he feels freer now, looser somehow. Healthy, probably, for a man who labels himself as a rebel (revolutionary, even, if Enjolras's archaic terms are to be considered even somewhat seriously).
"Alright, then; you've got your refreshment, I've done my princess-courting. How's your schedule looking now?"
Jehan goes so far as to lift his eyebrows at Bahorel's cockiness. "You're being... outright," he gets out, merely because there's no plainer way to phrase it, and his words are flowing far less easily with the new blockage that's suddenly found a home between his chest and his throat.
"Yeah, I'm an outright guy. Plus, I like to know if I've got any chance at all, or if I'm completely wasting my time. Don't want to end up another moony-eyed idiot caught trailing after a pretty blonde, do I?"
Pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty, pretty. "Um."
"I won't press, though. Tea, right? Maybe that'll get me points. By the way, Courf says it sounds like there won't be much anything to turn up for tonight—Enjolras has actually prepared a speech this time, which probably means that it'll be about seventy times more tedious than his little spur-of-the-moment rants. It won't be worth your time, trust me. You'll save yourself a lot of pain if you stay back to study or something."
And then, in the usual sudden flicker, he's gone entirely, and Jehan is left with an odd sort of emptiness in his stomach, a rocking hollow cavity that not even several long, brain-freezing gulps of coffee fill.
"I told you not to come."
The voice is bitter, stricken, carrying none of its usual humorous resonance, and the face matches completely. Bahorel's lips are dry and chapped, his heavy jaw unshaven, and a brilliantly purple bruise stains the left side of his face, darkening his cheekbone and swelling one emerald eye almost entirely shut. He looks awful, but not nearly as bad as he did the previous night, before Joly managed to suspend his own panic and at least clean up the gash in Bahorel's cheek that had been ominously oozing blood. He hadn't been allowed to do much more, however, due to both Bahorel and Grantaire's demands that more attention be given to the equally battered Enjolras, and the cutoff of his remedies is now far too clear in the ghastly coloration that spans Bahorel's skin today.
"You shouldn't be here," Jehan breathes in response, his fingers automatically twitching towards his friend's injured complexion before he hastily pulls them away. "You… you look awful." It's absurd that Bahorel should resolutely show up at the stupid library even after sustaining such massive injuries the previous night—even Jehan himself considered taking a day off from mere exhaustion, though he hadn't personally sustained any damage after the riot—something which, incidentally, could almost entirely be owed to Bahorel's own defense of him.
"I told you not to come!" Bahorel repeats, his voice straining—Jehan realizes, quite suddenly, that he's actually been trying to keep it quiet, something that he usually seems to be considered below his efforts.
"You said that it was going to be boring," Jehan returns just as sharply, "not that they were planning to fight!"
"Because you would have come if I said otherwise. Hell, you came anyways, so it's not as if I did any good at—" He cuts off suddenly, a hand flying to his jaw in what appears to be pained reflex. He's stretched one of the scabbed cuts too far, and as Jehan watches in dismay, a fresh trickle of blood works its way out.
"You're a mess," he whispers, and then, without farther ado, he finds himself on his feet, hurrying around the counter and gripping Bahorel by the forearm. "Come on."
"What—"
"Come on."
And Mme. Villeneuve is probably glaring, of course, but he doesn't care—fore all she knows, Bahorel is the foolish victim of some sort of bar fight; she's got no idea just how brave he was the previous night, how many others he took on. It had been hard to see in the dead of night—for black it had been, darkness swathing their faces and hiding them from the law enforcement that arrived minutes in, lit only by the flames in the trash cans that a few of them ignited with their passionate shouts—and, even now, the sounds and images, warped as they are by the hours standing between now and then, are aggravating, frightening enough to jerk up his heart rate. Still, he pays them no regard, instead setting his jaw and guiding Bahorel resolutely towards the bathroom.
They're the only ones inside when he pushes the door open, something that he's more than grateful for, and as soon as they're both in, he reaches under his shirt to where his employee's keys are kept, fingering them carefully. There, the small silver one—that's to the men's bathroom, he recognizes, and proceeds to lock the door calmly.
Bahorel's voice, beneath its rustiness, sounds like it's trying to be joking. "Should I be alarmed?"
"Nobody wants to see you wrecked like this," Jehan shoots back, moving to the paper towel dispenser and helping himself to a large number of them, which he then proceeds to run under a stream of cold water. "It's really ridiculous that you came here at all."
"I had to talk to you."
"Could've talked to me last night." He turns off the faucet, keeping his head down. The towels are heavy and sodden in his hand.
"I didn't really get the chance to."
It's true enough; there wasn't time to do much of anything last night. Sighing, Jehan turns back, directing Bahorel towards the counter with a wave of his hand. "Sit down," he instructs.
The eyebrows lift. "Why?"
"So that I can try and put your stupid face back together. Come on, you don't need to be all... high and mighty around me, alright? I just want to help you. And I know that you're strong and resilient and all that, but you do have blood dripping down your face, so it would be in both of our best interests if you'd just go with me here."
Bahorel glances over at the mirror, and looks almost delighted to discover that there is indeed a stream of scarlet now reaching nearly to the corner of his lips. Without another word of protest, he half-limps over and heaves himself onto the sink-pitted counter, shoulders hunched so that his battered face stays within Jehan's reach.
Jehan, biting the edge of his lip in careful concentration, reaches up and begins to dab carefully at the fresh stream of blood. There are some other dried remnants as well, clustered around Bahorel's lips and dotting his hairline, and he's careful to swab away at all of them, ignoring the fact that the brown paper towel is dark red with alarming swiftness.
"You should have let Joly do more… it's not good to sleep with all this," he sighs.
"Enjolras was worse. At least I was still on my feet, right? And you saw R, he probably would have had some sort of stroke if Joly had waited out on our lovely leader any longer."
"At least Enjolras—" Jehan begins, ready to mention that their "lovely leader" would have the sense to stay home for a day or two after being so physically devastated. He realizes halfway through voicing the reprimand that it's entirely untrue, and cuts himself off, frowning in dissatisfaction. Bahorel manages to get out a wincing laugh.
"Shut up, that's making it worse." He tosses the first wad of paper towels and churns out a second.
"It's really not that bad, flower." A warm hand stops his, heavier fingers suspending his light ones. "You're overreacting."
"I'm not! If you're going to storm into my library like this, you have to expect that I'm going to work at least a little bit to fix you up! Now please don't complain anymore—please," he repeats as Bahorel opens his mouth to object. Jehan is suddenly aware of the desperation in his own voice, the fervent need for Bahorel to keep his head on and his mouth shut and just get better. He lifts his free fingers and presses them lightly to the other's bruised lips, their other hands still clasped together. "It was scary seeing that last night—seeing you, hurt. It… it terrified me, okay?"
And he doesn't mean to say it, doesn't want to communicate how he was just as silently desperate over Bahorel as Grantaire had been over Enjolras and Joly over Bossuet; it makes him look foolish, after all, fainthearted, and the truth is that he's anything but, and yet the vision really had chilled him and sickened him, and if that truth is the only way to get Bahorel to stay quiet, then so be it.
"…Okay," the redhead agrees softly, and says nothing more. Jehan, exhaling in relief, lowers his hand and begins to work at the injuries again, carefully clearing away the rusted scarlet crusting around the splits in his skin. Almost none of them are clean cuts, since much more had been done last night with fists than actual weapons, something that he finds vaguely aggravating. He finds himself talking as he works, murmuring stupid, pointless things just to fill the silence.
"It's not your job to protect me, anyways, and you don't have to act like it is. I joined this… this rebellion, or revolution, or whatever shallow title they're giving it… for a reason. I'm willing to fight. I know that it can get violent… it's pointless, really, to try and keep me away from it."
He realizes then that Bahorel's burning eyes are fixated on his lips, and his cheeks heat, but he keeps talking. "And it was… nice of you, I mean, of course it was, so thank you, I guess. I'm just telling you that—that you don't have to. Try and keep me away from these things, that is. And you don't have to protect me once we're there, either… I can—I can take care of myself, I really can." He catches his own pale reflection in the mirror just then, and is struck by how clear and unmarred his skin is in contrast to Bahorel's. It's true—not a single fist landed on him throughout the fiery fight, due almost entirely to the stronger man standing resolutely in front of him. "And I would have been alright with a few bruises myself… especially if it meant you had fewer… you didn't need to take them on whenever they came near me, that was also stupid—"
Suddenly, there are fingers under his chin, steadying it and causing his words to trail off rather abruptly. He blinks as Bahorel leans in closer, and the flush is back with the proximity of those gem-like irises, as brilliant as ever despite the patchy bruising around them.
"I don't care if it was stupid," Bahorel breathes, orange spice touching Jehan's lips with his warm breath. "I'm glad I did it."
There really is no response to that. So, when Bahorel releases his jaw and sits up straighter again, he wipes away the rest of the blood in complete silence.
And this time, for some inexplicable reason, the lack of words doesn't bother him.
"Tea," Bahorel announces Wednesday of the next week, depositing a cold cup of just that on the counter with no lack of pride. "As you requested."
Jehan feels a smile warm his cheeks, and reaches out to take the cup immediately. Ice cubes swirl within it, but this time they're surrounded by translucent amber rather than murky brown, and the taste that rewards him as his lips curl around the straw is far from bitter. Iced tea is utterly delicious, and this seems to be a particularly excellent variety—not too sweet like so many are. He'll have to ask Bahorel what exactly he got, but at the moment he's too busy inhaling as much of the liquid as possible.
"Careful there, or I'll have to call a lifeguard," Bahorel teases.
"Shut up," he half-gasps, finally resurfacing. "It's delicious."
"Good, that was the idea." He takes a swig of his own drink—cold coffee as before—and Jehan allows himself a moment to carefully observe his face. Last week's bruises are mostly faded, though a shadow still dulls one eye in a demi-raccoon effect, and it's clear that he can grin without paining himself once more, an ability that he uses to its highest advantage. He looks… good. Handsome, even—and that thought is jarring, since Jehan has never taken the time before to consider whether the man so resolutely attempting to date him is actually good-looking. But he is, in a heavy, broad-shouldered way; really more the knight than the prince, but impressive all the same. His bronzed throat moves as he gulps the coffee, and Jehan, suddenly aware of how hard he's staring, looks away quickly.
"Let's see, then," Bahorel considers aloud—very aloud, his brash tones predictably disrupting the relative peace of the library. "I didn't get a direct answer last time—in fact, I'd say you haven't given me any at all, just that ridiculous babble about scheduling or whatever. So: you? Me? Musain? Reading?"
"I—I can't," he stammers out instinctively, almost choking on the tea that he's just sucked in another swallow of. He coughs for a moment, making sure to clear out his lungs out entirely before speaking again. "I…" His mind is reeling. Because he really has no excuse, not even to himself—at this point, he's turning him down more due to reflex than anything else, and perhaps that's foolish, maybe he should actually give himself a second to consider the offer before it's gone—though, to be fair, it probably won't be disappearing any time remotely soon, judging by what he's received so far.
"Aw, really? Shame, I was starting to get my hopes up, too." It's impossible to tell whether he's genuinely offended or just prodding, but it manages to wrack Jehan with guilt effectively enough either way. "It's been too long since I've seen those reading glasses on you."
"The glasses aren't even—" he begins, but is abruptly cut off by the harsh click of high-heeled shoes, ominously approaching his counter. He realizes all at once how loud they've both been, and clamps his jaws shut hastily, but it's far too late.
Mme. Villeneuve is remarkably short next to Bahorel, but that doesn't diminish her intimidating air whatsoever. Her thin-pressed lips and sharp nose, combined with the greying mouse-brown hair pulled tight against her skull in what looks like an ache-worthy bun, give her the overall appearance of a scrawny hawk.
"Monsieur Prouvaire," she hisses, her own tones scratchy but harboring an impressively low decibel count. "This is quite enough. I am going to request that your friend exit the premises immediately if he's unable to keep his voice at a reasonable level. Your shouting has carried on for far too long, young man," she goes on, turning to jab a sharp fingernail directly at the startled-looking Bahorel's breastbone. "And you are only permitted inside my library again if you have the sense and the brains to actually borrow a book."
Jehan's lips immediately spill over with profuse apologies, flowing with such haste that the individual words are barely distinguishable, but Villeneuve silences him with a raised hand, her dark eyes narrow and cold. "Outside," she instructs, and that's all the prompting he needs to flee around the counter, seize Bahorel's hand in his and tug the taller man after him. The two of them awkwardly half-walk, half-dash towards the glass doors, and Jehan pushes Bahorel out, only briefly feeling the blast of late-summer heat on his own face.
"Check out a book next time!" he calls out frantically.
Bahorel, already having darted several yards away, turns around and lopes backwards for a few paces to flash a grin and a wave. He looks nice out here, too, with his hair illuminated like flames under the beat of the midday sun and his teeth glinting white, everything about his figure rangy and robust, yet somehow dashing all the same.
Jehan's ensuing head shake is either exasperated or fond, and he doesn't take the time to figure out which. As he shuts the door and heads back to his now-quiet counter, there's no doubt that the cozy, butterscotch-hued glow tickling within him is from far more than the sun.
He doesn't know quite what he's expecting the next day, whether he imagines that Bahorel actually will turn up in search of a book or will instead choose to stay away entirely. Mme. Villeneuve, in any case, looks irritatingly satisfied as the clock clicks into three-fifteen, the time that's become normal for him; her beady eyes seem to gleam with triumph even from across the room when Jehan chances a look at her desk, and her hands are folded almost primly in front of her.
Something about the attitude rubs his fur the wrong way, and he huffs out a disappointed breath, fingering the spine of his notebook. Its pages are newly full—over the past few days, it's amassed hundreds of more words, inking its lines and crowding its margins, in blue and black and red and any other color of pen that he can get his hands on. His personal poetry has always been there, in a way, managing to remain an important factor in his life without entirely taking over it, and yet recently he's been near-obsessing, filled as he is with this inexplicable sunburst of inspiration, driving him to continue jotting down rhymes and verses late into the night, until, once or twice, he fell asleep at the desk in his apartment, waking up in utter confusion to the blare of the radio several hours later.
Bahorel has turned up within the poems a couple of times, as well—or perhaps more than a couple; even Jehan himself can't quite tell, for he's never mentioned by name, only called forth through the vague brackets of delicate word choice, selections of phrases detailing ginger hair and fern-green eyes and wide smiles that could belong to no other. Perhaps that's what's driving him, and maybe it's obvious—a thought which, somehow, only spikes him with giddiness.
That giddiness peaks as he spares a glance over towards the doors and is rewarded with the sight of a tall figure lounging against them, back to the interior but topped with a fringe of red hair that renders his identity unmistakable. Jehan forces the automatic grin on his face into something more tame as he scoops up his belongings and hurries over to Mme. Villeneuve's desk.
"I have to head out early, if that's alright," he mumbles, taming his beam towards the look of an apologetic grimace. "I'm really sorry—there's somebody I have to talk to, but I promise I'll come back on time in the future, I just—"
"Better to talk to him out there than in here," Villeneuve sniffs, rolling her eyes. She's clearly annoyed, but nothing more severe than that. "For goodness's sake, M. Prouvaire, do be careful not to get yourself hurt with that excitement of yours. And do keep in mind," she whisper-shouts after him as he nods his gratitude and starts off at a quick sprint, "that you won't be receiving any pay for your missed hours!"
He barely hears her, but instead hits the doors as quickly as possible, shoving them open and tripping into the sunlight in a thoroughly ungraceful motion. He nearly loses his balance, but steadies himself with a grab at the handle, straightening up and squinting in the sunlight. It takes him less than a second to focus on Bahorel, standing only a few feet away and watching him with the exact same expression that Courfeyrac tends to assume when confronted with an online cat video.
"Steady," he teases, holding up the cup of iced tea that Jehan's come to expect.
Jehan accepts it gratefully. "Sorry, I—" It strikes him that there really is no reason for his haste, and he mumbles another laughing "sorry," bending down to assume a loose-legged sitting position on the wide steps. The concrete is pleasantly warm, out of the direct light but still heated enough for the tea to be a deliciously quenching relief. Bahorel drops next to him, scooping up his coffee and taking a long swig as well.
"Don't apologize," he snickers. An overgrown lock of hair hangs down his forehead, partially obscuring his eye. "It's adorable."
Adorable. Jehan cools his potential flush with a steady gulp of tea. "I'm glad you decided to come back, anyways," he goes on, perfectly aware of just how much of an understatement it really is.
"I'd say so. Assuming that you wouldn't skip out on your precious library shift for just anyone, and all."
"I wouldn't," he confirms honestly, and it feels so good to say it, just to get it all out in the open.
"I'll take that as a compliment, then."
"You take everything as a compliment."
"Does wonders to the ego."
"Your ego doesn't need wonders done to it."
"True enough." He sets the coffee cup down, then, and Jehan follows suit, though he's not exactly sure why. A couple of cars roar by on the street, their silver and blue metallic coronas glittering. It really is the perfect summer day, of the type that they likely won't be getting many more of before autumn sets in, and he's stupidly overjoyed that he did come out of the library—as peaceful as the atmosphere within it is, he's starting to believe that too much air conditioning can definitely get to one's head.
"Speaking of which," Bahorel continues, "I'm still waiting for a proper answer. Now that your little old lady isn't letting me in… it looks like we'll need to take a different approach if you want to keep, you know, talking." His eyebrows lift at the word talking, and Jehan feels a bright boldness rising up inside of himself all at once.
"Yes," he says, his fingers tightening on the notebook still clutched in one hand, simultaneously seeking motivation and reassurance within its tight binding. "I—I'll go on a… I'll go to the Musain with you. Um—just us. Like you've been saying."
It couldn't possibly have been said more clumsily, and, not for the first time, Jehan curses himself for the fact that his penned eloquence never manages to realize itself verbally. And yet, at least to Bahorel, the meaning of his words seems dazzlingly clear, and those ridiculous green eyes contain nothing but triumph.
"Score!" he cheers, throwing a fist into the air before bringing his hand down to ruffle Jehan's hair gently. "Call it tomorrow night, then? Seven o' clock, I can get us that table with all the potted plants around it. That's your favorite, right?"
It is, indeed, the seat that Jehan always heads for when the Amis meet, and he nods quickly, delight bubbling up inside of him. "Perfect," he agrees, and he doesn't even know exactly what he's responding to—it's the taste of the tea, and the warm face across from him, and the hand still barely touching his hair, and the thought of the night ahead of them, and the thought that he's finally found someone who he can share his poems with. All of it. "Absolutely perfect."