Jehan always had a habit of writing on things that originally weren't intended to be written on. His own jeans and oversized sleeves, books with frayed doggy-ears, and the skin of anyone who was near him (his own included) all became frequent victims, while the layers of near empty journals laid in the crook between his night table and bed.

It wasn't until he had begun writing on the walls of his apartment that a small intervention had taken place.

He had come back from class one afternoon to a note and a small wrapped box plainly sitting on his kitchen table. The wrapping paper, adorned bowties and mustaches, could only mean refer to one person: Courfeyrac. The ironically legible handwriting scrawled on the note only confirmed his suspicions. Jehan grinned and let his fingers play with the purple bow on top as he read the note.

Writing in pen on walls that won't be ours forever could only result in painting over it—and who wants to silence a poet…? xx

Enjoy :)

Courf

Jehan's olive green eyes dusted over the letter again (and don't think he didn't take pleasure in the 'ours forever' that made his heart flutter) and landed on the oddly swaddled present. Jehan shrugged, with an adorably lopsided grin, and carefully unwrapped the paper.

The dimples grew in sync with his smile.

"Crayola Washable Wall Markers," he said aloud, giggling at the admittedly clever present.

The only reason Jehan had come home was to grab his English book for his next class, but he quickly tore the packaged cardboard from the markers and uncapped the green one. In loopy, almost indecipherable handwriting, the vanilla wall just above the kitchen table acquired another piece of Jehan's thoughts that afternoon.

You touch my life with your kindness;
You know just what I need.
Your loving heart shows its caring
In your every thought and deed.

Courfeyrac knew the instanthe saw those washable markers they were perfect.

Of course, he was right. He'd come to the apartment later that night to Jehan's poem on the wall and laughed to himself, grabbing the trash Jehan hadn't thought to throw away and chucked it in the trashcan.

Now, months later, their walls were almost covered in poems, phrases, and pledges. The initial thank you poem was still inscribed above the table and both Jehan and Courfeyrac planned on keeping it. The whole house was characterized by the poet's exercitations. Courfeyrac had made a tendency himself of writing words of appraisal under Jehan's older poems, or simply silly phrases in general (see: 'have a nice piss' above the toilet. Courfeyrac had been drunk when he wrote it and thought it was hilarious). Jehan never noticed the admiral thoughts, always too involved in the twists and ribbons of his own mind when scribbling hastily on the walls.

It wasn't until two weeks and three days ago that Courfeyrac knew exactly how to propose to Jean Prouvaire. He had even talked to Enjolras, Combeferre, and even Grantaire (when he listened) at the café about his preparations and they all thought it was ideal. They'd helped calm his uncharacteristically jittery nerves and constant twiddling of pens during these meetings, but Courfeyrac couldn't help it. Every word hiccupped with excitement.

"It's Jehan," Combeferre had reassured him. "It's very thoughtful and unique, and even if it doesn't go through, it's still wonderful. It's Jehan," he repeated, calming the pen Courfeyrac had been tapping against his book.

And now Courfeyrac has the green marker in his right hand and he's tapping it harshly against the kitchen table. It's green, Jehan's favorite color. In his left hand is a small box, just small enough that he can wrap his entire hand around it so it wouldn't fall if he was shaking too much. He fixes his bowtie (take note, a dark purple) and shoves the box into the pocket of his black jeans.

With a flourish and a deep breath, he begins writing on the wall. It's on the one that acts as a barrier between the dining room and bedroom.

The first door noticeable when one walks through the front door.

Courfeyrac finishes the scribbling quickly. He doesn't want to change it, make it look pretty—it wouldn't be him if he were to edit it. A glance is stolen to the clock – 7:40 – and the five minutes of incessant marker tapping and waiting that he endures before Jehan walks through the door later nearly convinces him to call it all off.

But he doesn't. He can't.

Courfeyrac greets his boyfriend with a brief kiss on the lips and Jehan throws his books on the counter with a loud, dull thud. He immediately begins rambling about the new English assignment he'd been given and how it would take a great chunk of free time from his weekend while rummaging through his sac to find his cell phone when he finally, finally looks up.

The words in his mouth freeze. No, Courfeyrac notices, they don't freeze; they diminish and linger on the tip of the tongue as his voice catches in his throat. A blush immediately rises to his cheeks and ears and nose and illuminates his freckles when he gradually notices the position Courfeyrac had taken a few feet in front of him.

Green script. Vanilla walls. Purple bowties and floral jeans.

Courfeyrac on one knee, dark velvet box open to reveal a ring.

'Marry me?'

And Jehan grins and meets Courfeyrac's eyes shyly—his lips turning up and his smile illuminating the whole room, just as Courfeyrac likes it – and stumbles to the closest marker lying on the floor, falling to knees just before the wall.

'Yes.'