*Two months before*
"So this is it?" Courfeyrac grins, placing his suitcase onto the floor. "We're in for a great year lads."
"Courf?" Enjolras sighs, cocking his head to the side.
"Hmm?"
"This place isn't for parties."
"It's not just for studying either though."
"Courfeyrac is right," Combeferre smiles. "You got away with all-nighters in the student accommodation last year, but we're not letting you work for longer than two hours at a time, my friend."
There's no point explaining to him; he's a workaholic at heart, and he has no intentions of changing that any time soon. During his first year of university, he insisted on reading ahead and going past what was asked of him, and now that he's in his second year he's already decided that this practice is something he's going to repeat. His friends may protest against it, but no matter what they say, he genuinely enjoys spending the majority of his time writing essays or revising; he's fervently passionate about the subject of law, so it doesn't feel work to him.
But that had been in his first year; just a week into another term, and the workload has tripled. It's physically impossible for him to exceed the quota, but it doesn't stop him from trying. Whilst Courfeyrac -who is also in his second year of studying law- spends very little of his time in the house, Enjolras is almost always glued to his desk with his head buried in a book or his hand scribbling furiously. He won't admit it, but he's struggling. With all the pressure, he's struggling to get the basic minimum finished.
"Remind me again why you're going out tonight?" Enjolras asks Courfeyrac.
"It's freshers week," Courfeyrac looks at his friend as if he's just grown two heads.
"Gee, you're a first year?"
"Remind me again why you're writing an essay that's due for next month?" Courfeyrac laughs, poking out his tongue.
"Next week actually."
"Shit, seriously?"
"We're not in first year any more, Courf," he smiles and gets up, squeezing his friend's shoulders as he walks by. "Maybe you should start your own essay instead of partying with the young'uns?"
Courfeyrac doesn't listen, grinning widely as he wanders out of the door. He wasn't planning on taking advantage of 'freshers week', but cheap drinks in the Musain-the student union bar- and the Corinthe-the lunch hall on the floor below- are something he's not going to pass up. And besides, it's not as if his roommates are going to be very good company; it's impossible to get Enjolras to relax and have a good time, and Combeferre has work most nights even after a full day of university.
He realises quickly that the Corinthe is empty(which is a shame, because when full it can be one of his favourite party venues), but smiles when he realises that the Musain is full to the brim. Drunk freshers stumble around, screaming and singing and dancing wildly across the floor. He grins, remembering that this was him the year before; poor Combeferre literally had to peel him off the floor, and that was just the first day of the wild week. He's not the only one taking advantage of the event; art student Grantaire- one of Courfeyrac's drinking buddies- greets him by the bar, handing him a cup of the half-price alcohol.
"I swear, this wasn't as fun last year," Grantaire calls out, shouting over the thumping of the music. "Too bad Joly and Bossuet bailed on us tonight."
"Screw them," Courfeyrac grins, accepting the drink. "Coming to dance?"
"Come on then."
Grantaire- having danced seriously throughout the duration of his life- reserves his more technical dance skills for off the dance floor. Despite his talents, he resorts straight towards the dancy style which can only be described as 'dad-dancing'. As he starts shuffling side to side waving his hands in the air, Courfeyrac begins to distance himself from his friend. Walking- well, moonwalking- backwards, he collides with someone and falls to the ground with an almighty thud.
"I'm... I'm so sorry-..." he stumbles, jumping to his feet and helping the other man to get up.
He's not usually so shy, yet there's something about the man in front of him which robs the words from his throat and silences him. The other man smiles, sorting his thick strawberry blond braid so that it sits on his shoulder.
"No... it's fine," he smiles gently. "It's absolutely fine."
"Courfeyrac," his confidence quickly returns as the man's gentle nature confirms that he isn't going to be earning a punch to the face.
"Jean Prouvaire," he holds out his hand for Courfeyrac to shake. "But you can call me Jehan."
"Come on, let's go somewhere quieter."
They seek solace in the Corinthe, taking a seat in the darker area with their drinks in their hand. Courfeyrac grins widely, not even having to resort to his usual seduction skills to lure in this man; he's already smiling like a madman in response to his new curly haired acquaintance. It's as if something has clicked in Jean Prouvaire; as if this goofy looking man is somehow the man he's been destined to meet. They get talking instantly; about TV shows, music, clothing, films, everything. Courfeyrac could listen to Jehan's voice all day; it's gentle, like the dulcet tones of a guitar honed into a human voice; like he's singing a song every time he opens his mouth.
He's never felt like this before; he's normally a man of one night stands and whirlwind romances that mean nothing to him, but he can't imagine himself doing that to this man. He doesn't want to hook up; he wants to sit and cuddle and watch films until the early hours of the night, to go for long walks in the moonlight, to share a meal at a fancy restaurant, to kiss him under the stars. His heart seems to settle in his chest; he hates to admit it, but maybe he's ready to settle down.
Jean Prouvaire too is memorised; being a poet at heart(and studying english literature), the feeling in his heart is not foreign to him. He has the tendency to fall in love too fast; to attach himself to someone so desperately, that he sends himself into melancholy when it's over. But he's perceptive; he can see the glint in Courfeyrac's eye, and this is an opportunity that he does not want to pass up.
It doesn't matter if they've just met. Courfeyrac's hand rests on the table, slowly turning to accept Jehan's hand into his. The pair move closer towards each other, their hands still touching as their lips press against each other. The kiss is gentle; a far cry from Courfeyrac's usual snogs. His lips mould with Jean Prouvaire's, his hand gently twitching as he places it against the other man's face.
"I um..." Jean Prouvaire blushes. "Can I get your number?"
"Of course," they swap phones, tapping in their contact details. "Come on, let's go dance."
