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Their relationship began in earnest on that fateful June night; the unspoken bond between them solidified the moment Valjean dragged Javert’s form out of the roaring Seine. Though it was not until the first new shoots of spring broke through the winter’s frost that they shared their first hesitant press of lips. As the spring brought its bounty of warmth, the sapling of their love grew, its branches reaching up into a boundless sky full of opportunity and hope. The kisses became more frequent and bold, an exploration of the new fertile soil they found themselves in. How they wished to communicate through their touches the fervent desire to put down roots, to stake themselves here with one another.
As the tree became sturdy it brought with it the promise of fruit. It grew with exploration and ripened with boldness. Hands moved beyond the tentative touches, slipping under night shirts at the mere promise of sweetness. And when the time came and the fruit was finally ripe - oh how they feasted! Fed by moans and friction and glorious enveloping heat. Their fingers dipped into each other's souls, grasping at the rough, knotted seeds and ripping them out so only the sweetest flesh should remain.
It was not until the cusp of fall that Valjean realized that despite having gorged himself again and again, he found himself still hungry. This love they shared was beautiful. He longed to lay under its verdant shade and bask in its radiance. But he could not ignore the sting that plagued his very being, the one that whispered to him that this love was too soft, too kind, that all love of this sort slipped away in the end, too undefined to grasp in any meaningful way. Its mere existence threatened to leave him empty and longing. No one wishes to acknowledge the role wasps have in the life cycle of figs.
The first hint of his depravity seeped out of him in August's wane. Cosette and Marius had been pledged to each other for some time now, their wedding planned for a September’s morn. He watched them in their garden, giddy and bubbling, a life well ahead of them full of each other's blinding love. A life where he could not be included. Even should they accept him for who he was, he would be separated in his own home, away from them. She would leave, and it was her right after all, to find a love of her own, one of a nature different than that of a father’s. And yet in the darkest and most selfish corners of his mind Valjean wanted her to stay with him. Knew that when she left it was to be the death of him.
A dark storm overcame his mind, the despair of losing his daughter, his only daughter! The only family that was well and truly his any longer mingled with the knowledge he would have to bare his story to Marius-! It was unbearable. Unthinkable. His life was to be over sooner than a blink of an eye. Something in him tried to remind himself that Javert was there too, and his caresses were soft and inviting, but if he did not deserve the gentle warmth of his daughter’s familial love, why should he bask in Javert’s offering of unconditional devotion? He longed to leave this place, to leave on his own accord before the inevitable reality of it all came to fruition. In his stupor he had forgotten their arrangements to see one another that evening. Valjean himself was halfway out the door when the former inspector had arrived.
Valjean brushed past him—he could not stay, that much was certain. However, he did not expect it when Javert clutched onto Valjean’s wrist, tugging him back into the apartment. Valjean felt his hollow body follow behind. Javert maneuvered them to the kitchen, where he then turned to look at Valjean’s sullen face. A concerned look had broken out on Javert’s face, the emotion did not flatter his features. “You do not look well.”
“I am fine, I-” Valjean struggled, the emotions swirling around his brain failing to impress themselves on the right words. He would have been better off mute. “I must leave,” he stammered, it was all he could say. He needed to leave now, to be away from this bitter source of love that threatened to stain his unworthy heart.
Valjean moved to leave, he could barely hear Javert's pleas of Valjean, tell me what is the matter and Please, please stay. The thought was pushed out of him by the firm grasp with hands which reminded him that he too was corporal. They shoved him against the counter hard enough to make him gasp and suddenly Javert's body now flush against his. He strained against the weight preventing that escape.
“I will not let you leave until you tell me what the devil is going on.”
At the words Valjean’s mind raced. A simultaneous desire to escape Javert's brilliant warmth that would ultimately leave him too, and a hunger to be pressed harder into the solid surface of the counter, to not be allowed to leave. He attempted to struggle again, but it came out as a buck of his hips followed by a wholly undignified groan.
At the motion, Javert took a step back. Valjean could not help but whimper at the loss. It was becoming clear that escape was not what he yearned for, but the denial of it. He wanted the choice of freedom from this rended from him. Wished that Javert would push again, keep him there and make sure he could not move ‘til he was weary and defeated. He could not look into Javert’s eyes, how could he in such a state? And ask for such things not only of someone he loved, but of a bygone jailer.
“Is this what it will take for me to make you stay?”
The question was sudden and quiet. Worry bled from Javert’s face, yet Valjean could not respond. He could only be paralyzed by the question, answering with a short nod.
“Very well,” Javert responded slowly as if processing what Valjean had just agreed to. His features realigned to resemble something much more stern. For one brief instant Valjean glimpsed a shadow of the man Javert once was. A man who was once as hardened and uncaring as a gnarled tree, one that would be mercifully impervious to the storm that overtook Valjean in his despair.
Javert moved his hand from Valjean’s chest and grasped the tails of the blue cotton cravat tied messily around his throat. He tugged it out from under Valjean’s waistcoat and gave it a testing pull, looking at Valjean for some indication that this was what he wanted. All Valjean could do was shiver.
“Very well,” Javert said again. This time when he moved away from Valjean’s body, Javert pulled on the makeshift lead, the motion unexpected and dizzying. Heat threatened to consume him whole as Valjean was led through the salon. He felt his heart leap as he looked at the sturdy furniture and its fine upholstery. Maybe they would stop here — maybe Javert would press Valjean’s cheek into the fine fabric of those fine chairs and push. But Javert did not stop there. Instead, he dragged Valjean up the stairs and into the spare bedroom that had been Javert’s before they decided to share Valjean’s own.
The bedroom was deafeningly silent outside of the rhythmic drum of his own heartbeat. Javert’s hand was still clenched around what might as well have been the rope leading the sacrificial lamb to its final, violent rest.
When Valjean had at last fully breached the threshold, Javert pushed Valjean against the wall. “Strip,” he breathed in Valjean’s ear. The word was one sometimes uttered in moments of softness shared in their bed, but this time it lacked the usual laughter and mirth underneath it. “Or I might not be so careful with your clothes.”
Valjean did not move other than to press himself closer to the man in front of him. It was an unexpected relief to feel a growing hardness pressing back. Valjean could not help but let out a shuddering moan at the revelation he was not alone in his tainted desire.
Javert seemingly huffed at the noise before moving to quickly and roughly undo the fastening on Valjean’s waistcoat. Valjean could not move; he could only grasp at the smooth wallpaper, feel it bunch and gather under his fingernails the same as the dirt in his garden might. The waistcoat fell, followed by the cravat that had led him here. Bracers were pushed off shoulders, his shirt was pulled over his head, hand and arms limply moved to accommodate. His once well-fitted trousers now threatened to fall further down his frame. For the first time since this charade began, Javert finally moved his hand to brush against his straining crotch—the proof of his disgraceful need.
“You enjoy this?” The words were permeated by a tinge of concern. It was a genuine question, one Valjean could not bring himself to answer. He could only grasp at Javert’s shirtsleeves in a silent plea.
He ended up maneuvered onto the bed, finally felt himself being pressed down into the smooth fabric. The action itself was almost too much to bear. Javert went back to work removing his clothes. His shoes were next, each one making a loud thud as they clamored on the floor with little care. Soon he felt the tug of his trousers and canted his hips so they might be pulled off with ease. Finally his socks were removed and only then did Valjean realize he was now naked to the world — to Javert — and yet Javert himself had not removed a single scrap of clothing outside of his coat and hat. At the thought a delirious excitement unexpectedly surged in him.
Javert removed himself from the bed. A fear that he might leave Valjean like this, stripped and wanting, pierced through his chest. The desperation inside of him threatened to spill over, carrying with it an aching litany of don’t go don’t go dont go’s repeated over and over like a forlorn prayer. But before his anguish could reach its zenith, the bed dipped again under a returned weight. The movement vibrated through him, pushing it all back just enough to stave off destruction. A hand rested on his back it’s thumb moving as if to soothe an aching wound. Valjean could not help but flinch at the contact. Its warmth burned him; its gentle movement stung like no other. He struggled to get away from it, only to involuntarily rut against the too smooth sheets below. His voice threatened to return to him as a broken wail.
“Valjean -” A voice, Javert’s voice, reached out, it’s tone far too kind for this moment. Valjean scrambled to push it away before it could ask him more questions he could not fathom to answer.
“Please,” Valjean begged. “Please.” His own voice was pitiful and pleading.
“If you insist,” Javert mercifully responded. “Spread your legs.”
Valjean too eagerly complied. A finger coated in cool oil found his opening and pushed in. The movement was far too practiced and careful yet Valjean was too close to breaking to care. He pushed his hips back against the intruding digit hoping to make it burn, only for the finger to retreat. It soon was replaced by two — then three large fingers in its place, each one adding to the too-slick stretch. Valjean was practically withering now, a wholly undignified mess silently begging for something he dare not ask for.
Finally, after what felt like a painful eternity, Valjean felt the warm press of Javert against his entrance. He pushed in, only to lay himself on top of Valjean's body, smothering him entirely. Javert’s chest pressed against his back, the fabric of his waistcoat rasping against Valjean scar-mapped skin. Javert started to thrust in earnest, each one followed by a soft grunt against Valjean’s neck. The pace was slow and cruel, not the wild, reckless rutting Valjean desperately deserved. He felt his legs thrash and struggle, doing anything to speed up those tortuous thrusts, only for Javert to hook his feet around Valjean’s own legs, halting their movement and pushing them even wider. Sparks ran up Valjean’s spine, snapping something in his chest. He could not help the noises that rushed out unhindered; each one rubbed his throat raw as he let them all flow out of him in an unending flurry.
The pace did not pick up, but pinned like this each movement felt like it threatened to unmake him. He was forced to yield to every thrust, every jolt of pleasure that coursed through him no matter what he wanted. Reminded that someone was with him with every hot breath that bit at his neck. The overpowering sensation of it all built and built until one stuttering thrust of Javert’s hips buried deep into Valjean’s very core, spilling into him. Valjean’s own orgasm was then seemingly ripped from that core; the force and pleasure of it crashing into him in violent waves. He swore for a moment his heart stopped beating until it returned with a dull thud.
They laid there together for a delirious moment like that, too exhausted to move anymore. Javert finally shifted, but still Valjean was not able to move.
“Valjean, are you -” A voice he barely understood called to him. “- are you alright?” Dimly, Valjean was aware of being rolled over. “My God, did I hurt you?” Javert’s eyes and knitted brows were full of unfettered worry; his face open and vulnerable.
Valjean’s arms shot out to grab Javert’s face and pull him close into a reckless, needy kiss. “I love you,” he croaked, the words gratifyingly grated across his raw throat. He planted another kiss. “Don't leave me.” Then another, “Don't leave me.”
Javert kissed back, the coupling of mouths full of honey-thick love. His hands rested on Valjean’s own face as if fearful he would vanish. Valjean now saw the wasp that had buried itself into his own soul had brought him the gift of fertile fruit. Each touch was to be savored, no longer did it threaten to rot on the branch.