Work Text:
Jehan Prouvaire sat alone in the cafe as the sun set, writing his latest poem. Normally, he was engrossed in his work, so much so that he barely acknowledged any other happenings around him, but he had been distracted lately. Much more distracted than he liked to admit.
Of course, the reason for his distraction was not in any way something he disliked admitting to himself; Jehan was not a man to refuse to recognize his feelings, especially not those of love.
He loved Bahorel.
Not the kind of love that constantly robbed him of his thoughts, of his dreams, of his every waking moment; the kind of love in which one’s heart leaps at the mention of a name, when one’s cheeks turn pink as the person steps into a room. It was the kind of love in which one can appreciate the fact that the other is one’s polar opposite, instead of loathe it. The kind of love Jehan spent hours writing poetry about.
As if on cue with Jehan's thoughts, an angry shout came from the other end of the cafe, one that Jehan had ingrained in his memory a long time ago. Bahorel, though relatively tall, was standing very close to a man much larger even than himself, yelling angrily, his brow furrowed, his dark hair a mess, his nose wrinkled up in a way that Jehan always mentally compared to an angry puppy.
But this so-called puppy had a bite worse than his bark, and soon the rather tipsy Bahorel was in the midst of a very physical brawl, drunken cheering hurled in their direction from all sides. Jehan was watching intently now, his poem all but forgotten.
At first, it seemed as though Bahorel would win - after all, he normally did - but one blow from the larger, stronger man nearly sent him flying as it blacked his right eye. Another punch came close to knocking out his teeth. Bahorel doubled back, which gave the other man enough time to send a powerful kick to the middle of Bahorel's chest. None of the members of Les Amis were laughing or cheering now, simply watching in wide-eyed shock as the unbeatable was beaten.
Bahorel fell flat on his back, winded. Jehan stood without realizing it, trying to see around the heads of the small crowd. Jehan, more than anything, wished he could help Bahorel, but it was clear to anyone and everyone that the poet would not be able to hold his own in a battle of brawn alone. Tall though he was, Jehan was also skinny and soft, with long golden locks pulled together by a big, black bow at the nape of his neck and an air of romance and calmness that seemed to surround him. He would be laughed out of a fight ring even with Gavroche.
Jehan had made his way to the front of the crowd without truly realizing what he was doing. Bahorel was lying on the floor, trying to catch his breath; a great effort, seeing as his adversary's heavy boot was pressing onto his chest. The man lifted an almost full bottle of wine from the table beside him and poured all of its contents into Bahorel's gasping mouth.
Laughing, the man delivered one final kick to Bahorel's side, then made his way out of the cafe, his cronies following suit. Bahorel lay on the floor, sputtering, as a deafening silence filled the room.
Jehan was the first to his side, and as he got closer, the extent of the damage became clear. Blood gushed from Bahorel's mouth and ran down his chin, where it mixed with the wine and stained his once white shirt. An angry, dark purple bruise was beginning to form around his eye, his eye closing more with each passing minute as the area swelled.
Joly appeared at Bahorel's side as well, trying to assess his injuries, but Bahorel was shaking his friends off, mumbling about how he was "alright". Gingerly, Bahorel stood and stormed out of the cafe, leaving a loud slam and silence in his wake.
"Someone go after him," Enjolras said quickly, "or he'll get himself in more trouble." The leader looked around at his friends, his eyes coming to rest on Jehan. "Jehan, you go. He's least likely to get angry with you." The others nodded in agreement.
Jehan grabbed his pile of papers from the table at which he'd been sitting, then tore out of the cafe and down the quickly darkening street, calling Bahorel's name.
It was clear that Bahorel wanted to evade his friends for a while, but, as he was still struggling to breathe normally, there was no way for him to move at a rate faster than the angry stomp he now maintained. Jehan quickly caught up with him.
"What do you want?" Bahorel asked sharply.
"I cannot allow you to continue roaming about town picking fights in the state you're in."
Bahorel stopped walking and turned to the poet, a look of appraisal and mockery covering his bruised features. He paused to wipe away the trickle of blood that had reformed its stream down his chin. "Are you really going to tell me what to do, Prouvaire?"
Jehan squared his jaw, trying not to pout. "Yes." The two glared at each other until Bahorel finally looked away with a defeated sigh.
"What do you propose I do, then, your highness?" Bahorel snapped.
"My apartment is much closer than yours," Jehan said gently, "and I would rather you stay with me than black your other eye."
Jehan looked over at Bahorel, measuring his expressions, gauging his reaction. Bahorel met Jehan's gaze and nodded.
Bahorel followed Jehan down the street only a short way before Jehan led him into the building in which he lived. The stairway leading to Jehan's room was dark, and Jehan's heart gave a small leap as he grabbed Bahorel's arm, aiding him in finding his way. Jehan lit a lamp after they entered his room.
Jehan's room was rather small, but cheerful. Most of the room was taken up by a wardrobe, a queen-sized bed, and a writing desk, and it seemed that Jehan had filled every available space with flowers. Deep red roses sat upon his desk, goldenrod lining every ledge of his wardrobe. Daisies decorated his windowsill, partically obscured by slightly tattered pale pink curtains. A small bookcase in the corner held a variety of different flowers in front of the books, resting on shelves lovingly dusted once a week. The lightly colored wooden floorboards underneath their feet creaked a bit with every step, a detail that only added to the homey, lived-in feeling of the room.
"You didn't tell me you were a botanist," Bahorel joked, amused. Jehan's cheeks turned pink.
"No, I - I just... like flowers," Jehan said lamely. He had been rather flustered ever since Bahorel entered his room. Bahorel chuckled and sat delicately upon Jehan's bed before kicking off his shoes, carefully avoiding contact with any of his fresh bruises. He winced more than once, despite his efforts.
Jehan left the room and returned several minutes later with a basin full of cool water and a clean piece of white cloth. Placing these on the floor beside the bed, he sat down next to Bahorel and began to undo the buttons on his wine-soaked shirt. Bahorel leaned back from Jehan's fingers in surprise, but a firm glare from Jehan had him leading forward again, allowing Jehan to continue. Jehan felt much braver; his fingers seemed to work by themselves, simply, mindlessly -
It was then, with Bahorel's shirt halfway open, that Jehan saw what had become of Bahorel's chest during the kick that had robbed him of his breath. A large, purple, and faintly boot-shaped bruise took up the center of Bahorel's chest, with a brush burn-like scrape to top it off. Jehan inhaled sharply, and looked up to steal a worried glance at Bahorel's face. Bahorel was looking at him rather sheepishly, their faces much closer than Jehan had intended.
Jehan stared at him for a moment, before clearing his throat quietly and returning to the buttons of Bahorel's shirt. Sliding the shirt off of Bahorel's lightly muscled shoulders and casting it onto the floor, Jehan noticed yet another bruise on the right side of his friend's rib cage, where Bahorel's assailant had planted his second kick. Clicking his tongue concernedly, Jehan picked up the cloth and wet it, touching it lightly to the large bruise on Bahorel's chest.
Bahorel gasped and tensed from the pain of even the slightest pressure, but soon relaxed. After a few minutes, Jehan moved to the next bruise, then the next. This continued for a while, and Jehan secretly enjoyed the thought of being Bahorel's caretaker. The scene was surprisingly intimate - Bahorel was not the type to spend a quiet moment with anyone.
Jehan placed the cloth carefully over Bahorel's black eye, the palm of his hand lightly holding it there so that his fingers brushed into Bahorel's hair. Bahorel, to Jehan's great surprise, softly leaned his head into Jehan's hand, gazing at him from under long lashes. Jehan's heart almost stopped, but he forced himself to maintain a calm exterior.
Bahorel's hand lifted from where it had come to rest on the bed to nestle delicately into Jehan's hair. A gentle push on the back of Jehan's head as all he needed to close the short gap between their lips.
Jehan's mind went blissfully blank. Bahorel's lips were softer than Jehan had imagined, but there was still a slightly rough quality to them as they worked with Jehan's. The poet found that his lips were being parted gently by Bahorel's tongue, and he accepted it gladly. Jehan forced himself not to get too carried away - Bahorel was rather fragile at the moment. Calloused fingers were making their way down Jehan's neck; they stopped at the ribbon holding his hair in place and pulled it free, spreading the golden waves across Jehan's shoulders. Bahorel moaned, a low sound from his throat.
As Jehan's fingers began to move up Bahorel's thigh, the other gasped. Breaking the kiss for the first time, Jehan whispered, "Would you like me to stop?" Jehan was not a virgin in any sense of the word, but Bahorel made him nervous.
"Absolutely not," Bahorel breathed, and claimed his lips again.
Jehan's hand moved further and further up Bahorel's thigh. Scarcely believing what he was about to do, Jehan undid the button on Bahorel's pants.
Bahorel laid himself down on his back, his legs still hanging off of the side of the bed. It was when Bahorel lifted his hips so Jehan could take off his pants that Jehan noticed how hard he was, and Jehan's stomach gave a small flip as it dawned on him that it was he who had put Bahorel in this state. He threw Bahorel's pants off to the side.
Bahorel spread his legs, and Jehan kneeled in between them, hesitating. It was only when Bahorel propped himself up on his elbows and groaned, "Dammit, Jehan," that Jehan settled his fingers around Bahorel's shaft and took all of him in his mouth at once.
Bahorel moaned loudly, which Jehan was pleased to note as his head began to bob in between Bahorel's legs. Jehan went slowly - methodically, almost, leaving Bahorel panting. Bahorel's fingers tangled themselves into Jehan's hair.
Jehan's hands traveled upward to grip Bahorel's hips, which rocked with every motion of Jehan's lips. He could tell after a few minutes that Bahorel was close to release, and slowed his pace in answer. Bahorel swore, loudly.
The man under Jehan was shaking now, and it only took one last, deft motion of the poet's mouth to send him over the edge. Warm liquid filled Jehan's mouth, and he forced himself to swallow it, all of it. This was, after all, what he'd dreamed of.
Bahorel had collapsed flat on his back, still panting, but his breathing was much slower now. He looked at Jehan, who was wiping his mouth on his bedsheets.
"Where'd you learn to do that?" Jehan smiled rather timidly, but did not answer. He moved to get up, his almost painfully hard erection hindering him more than a bit.
Bahorel saw this, and extended his arm out to Jehan, who took his hand. "I'm not finished with you yet," said Bahorel. Jehan smirked and allowed Bahorel to pull him down next to him.
If Bahorel was in pain, he did not show it; he sat up and began removing Jehan's clothing, pausing here and there to place ironically chaste kisses on Jehan's slightly swollen lips. When Jehan was completely bare, his companion pushed him down onto his back.
Suddenly, Bahorel's hand was at Jehan's lips. "Lick," he ordered.
Jehan obeyed, meeting Bahorel's eyes with a gaze he sincerely hoped was seductive. Once Bahorel's hand was sufficiently wet, he turned his attention to Jehan's neglected cock.
Not for the first time that evening, Jehan was having trouble thinking straight. He closed his eyes and let out an oddly low groan, cursing himself for not initiating this kind of relationship with Bahorel before.
Jehan did not know and did not care how much time had passed since Bahorel had started on him; but as soon as Bahorel lowered his head and pushed his tongue into Jehan's mouth, the poet was coming all over his own chest, so hard that he'd have feared going blind, were he able to form coherent thought.
Jehan felt as though he had passed out; it was several minutes before he opened his eyes, which were rather glazed as they stared up at the ceiling. He barely registered that Bahorel had begun wiping his chest. Eventually, Jehan became aware of the hand that was running through his hair, and he looked to his right at Bahorel and smiled. "Tired?" he murmured.
"I am."
"Stay here, then."
The two moved up to lay on the pillows, carefully, for Bahorel had become aware again of his bruises. Swathed in sheets like a cocoon, Jehan nestled himself into Bahorel's arms and fell asleep, leaving the lamp to burn out on its own.