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CHARACTERS: Jehan & Courfeyrac {Open to any of Jehan's friends}
LOCATION: Jehan & Courfeyrac's room
WARNINGS: May be some TW about violence/death
SUMMARY: Jehan is back from ~~a two week hiatus~~ getting very, very lost on board the ship, and is returning home to a worried room mate, who will inform anyone else who was in the search party that he's back.
NOTES: Opening post is locked to Courfeyrac; I'll have a comment below it that's open to any friends!

The level of exhaustion he felt was beyond visceral; Jehan was almost sure, at the moment he finally found himself at his front door, that he felt tired down to his absolute core. Down past his soul, which had been weary for months now, and into the deeper stuff of a human. Layers of himself he didn't even know existed, much less could be so exhausted.

Two weeks ago, he had succumbed to being dejected. Over absolutely everything. It was a conflagration of melancholy that was usually a slow burn for him, but that had gotten out of hand as he pushed it off through busying himself, caring for his friends, attempting to be social beyond his usual scope-- pretending that this unnatural and sterile environment, that this scope of outdatedness and new knowledge, would all be fine. Because they were together; his friends who had died, himself who had died, they were here.

And then Marius was gone, shortly after those public executions, and his ability to rally himself deflated. With Courfeyrac out of the rooms for a week, he found excuses to wander out to the gardens. To anywhere. To skip meals, to stop checking his device, to cease in any and all company and visits, to lose himself in thinking, or writing, or reading, or simply sitting.

Then the Jump had come, and it had pushed him past his last limit. That tube down his throat, and the piercing fear of who wouldn't be there this time, or of what man would show up stumbling in his own blood stains and asking why, and how? He'd dressed quickly and left quickly. He hadn't taken the device. He was about midway to his rooms when he'd realized... he wasn't midway to his rooms. He was quite lost.

That had been a week ago now.

Putting his head to the door and taking a grateful breath, eyes closed for a moment, he then let himself in.

He doubted that anyone would be there. Selfish though it was, and eager for companionship though he now was, he was equally hungry, dirty and so, so tired... informing anyone that he was back might be an extra hour or two. He wanted to close his eyes and square himself for the lecture he felt sure was coming, and to face any annoyances he might have caused.

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They were stuck, then, in that strange way of not knowing what to do next. Sure, he'd spoken... But how could Courfeyrac, at this moment, be so sure that it was not himself slipping into madness or delirium of some sort? He'd slept so scarcely and ate so little that it was more than possible.

If he pushed himself from the desk and crossed over to him, would he be greeted by him or just by a phantom figure? He wasn't so certain he could handle that, not with the loss of Pontmercy still weighing on his mind. "I've been--" Worried? Upset? Beside himself? All were more than true, but especially: "so scared."

That he was gone. But he won't let that leave his lips... That was something that was better let linger so as not to hurt or guilt him any further.

'I've been' was actually almost comforting in a sense, before Courfeyrac finished the satement. That 'he'd been' calmed another innate fear of his, in a small measure, before the actual meaning struck him.

Ah. Of course.

It was a double-problem. On the one hand, he had spent the last week in a fit of guilt over the idea of having gone missing at so awful a time, to have not caught a single one of their eyes before passing on into total obscurity among the ship's passages. But at the same time, he'd also needled himself over being too haughty; gone a week already, who might not assume he was simply out on his own? Who might even notice a few extra days, at that? Absurd to think it would worry anyone, on the one hand; and absurd to think anyone would be free of worry, on the other.

Letting out a low breath and letting his eyes fall with it, he kept his hand on the frame of the door and flexed his fingers slightly, failing with words again. Perhaps he'd been so cruel in his disuse of them lately, that they'd chosen to snub him.

"...I'm sorry." Given, finally. It seemed like the right, if not only thing to say.

And truly, he was.

Courfeyrac couldn't stand it anymore. He watched Jehan stand in the doorway for far too long without greeting him as he should. He chewed on his lip, brows furrowed, before finally pushing himself up from the desk. Perhaps he'd done so a bit too fast, as the lack of food and sleep caught up to him and he swayed in place for a moment. But then he was right there with Jehan so quickly it was a wonder that he'd managed to do so. Arms wrapped around him to assure him that he was really there and Courfeyrac held onto the poet as he feared to let him go.

"Your waistcoat was beside itself in your absence."

Well, no, okay... Maybe that was just him.

It was a wonder to Jehan, too, who was a little bit foggy. Head down, he hadn't associated the shuffle of noise with the action of movement, and the arms about him drew a jerky motion of bewilderment.

It was only a second, perhaps two after Courfeyrac's words that the gesture registered. Jehan certainly wanted to embrace him back with all the expected ardor, but as Courfeyrac was able to be fluid, Jehan was able to be still. They each wore it as a strong suit and a weakness. He felt still paralyzed beyond his means, for a myriad of reasons.

Still, it did not go wholly unreturned. A hand did come up, and it clutched in a gentle grip at the back of his shirt. His chin would come to rest against the other's shoulder, and it was a miracle of gravity or sheepishness or both that he did not fold into the solid presence entirely, after walking for seven days.

"I'm sorry." He repeated. To the waistcoat this time, very probably, as fuzzy as his mind was. He'd be willing to apologize to any item of clothing Courfeyrac insisted was offended by his absence.

He would not let go. Not anytime soon at least. Courfeyrac made a small sound, almost as though reassuring him it was alright, and rubbed one hand up and down Jehan's back. The chin on his shoulder was met with a cheek to his cheek.

He realized, at this point, that he was not the only one tired here... And perhaps he would be able to find rest in knowing that Jehan was there. "You should rest."

They both should. But he felt as he partly propped the poet up, that he likely needed the rest more in this case.

"I-..." And yet again. He'd be frustrated with his shortcomings, if he'd had the energy to be.

Stealing a moment to simply breathe, and laying his weight a little more against Courfeyrac than he was aware of doing and more, certainly, than he ought, he went on,

"Can I?"

He didn't know that it was right, now that there was someone else present. His mind was over-tired, warped by the over-exertion and lack of wholesome rest, plagued as it had been even when he was awake. The idea of trudging back to this room of theirs and having such a lukewarm meeting, of simply going to bed and having a nap without doing anything more profound, without telling anyone else, without even changing from these old clothes seemed... wrong, in its way. Absurd, certainly.

And yet every fiber of himself screamed to sit down, at the very least. If he did not know what to say or what to do, he wanted only Courfeyrac's and gravity's blessing to succumb to the need not to carry himself anymore. Physically, if in no other way right now.

Courfeyrac nodded and it was only at that point that he pulled away from Jehan to truly look at him. He looked more than tired, extremely exhausted if nothing else. "Yes," he assured him quietly.

And because he knew Jehan would not move on his own, as he had not since opening the door, he grabbed his hands gently and tugged him back with him. "In fact, I insist."

It was a quiet insistence that he not argue the fact, even as they trudged through the scraps of paper that he been tossed every which way. He had to go as far as letting go of one of Jehan's hands in order to clear a spot on the bed for him so that he wouldn't lay on any of the scraps. He had not wasted much, to be perfectly honest, but what had been was in the way.

It was as if a fine dust of paper scraps had settled in among the things of the room, taking up more space than he had, in his absence. He could not help but notice, eyes naturally downcast, and following Courfeyrac's gait and trajectory with a grateful submission to his directional skill and welcomed insistance.

Squinting just a bit, lips curling just slightly in confusion, he finally animated enough to say something quite on his own accord, and not as a cloying and brief reply.

"...Where has it all come from?"

Perhaps not as clear as he could be, but short of Courfeyrac sitting at the desk and ripping pages from his books, Jehan was quite at a loss to explain the tumult of papers laying about.

But even mystification didn't keep him from sitting of his own free will once the space had been cleared.

He did not release the one hand he still had against his own, though.

Courfeyrac glanced at the papers, now realizing how it must look. His fingers laced through Jehan's and he sighed as he sat down next to him. "I was attempting to write."

Attempting being the key word there. While the poet may thrive in his melancholy and be able to pull words from the depth of his soul in such a state, the dandy was quite the opposite. His spoken word was much easier to come by when he was't so upset and worried beyond repair. "I beg that you not look at those when you are finally rested... they are as imperfect as such things can be, and hardly worth any while. Half thoughts, as it were."

"Oh." Came the easy reply, giving a heavy blink that nearly resulted in his keeping his eyes closed altogether before sheer self-consciousness pulled alertness out of him, dragging it up hard despite all protests.

"...Half-thoughts are sometimes the most beautiful truths." Assured in a soft tone, though he certainly wouldn't read anything he'd been asked not to; of anyone, he knew the damage inflicted to the ego by the passing eye of a stranger over discarded or unfinished work.

But the writing was evidence of something more, as he had never really known Courfeyrac to be an aspiring writer in particular. Slowly, and perhaps not as strong as usual, he gave his hand a squeeze and held it.

"I'm sorry."

Repeated, for a third time.

"If I have worried you."

"They do nothing for how I feel," Courfeyrac mumured, pressing his lips together. He glanced down at their hands as Jehan squeezed, then back to him, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek.

"I am better now that you have returned, I swear it. I'm sure you did not mean to."

And he lingered there, forehead pressed to Jehan's temple. It's as though he can't be holding or touching him enough to assure him he's still there.

"...I meant to." It is barely above a whisper when he says so, and it is less a beautiful truth and more a dejected one.

During the first week, he had meant to. His grand gesture to himself, giving in to weakness and perhaps even a brand of cowardice; fleeing to deal with issues that couldn't have a voice, and so hissed in his head until they formed a cacophony. But the separation had done him little good, as there was nothing truly alive and verdant on board to re-invigorate himself with, and paper was too sparse to write freely on, and his books were too few and too well-read to provide a haven.

So he'd meant to, in a sense, after the Jump as well. He couldn't face them. He couldn't face who was there, and who was not. Who would question him, and who would not. He couldn't face whether or not Courfeyrac would come back to his room, or if Marius would come back to his life, or if Combeferre would come back to his sense of calm. He couldn't face caring for everyone, because in a writer there was only caring far too much, or being distant from it.

For the first time aboard, he had chosen distance.

He had not meant to become lost; but he had meant to be out of reach.

"Not... for so long, surely." He added, not wanting to cause any pain by so callous a remark. "Not to be unable to find my way. Not that, Courfeyrac." His tone was affectionate, even if there was a sloppy utterance of last name. It felt somehow disrespectful to use the first, after so bold and possibly awful a confession. "I beg that you might pardon me, if I caused you some real distress in being absent."

Perhaps he was not yet as warm as he would be, still unable to really tell if he had offended, or if the offense had been great or small. The picture grew clearer with everything Courfeyrac said, however, even to Jehan's newly incapacitated ability to deduce.

Edited 2013-07-16 23:15 (UTC)

That admission was enough for Courfeyrac to pull himself away from Jehan to watch him closer. "Pardon?"

His brow furrowed before Jehan continued, feeling a small pang of hurt at the admission. He had meant to disappear and for them to worry? He knew that writers were generally so strange in their ways of dealing with the world, sure... But to intentionally distress their friends by disappearing like that?

He softened slightly as Jehan continued, but he was still trying to figure out what he'd meant by it all. "I can't imagine you meant to, for so long..."

There was a pause as he sighed and tried to gather his thoughts. He should tell him that he freaked out... there was no sense in hiding it and honestly, he certainly looked worse for wear. "Of course I pardon you, cher... I will admit that I did freak out quite a bit... And may have alerted... almost everyone else to your absence..."

May have meaning "without a doubt".

As Courfeyrac's brow furrowed, Jehan's rose, just slightly.

He almost protested when the man backed away just so, but quelled it; after all, what he had said was rude, in a certain light. A light that no doubt Courfeyrac felt the glare of, if he had been in this room, entertaining half-thoughts on morsels of paper and sounding an alert.

Jehan was, in a sense, unused to and mildly bewildered by the heightened sense of care. He knew it was wrong, to have chosen this method of sorting out his own grief, when he had left them so soon by similar means, and when it had driven Combeferre to a panic so acute that he should resort to stalking. All this, he swore he knew.

But to the degree that it would upset them, or Courfeyrac singularly, he seemed genuinely surprised, and sheepishly unaware.

He truly had not meant to go for so long, or to push pain onto anyone else.

"It-- that is to say. I did not imagine I'd worry anybody, but;" A breath. "I did not realize how easy it was to lose one's way. I wanted for only time and some lonesomeness, and that I meant. However..." Again, he tightened his grip over the other man's hand feebly, feeling sillier the more he spoke while staring at that expression on the other man's face. "...however, not to concern you, much less everyone. No-- no." A pause, shaking his head just faintly, trying to get this correct. "I mean to say, 'Not to concern everyone, much less you.'" He corrected. "Never that."

When Jehan's hand tightened around his, Courfeyrac leaned back in to press his forehead against his and closed his eyes. "We looked for you... Even more so after the Jump," he murmured.

He played with their linked fingers, squeezing Jehan's hand back slightly, thumb running lightly over his skin. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "That you needed some time alone and I was not aware of it... And that you got too much of it."

It was such a kind and lovely statement, that he felt most of his faculty for response hindered by it. Jehan had the slight folly of a duel nature; that was that he indeed had wanted for the time to himself, just as much as he had not. That Courfeyrac understood and addressed both aspects calmed him in a way nothing else could, and it relaxed him enough to allow him to close his own eyes, grateful.

"I can only say thank you to express how glad I am that you would not accuse me of being mindfully cruel... and that you will forgive me for being blindly ignorant." He could not imagine them searching, only because he didn't want to. That image, once conjured, would surely reduce him to a sort of breathless state of upheaval. "I am so sorry, cher. I did not handle it correctly."

None of them had, perhaps, Courfeyrac by hiding, Combeferre with stalking, Enjolras by avoiding it. But he least well of all, thus far.

"...And yet you are here to return to, and how can only saying thank you be enough for that?" Softly, unable to help the emotion from seeping into his words with an affected front at last.

"I know you too well, Jehan, to know that you would not intentionally cause pain," Courfeyrac assured him quietly. His thumb still traced over Jehan's skin with every intention of soothing the troubled poet. "You cannot be faulted for handling it in a way purely your own. Each of us has been found guilty of that since arriving, it was merely a matter of time."

He licked his lips as Jehan continued quietly, shaking his head almost immediately. "Don't ever doubt that I won't be here to return to. Please..."

But where his words faltered, he sighed and opened his eyes, looking around at the discarded scraps of paper to seek the freshest one. Leaning over and picking it up, then carefully uncrumpling it, he presses it close to Jehan's hand.

Written on it are several lines scratched out, attempts at poetry and rhyming gone wrong... Two nonsensical lines that tried too hard to rhyme or make sense.

But what mattered was the third line that did not rhyme or fit together with the first two at all, but was underlined anyway.

I love you.

Jehan's own eyes opened hazily and he looked softly puzzled as Corufeyrac pulled away again, even as his words rang so comforting and were pierced through with forgiveness. It was all he could do to keep himself upright and dislodged from the other man, as he seemed preoccupied. Even though he'd made the assurance, and even though Jehan would never question his sincerity, it seemed odd to cease holding hands or pressing heads so soon after that admission. The edge of insecurity that he had been giddy in ignoring and then too steadfast in highlighting became sharp and fixed again in his heart, and he sat there calm and confused, letting Courfeyrac sort through his papers.

When one was crumpled against his palm, he brought it up close with a dutiful nod, but his bemusement only deepened. Setting it against his knee after holding it to his chest for a moment to invite any preamble, he smoothed it out against that part of himself, and began.

A scribble, a cross out, the shadow of a word peeking out from a fence of blots.

Jehan squinted and continued, slower than usual certainly, half-wondering if everything was really crossed out, or if he simply could not focus.

But then, three rather legible lines. The first two sounded very forced, and there was a sort of rhyme to them, and their general meaning was somehow both straightforward and mystifying. If this was poetry, Jehan didn't know it as such, and had even opened his mouth to beg Courfeyrac's pardon and explanation both at once when his eye caught the third line.

And he stopped.

Head down, mouth half-open, eyes caught on those short, underlined words, he stalled completely.

At first, he understood completely. Then, not at all. Then slowly, he re-learned his understanding. Love was the simplest thing in the entire universe, but also the most elusive. So as it shed its shadowed guise and made itself known to him; a poet who knew it from literature and from metaphor and from watching things grow; Jehan slowly accepted the fact that this was a confession, of sorts, and one that had nothing to do with love in the way he recognized it traditionally, and everything to do with the way he felt it, right at that moment, and a thousand other moments over the last terrible two weeks.

Finally, after nearly a minute of utter silence had passed, his hand took on a tremble against the edge of the paper. He had absolutely sworn to himself that he would not be as his friends had been, would not douse them in the burden of being late to tears and cry in front of them. But love was somehow leagues more powerful than pain, and being that he was deeply in both, he was far too moved not to.

The tremble slowly overtook him, from his hand to the rest of his body, and crumpling the paper in a firm grip, he moved to lay his head against Courfeyrac's shoulder again, and simply let the tears happen as they would, his other hand groping for the edge of Reynaud's shirt to hug it there between his fingers, to keep him close now.

It was a bizarre thing, to be so utterly upset and so completely happy, both at once. He had never been so much of either, as far as he could recall.

But for the moment, the joy was slowly having its way and working out all the stressful coils, one by one. It was a release, so Courfeyrac really must excuse him this moment of letting it go. Which he would, if what Jehan read was true.

And somehow, he knew that it was.

When he could speak again, he would find some way of assuring that it was that way for him too.

It was like the confession to the waistcoat all over again. Courfeyrac watched him uneasily as he read through the mess of a paper. His hand rested, fingers curled, against Jehan's knee... A need to know what was going on in the poet's head overwhelming him.

But when the head was pressed to his shoulder, his arm snaked easily around him, hand running soothingly over his back. That, he understood, was answer enough. And even though the poet held onto his shirt to keep him close, he really had no intention of going anywhere right now. His other arm wrapped around him to keep him close... and he just gave in and buried his face in the top of Jehan's head. Spoken word came easier than written and in this moment, that was what he'd have to rely on. "I hate that it took losing you to realize it, cher," he murmured, his voice low.

It really did not take much more than that.

When he felt arms around his back, his own fell in a natural gait about Courfeyrac's waist, dragging out the last slivers of space between them. He could feel sorry for being a bit of a mess later, both emotionally and physically, but for the moment Courfeyrac would have to forward him forgiveness for those things, too.

It had come full circle, in a sense. Not so many months ago, Courfeyrac had made his shoulder wet, and Jehan had sat by and stayed with him though the night. Not so many months ago, there was another letter that he'd given his reply to, that functioned as a spark.

Hanging onto him, Jehan shook his head gently, and tried to rake the words from his throat.

"Then I must hate that I was not valorous enough to mention it before you..." For if it took losing to know it, then he had known it on the first night of Courfeyrac's prescribed absence.

Courfeyrac was more than content with letting Jehan cling to him like that. It's been a long two weeks and it was only because of that that he wasn't crying there with him. He didn't have the tears to spare, or otherwise he was too glad to have Jehan back to let them fall.

But at the suggestion that he felt the same... At the spoken promise. Courfeyrac's heart seemed to stop just a moment. For as easily as he threw the word around, it was never in this intensity. Never before, at least. "I do think that would have made your absence even worse, Jehan... I can only imagine the state I would have been in at that point."

Or perhaps it would have spared him that state, simply by luring him away due to that intensity of feeling. Jehan had sincerely, and with no meanness intended, thought that such a thing was simply too much. That it was wrong to press onto someone that he adored exactly as he was, but who was so totally unlike himself; freer of fancy, and very momentary. Compassionate, and loyal, and ardent, all certainly yes... but whereas Jehan was a slow burn that eventually turned into a large fire, Courfeyrac had always seemed to him a large fire that slowly ran out of air and dwindled.

While he would not outright insinuate, at the pain of this precious person, that he felt he was waiting on a slight that must come, perhaps the way his arms tightened about him for a moment and his breath caught might speak that sullen fear better than words could have.

Nonetheless, tears finally beginning to ebb, he repeated again, "I am sorry, to have put you in any state. I really cannot imagine it. After Marius, too, I am especially ungrateful of your care to have gone missing. I promise to you that it will not happen again." As he was equal parts optimist and pessimist, he chose in this moment Courfeyrac's point of view: "...I swear it to you, I will not leave this place. Not for destiny, or science, or gallantry, or loss of direction. I will not go again."

As Jehan tightened his hold on him, Courfeyrac mimicked the motion. One hand moved up to his hair, fingers threading lightly to scratch against his scalp. All intentions to sooth him. "I know that you did not intend to be missing for so long, you said it yourself and I have no reason not to believe you..."

But the promise was enough to weaken his voice and he let out a sigh. "I swear above all the same that you will not lose me either. I will fight the fiercest hounds of hell to get back to you if I must."

And as though to seal it, he presses a kiss into the top of Jehan's head and nuzzles there.

That earned, at last, a breathy laugh-- as if he had to be reminded quite how that worked.

"That was poetic, moitié. More poetic than your lines, though I hold in my hand the most precious piece of writing I will ever lay eyes on."

He returned that kiss to the crook of Courfeyrac's neck, as he had access there, and his spirit was lightened considerably by this simple acceptance, and the reciprocation of emotions he had thought possibly worse than silly; delusional.

"We would fight them together. As Dante had Virgil, I would not have you brave hell quite alone."

He felt sure now, once and for all, that being alone and in danger and at length, was quite the worst feeling one could entertain. He would never abandon him to that, be it in his power.

The laugh, as light as it was, was welcome and managed to ease his worries. So much that he managed a small smile. "It is easier to express myself when the object of my affection is right here."

A find sigh parts his lips at the kiss and he smiles a bit more. "While I hope never to have to face hell, I would be glad for the company and wish no other, mon Coeur."