This small piece of writing was made for evie because her jehan/courf headcanons are inspirational and cute and totally my headcanons now too.
They're short drabbles and they're out of order.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I am but a beggar at Hugo's feet.
the flirt and the cherry tree
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
'There, right besides the twinkly one'
'Courf, they all twinkle'
The poet stares confusedly up at the patch of night sky his boyfriend is pointing to, scrunching up his nose.
The soft summer breezes ruffles the leaves of the trees around them, and Jehan finds himself thinking of a small cottage in the countryside surrounded by an orchard. Someday.
'I don't understand.'
Courfeyrac grins at him from his sitting position, inches from Jehan
'Do you know its name?'
Jehan turns his neck so quickly to look at Courf his plait whips him on the cheek.
Courf's smile is blinding.
With a shriek of happiness the slender poet pins the larger man to the floor and tries to smother him with kisses, the newly named Little Bird twinkling far above them.
Cling to me as though you were frightened.
The protest takes a turn for the worse when Grantaire throws an empty bottle at the police officer advancing towards Enjolras, and said officer turns to retaliate. The next few seconds are a blur, but suddenly everyone's running and the crowd's turned frantic and Combeferre is on the floor and Cosette is wrestling a man twice her size while Marius tries to cover his bloody nose with his hands. Courf can hear Éponine whooping each time she manages to hit a cop while Bahorel does a scarily accurate flying kick - and when has Courf's life become a Chuck Norris movie- but all he can see is Jehan disappearing behind a wall of riot control police, one of his ribbons catching on a helmet and fluttering to the ground.
Later, much later, when Joly's fussed over them enough and they're all huddled together in the back room of the Musain, Courf draws Jehan into his lap even though his left leg screams in agony, and Jehan folds around him, fitting perfectly like he was made to be there, fingers drawing up to touch the throbbing wound over his brow.
'You silly man. Who told you it was a good idea to charge head on against the police? Literally' the poet tries to bite back the giggle but winces anyway, and Courf loosens his arms around him so as not to hurt his broken ribs.
He doesn't answer, and eventually Jehan drops his head to his shoulder, kissing his neck before whispering 'I'm here, it's ok, I'm ok.' against his skin.
I can contend only against the power of men.
One day Courf comes back from work and Jehan's sitting cross-legged in the middle of the sitting room holding a small kitten in his arms, both looking up at him with an expression that makes him groan and thump his head against the doorframe, and then let out a strangled sound of defeat.
So the kitten's stays, and every day Jehan feeds him milk and white bread without the crusts, and in exchange the little thing jumps into their bed in the mornings and sits on Courf's face. Jehan's crystalline laugh makes it almost worth it.
It's not that Courf hates cats (quite the opposite in fact, since his parents owned several when he was little). He just knows what's gonna happen, and even though he tries to warn his boyfriend against letting Sylvia (deciding its name had been a group affair where everyone had wanted to win, and since they were all cheeky bastards they still called the cat whatever they wanted. This resulted in a mix of Rousseau, Opium, Lily and other colorful names that had driven poor Sylvia into insanity) go outside, specially with that mangy tomcat that lounges around near the garbage cans, Jehan ignores him completely, claiming there's no risk because he had Sylvia checked and she's too young to have kittens.
They wake up one morning to the sound of six newborn kittens meowing on their couch, and even though Courf bemoans about the piece of furniture they'll have to take out back and shoot before burning it, he can't help but feel ridiculously happy when Jehan calls them 'our babies' before shooting him a look that traps the air in his lungs and the love in his heart.
I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells,
It starts as a joke between them, because Jehan has always loved flowers with an incandescent passion that other people would find alarming, but Courf just finds strangely endearing, and Courf, despite popular belief, is actually an early riser. Freakishly so, in the poet's opinion, but who's he to complain when that means he wakes up almost every day to his boyfriend bringing him breakfast to bed.
When one Tuesday morning Courf brings back home a bouquet of bluebells that Jehan braids into his hair while Courfeyrac drinks from his coffee mug, neither of them plan for that to become a daily occurrence.
However, it isn't long before Courf knows every vendor at the nearby flower market by name, and Jehan's hands become so deft at weaving flowers into his ginger braid that he can do it in his sleep. It becomes another pillar around which they build their life together, the comforting lull of domesticity that he has unknowingly craved his whole life, and Courf falls in love with Jehan a little bit more every time he sees him wearing fresh flowers in his hair.
And if Jehan had known about the existence of the flower market so near their flat long before they decided to buy it, well, no one has to know.
You are like nobody since I love you
'Oh, this one's my favorite' Jehan grazes the framed photo lightly with his fingers, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards.
It was taken at one of Enjolras' rallies, the one where Éponine had grabbed Combeferre by the lapels of his coat and kissed him after his impressive speech about abused kids. That had been a good day.
The photo shows Courf laughing at something, probably having to do with the silly smile Jehan, tucked under his arm, is wearing, and there are paint lines across his face and a light in his eyes that is just so Courfeyrac.
'Was that at the rally where-' starts Courf, his chin resting on Jehan's shoulder and his arms around his waist.
'The look on 'Ferre's face. I thought he'd faint'
'What's your favorite?' inquires Jehan, and Courf takes a second to look at the arrangement of photos on the wall before pointing at one on the far right.
Jehan smiles happily, turning to kiss him, unconsciously mirroring the photo, which shows them on their wedding day, outside the registry office and surrounded by their friends.
'Je t'aime, mon amour' Jehan whispers against Courf's lips and it sounds like a poem and a song and a prayer all at once.
The kiss he gets is answer enough.
I used Pablo Neruda because I'm evil.
Also these two are so cute it makes me wants to cry. Sorry I'm not very good at writing fluff.