#courfehan

Courfeyrac still wasn't there when Jehan found his beloved sunflower on the windowsill had wilted and he wasn't there when his favourite ball point pen ran out of ink. To top it all off Jehan started feeling the familiar dreaded heaviness of writer's block crawling into his head, taking in all the space there and almost driving him to tears. Oh, how he hated this day.

“Where are you Courf, where are you my love,” Jehan whispered into the empty apartment hugging his arms around his chest, trying to warm himself, imagining it was his boyfriend who took him into his embrace. It only made him feel worse, the loneliness got only more apparent. If only he wasn't alone, if only his sun was there to warm him. The melancholy did finally take over and the little poet started shaking, if from the cold or the tears that fought their way out of his eyes he couldn't tell. He was alone. He was alone and his boyfriend had left him in his grief, in this cold.

The young man stumbled to his lovers cupboard, pulling out a sweater in awfully clashing orange and green tones. Oh, how he hated it, this truly hideous thing Courfeyrac somehow adored so much. He had sworn never to give it anything but hateful glances but now he hugged it to his chest, smelling the fabric and thinking of Courfeyrac. The dark curled man loved it to pieces, swore it was his lucky sweater and some days looked after it better than after himself. It was the most Courfeyrac thing Jehan could think of and despite every ounce of hate for the colours and patterns he pulled it over his head, disappearing in comfortable warmth and the sweet distinctive smell of Courfeyrac. It wasn't quite the same as curling up in his lovers arms, but it was as close as he could get on this grey day.

Jehan instantly felt better. He could practically feel how his head started to clear as his body slowly warmed up again. The poet moved back to the double bed and sat down with pen and notebook, determined to fight this colourless day and to put his melancholy to use. He curled up deeper in the sweater and wrote, jotting down line after tear-filled line of poetry until his hands were nearly as blue as the page he was writing on. Eventually he drifted off to sleep, pen still in hand, curled up like a cat dreaming of soft arms around him.

“Jehan!” The poet woke up with a start at the choked cry, “My sweater!”

Jehan looked up at the dark haired man in the doorway, then down at the now ink stained sweater.

“Oh no, oh no, no no, I'm so sorry, I'm sorry I didn't want I-”

Tears filled his eyes. He had ruined it. There he was, his boyfriend, finally returned to him holding a heap of blankets and pillows and now he was angry at him because he, Jehan, had ruined his most treasured piece of clothing. He himself had turned this bad day into a catastrophic one.

Jehan rubbed at the fabric, desperately trying to get the ink out while tears fell onto the sweater, seeping into the orange and green leaving dark, wet splotches.

Courfeyrac was at the bed in a few strides. “Stop that.”

Jehan flinched. “I-I'm s- so so-”

Courfeyrac didn't let him finish but wrapped him tightly in his arms. “Hey, hey no. Shhh. Shh my love, please don't cry, I hate seeing you cry, it's okay.”

“But y-your sweater,” the poet hiccuped into his boyfriend's chest.

“It's just a sweater. I may love it but I love you so much more. I'd gladly give it away if it meant I could see your smile. Hell, I'd give a thousand sweaters in exchange for your happiness. We can wash it later, it's just ink, it will probably wash out. Please stop crying, it's all okay. I love you, so so much.”

“But you left...,” Jehan sniffed, but buried deeper into the embrace.

“I thought I had told you.. I went out to help Enj with his new shelf. I also asked Feuilly what to do about our heating and he said we should live with blankets and tea for now but he'll come around tomorrow and try to fix it.” So as to underline his words Courfeyrac wrapped three blankets around the two of them. “I'm so sorry if I forgot to actually tell you all of this.”

Jehan gave a small humming sound as an answer. He looked up at his most beautiful sunflower, his dark, sincere eyes gently fixed on Jehan's face. It was all okay. “I love you.”

Courfeyrac smiled and kissed his boyfriend softly on the lips before answering: “I love you too.” Then he looked around at the mess at their shared bed. “So I take it you were quite productive today. What did you write?”

“...Stuff,” Jehan answered slowly, “it's not very happy. You weren't there.”

Cuddling his little poet, Courfeyrac murmured: “Well I am now. Maybe the happy will come now.”

And for the first time that day, Jehan smiled. In the hideous, far too big sweater he wrapped his arms around Courfeyrac and kissed him slowly, laying all the words of love and contentedness he couldn't bring to paper onto his lover's lips.