Jean Prouvaire stared into the mirror. In just a few minutes he would go to his first French History class. It hadn't been too difficult to get into the class; it was small and Professor Valjean only allowed new students to join if they showed true academic promise and interest, but Courfeyrac had spoken to him for Jehan, and with Enjolras' blessing, he could have just walked right in. apparently Enjolras did not recommend a great deal of people, so Jehan suspected that Courfeyrac had spoken to him too, and he blushed at the thought. Cosette had told Jehan about Valjean, speaking very fondly of him; he had helped her a great deal with some personal problems in her first year, and she thought very highly of him.

He tugged at his collar. He was wearing a teal shirt that was patterned with small white cats, and he wore his hair loose, letting it fall just past his shoulders in its slight wave. His eyes looked more grey than blue in the light of the early morning sun, and his freckles danced across the bride of his nose when he smiled at himself, trying to pull confidence into him. He didn't know why he felt so nervous; he was good with people, he knew that, and when he actually tried rather than just sitting in the corner alone, he knew he could make them like him, and he also knew that he had enough interest in the subject to be able to join in. But he still felt awkward about Courfeyrac. He seemed to like him, and Jehan wasn't quite sure what to feel about that. He wanted to be liked by the boy, he couldn't deny that; but things were beginning to change in his life so suddenly and he wasn't sure he was ready for so many good things at once. He felt like he could dance, giddy with excitement, but he was scared, scared of things changing and turning out nothing like he imagined. He was afraid to hold too tightly in case it was ripped away. He was a Romantic, a dreamer, but he knew that real life wasn't always like his poetry. He believed in love, he was in love with it, but too much of it and he could be knocked off balance and crash to the hard ground.

All he could do was go into it and see what happened. He gave a sigh and a smile at his reflection before picking up his satchel and walking out.

"Welcome to French History, Jean Prouvaire! I am Jean Valjean, and I hope you find that my class is as you dreamed it would be. I don't mind if you just listen to begin with, there can be a lot to take in, but any comments you have are welcomed."

Valjean was clearly devoted to the class that he taught, and Jehan was indeed very welcomed. The students acted as though he had always been one of them, and Enjolras even asked his opinion on one topic, to which he gave a satisfactory reply. Valjean seemed pleased with him, and though Courfeyrac did not sit beside Jehan, as he was busy discussing something with Combeferre, he occasionally glanced at him and smiled, which was enough to show that he was not angry or upset.

Halfway through the hour, the door suddenly burst open.

"Hey, what's up everyone? Sorry I'm late."

Jehan looked up from his coffee to see a bald, dark-skinned boy with his arm in a sling and a huge smile on his face. Joly instantly jumped up and ran over to him.

"BOSSUET! WHAT HAPPENED?"

"I fell down some stairs. Don't worry, I'm fine," the boy replied, pulling Joly into a hug with his free arm.

Courfeyrac nudged Jehan. "Lesgle, or Bossuet, is the final member of our group. He's pretty much the unluckiest guy I ever know, so this kind of thing is normal."

Jehan watched as Joly fussed over Bossuet, looking extremely worried. Valjean looked almost bored at this scene, as though it happened so often that he was used to it. When Bossuet sat down and managed to calm Joly, the class continued as though there had been no interruption, Enjolras finishing the sentence he had started.

The class was focused on the French Revolution, and the students were so passionate about it, the debates so heated and intriguing that it seemed to last no time at all, and then it was over and Jehan was sure now that he had made the right decision.

He took some time putting away his things after the lesson, and Courfeyrac stayed behind, walking over to him. Jehan looked up with a small smile.

"Hi. It was really great, I think I'm going to like this class."

The dark-haired boy reached out his hand, and Jehan realised that he was holding the blue flower he had worn in his hair the last time he had seen him. It was small and shrivelled now, but still blue, as blue as Courfeyrac's jacket.

"You dropped this last time."

"Oh. Well, I don't need it any more. You can um, keep it?"

Courfeyrac laughed. "Should I put it in my hair?"

"Oh no, that's my thing," Jehan said. "Though the colour is nice on you."

"Are you flirting with me?"

"Kinda." Jehan didn't know where this sudden burst of confidence had come from, but he was grateful for it.

"So things are okay, right? You seemed a little... off the other day. You ran away from me."

Jehan looked into Courfeyrac's eyes and smiled.

"Everything's fine. I just want to get used to everything here before I... you know."

"I know. It's okay."

Courfeyrac squeezed Jehan's hand briefly, and then left the room.

Two weeks passed and Jehan found himself settling nicely into a routine. His poetry classes were well suited to his tastes, and he slowly began to immerse himself in the French History class, and get to know the people in it. Eponine was the only girl, but she didn't seem to care much, and half the time she didn't even show up. Jehan found himself warming to Combeferre, who was studious, loving books almost as much as Jehan loved poetry, but gentle and kind rather than the stoic, distant personality he'd half expected. Feuilly was a lot of fun, and Joly and Bossuet were together so much that they almost blurred into one person to Jehan, but they had their own loveable quirks that set them apart. Bahorel usually had a lot to say, and he was animated and friendly, but he also seemed to love fighting; one time he showed up with a split lip and a grin on his face, reminding Jehan of Bossuet's first appearance. And then there was Enjolras, burning brightly, becoming more and more captivating by the day, and Grantaire, who was cynical and liked to argue with Enjolras when he wasn't wistfully gazing at him, or drinking somewhere. They were all passionate, intense, and a true friendship group, stronger and tighter than any he had ever known. And Courfeyrac was so much one of them, so familiar and known to them, so necessary to them, that Jehan felt like his crush on him was a little hopeless. That wasn't the only reason – Courfeyrac was a notorious flirt, somewhat outrageous at times, and always the brightest person in the room. Jehan saw for himself this side of Courfeyrac all too often; he seemed to be flirting with a different person every few days, girl or boy, he didn't seem to care. Jehan didn't forget Courfeyrac more or less suggesting to him that day that he would be willing to get into something with him when he was ready for it, but exactly what kind of relationship that would be, he didn't know.

On a Friday evening, Jehan was in the university library, sitting on the floor with stacks of poetry books around him. He had come to get some books for an assignment on Romanticism and then going home to start writing it, but he had become distracted and was reading Keats intently. He didn't realise there was anyone else in this secluded, basement part of the library, until he heard a voice that was definitely Courfeyrac's. He looked up and saw the boy leaning against a wall, dressed in a white short-sleeved shirt and a black bow tie, which looked oddly great on him, and he was talking to a boy who kept blushing and ducking his head as Courfeyrac grinned. Jehan's eyes narrowed. That was what he would be doing. What he should be doing. But, he reminded himself, Courfeyrac was not a one person only kind of guy, and he should just give up and find someone who would date him properly and give him the romance he craved.

He was proud of his inner strength – until Courfeyrac leaned down to kiss the boy, and Jehan accidentally knocked over a pile of books with the sudden jump to his feet. Courfeyrac's lips stopped right before they touched the other's, and he stared over at Jehan, who was blushing furiously and picking up books. He began shoving them back on the shelves, not looking at Courfeyrac, so he didn't realise that he had walked over to him, abandoning the other boy who shot him a dirty look before leaving, until he was done stacking the books and looked up, right into his brown eyes.

"Courf." His heart was thudding as the other boy looked at him, his eyes shining, a very faint smirk on his lips.

"Jehan. Is everything all right?"

He nodded, clutching the three books that he was taking with him to his chest. "I'm just fine, and clearly you are too."

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. "If I didn't know better, I would say you were jealous, Jean Prouvaire."

"Jealous? No, he's not my type."

Courfeyrac laughed. "You know what I mean."

"I don't. Care to enlighten me?" Jehan's heart beat even faster as Courfeyrac took a step closer.

"You want me. Don't you?"

Jehan was aware of how much he must be blushing. It would be easy, so much easier, to shoot some lame excuse at Courfeyrac, run away and do his poetry work. Much easier than doing what he did, but with much less exciting consequences.

"Yes," he said, his voice small, "I do."

Time seemed to stop for a moment, as the two boys just looked at each other, and then somehow, Jehan's books were on the floor, and Courfeyrac had him pinned against the bookshelves, gripping his wrists. He kissed the smaller boy, softly at first, but when Jehan reciprocated with a surprising amount of force, he pressed his body against his and let his tongue dart between the poet's lips, dancing with his as though they had had years of practice. Books fell over, some falling to the floor, as Courfeyrac held Jehan tightly by the waist, Jehan's fingers tangled in Courfeyrac's dark curls, and Courfeyrac gave a muffled laugh. Jehan held him tighter, almost urgent with his actions, and Courfeyrac's laugh turned into a low moan as he felt Jehan's hands on his back, under his shirt. With a fast movement, Courfeyrac swept a pile of books off a shelf, and Jehan sat on it, wrapping his legs around Courfeyrac's waist as they kissed.

"You are surprising," Courfeyrac said when they came up for air. Jehan grinned, looking at Courfeyrac's flushed face and messy curls, wild from his fingers.

"A good surprising?"

"Very good." Courfeyrac leaned in and kissed him again, hard and hot, and Jehan forgot that he was highly unlikely to have a real relationship with this boy, that he had known him for less than three weeks, that he didn't really do this kind of thing often. None of it mattered, when Courfeyrac's lips were on his, and then on his neck, making him gasp and shiver as he planted kiss after kiss there. He began to unbutton Courfeyrac's shirt, baring a lean, toned chest, and his hand was just daring to move lower when suddenly there was a loud voice and Courfeyrac was pulled away from him with an actual whimper. Jehan blinked through the magic cloud that seemed to have formed around him and saw Enjolras, who was frowning at him disapprovingly.

"Courfeyrac is required elsewhere. I suggest you continue this at a more convenient time, and probably take it to a bedroom, the university library is anything but."

Jehan covered his scarlet face with his hands and nodded, not able to look Enjolras in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he squeaked, and then he felt a quick, soft kiss on his lips before Courfeyrac was dragged out, leaving Jehan to recover, and then tidy up all the books with shaking hands.