Chapter Text
Javert always had bad timing. But- he still couldn’t fathom why- it had to be flowers. Goddamn flowers.
He couldn’t pinpoint the extent of his fixation, whether it was ankle or neck deep, nor why it happened, but it began shortly after a former mayor started cradling him to sleep. Javert’s mother used to hold him with every ounce of caring that Valjean held- or so he believed, a sort of comfort, the smallest amount Javert could offer himself. But that touch changed something. Sparked an emotion: unwilling to leave his lips, but ever since fishing him out of the Seine, Valjean did nothing more than touch. Always brutally gentle and sentimental and happy, it was something Javert did not know. But- it seemed like a distant memory- he had been bedridden, venomous and more than prepared to die, but the ridiculous man refused to let him perish under the waters, refused to let him weather the storm alone- and read gardening books to him instead.
And when Valjean led him to the garden, sun hit his face and lit up his features as if he regarded it for the first time- and in a way he did. Valjean had breathed an exasperated, however fond, sigh of relief because playing tug o' war with a man who simply wants to let go of the rope is like wrangling a cat into clothes.
The first few months were awful to say the least. Javert woke up- if he had been sleeping- pulled himself out of Valjean’s bed, and found his way back to the bridge. Shout at Valjean in the middle of the street that he was a manipulator, a criminal! Bastard! Get away from me! But Valjean would give him a gentle scolding, shake his head, and coax the other back to bed, as if they were old friends, old lovers. Of course, the inspector would sleep until noon, and apologize for the earlier actions that he was only half sure were real. Well, his way of apologizing. He’d bow his head, refused to refer to Valjean as anything but monsieur for the first months- but occasionally rotated between Monsieur Madeleine- a man long dead- the man’s prison number, or Valjean, despite countless pleads to simply be called by his first name. Javert had always been prickly.
This alarmed Valjean at times. Watching the man lapse throughout being truly venomous, witnessing him snarl as he looked himself in the mirror, jerking away harshly from physicality. But these actions: they were an assurance, that Javert, though buried deep, was still there. But those moments where Javert hid away somewhere in the depths of his mind, staying curled up in bed the entire day, eyes glazed over and silent- Valjean truly became afraid. These happenings never lasted forever, Javert would always find his way back to his wolfish self that made Valjean snort with amusement, but it made the former mayor flinch at the idea that he could not help if the man caved in completely.
And then Valjean introduced him to gardening, and- the more peculiar of the two- well, cuddling.
Valjean had been pressing flowers, flattening the petals in between pages with a smile: the activity had been from his childhood. Javert scowled, but set himself down next to the man, and stared. He did not even attempt to hide his blatant curiosity. And then it struck Valjean: of course! Javert had never seen much nature, the situation must have looked truly insane to him. So, he gently guided Javert’s hands as he pressed down the blossom in the book, staring at the ones already properly pressed. See? Valjean had said. They may seem like nothing more than silly plants, however, through this, we can honor them. Foliage never truly dies, I don’t believe anyone dies for that matter- if we remember, we can honor them during their time in paradise. And then: A miracle. Javert nodded. He squinted at the flowers thoughtfully, huffed, and asked where he had gotten the blossoms.
Valjean was delighted. Javert’s pure curiosity as he was shown the garden, examined wordlessly as Valjean plucked flowers, and perhaps the first smile in too long rose to his lips. I would like to plant something, he said.
It started out slow, they first had to push past multiple breakdowns in the middle of the garden, Javert shaking with fury while staring at the foliage. I kill every single thing I touch, he would declare, returning into the house and when he returned, he became the inspector again. Shoulders straight, deep, stern lines in the corners of his mouth, but even when given a fresh bouquet of flowers, the flinch was unmistakable.
However once Valjean began touching Javert, this changed. The softness of his fingers in the most casual of actions- pressures on his shoulder, hand, wrist, leading him towards the best book on the shelf, towards a flower perfect for a bouquet. And it worked. For some inane, bizarre in all it’s nature, it worked. Results came quickly. He would be greeted in the morning, his housemate giving a small, almost humorous salute, and asked how his night had been. Javert stopped sleeping in the other’s bed, no longer needing the support on his broken ribs and leg, and instead, Valjean found himself disappointed that he no longer had anyone to read to at night. So instead, he’d pick out books about law and justice, sit next to the insomniac inspector, and follow their routine once again.
Childish! Javert barked the first time he was read to, Valjean not hesitating for a second and only sent him a smile that quickly shut the inspector up. It almost always worked. Despite the fact Javert vowed to arrest him at one point, that he’d find his way back to the Seine the second he was free, there were moments when his civil personality shone through. Even to the point of jokes. He would snort, cite about the fact that perhaps Valjean had abducted him, asking if he should write to the police force. Valjean made sure that the man had freedom, always, but could not help but chuckle along to Javert’s bizarre humour- it drove him to the point of gripping his belly from his laughter. They chatted about every aspect of life: the fortunate, the less so, mercy and death. And they held so many of the same opinions, Valjean delighted at the sight of a new person to talk to. Valjean named friends swiftly, but Javert debated it for months, wondering if he deserved the kindness in the first place. And to Valjean’s surprise, Javert had a particular and favorite topic: flowers.
Valjean bought a bouquet for the first time, bringing it home to his housemate excitedly. Javert ran his fingers over each petal, eyes wide with curiosity and regarded the colors as if for the first time, and asked- so softly, as if the flowers would wilt if he spoke too loud- what Valjean’s favorite flowers were.
So, the second the inspector was able to walk again, with an awkward gait and a cane, he bought Valjean’s favorite seeds and got to planting. He didn’t know how to thank anyone, never learned, and never had the chance to learn- he didn’t even know why he was doing it. Perhaps, he simply wanted to see the man smile, laugh, eyes crinkle at the edges like the times Javert’s dry humor surfaced. His face burned with an odd anxiety as he patted the seeds into the dirt, Valjean humming beside him, oblivious of the fresh conflict in the inspector’s heart.
They spent their evenings in each other’s company, Valjean’s hand on the other’s chest to measure the shuddering breaths, Javert’s hand tucked neatly next to his housemate’s leg. The Seine had done more than a number on Javert, breaking bones and nurturing a fluctuating suicidal ideation. His lungs and mind were waterlogged, his words succumbing to violent coughs at all hours of the day, but soon, the hypothermia and pneumonia dispersed, but a particular ache never subsided. But Javert- like everything he personally dealt with, brushed it off.
But there was one sinful feeling that refused to leave. Valjean was a thief- a criminal, a convict, for God’s sake, the scars were still there! Did the man still think of him as a guard? As an inspector who did not let him close tired eyes? Javert so desperately wish he did not care, did not lean into the other’s touch, didn’t feel that same stab of guilt when faced with scars, whip marks, brands across Valjean’s chest. A thief, let him be nothing more than a thief, Javert had prayed- but he knew. Oh God, he had the deftness of a master thief when he stole Javert’s heart, and Javert had been more than willing to let him in.
The daughter of Valjean visited once, nervously stepping around the authoritarian, but it was quite clear that Javert was in no state to arrest anyone- even though he continued to promise himself that someday he’d arrest the convict. He desperately tried to imitate Valjean’s fatherlike presence, only to end with Valjean smiling into his napkin over dinner. Javert felt like a spirit examining human behavior- something out of his division, but the other acted as if the inspector was a work of art. You are a sight to see when you smile, the former mayor had said, bursting into laughter before remarking happily on Javert’s red face. I do adore your company!
And then suddenly, their lives, and roles, reversed.
It began with one particular conversation, the discussion of politics turning into Valjean sobbing into the inspector’s shoulder. He was so intent on disappearing from Cosette’s life, leaving her with a boy named Marius, because he was nothing more than an old man, and good-for-nothing. That he should die, and good riddance! Javert physically jumped at the ridiculous idea! Valjean was a great father from what he had seen- but that single sentence didn’t fix things. So Javert did something that he protected solely for the other: he learned to understand, despite the horror at the idea he was ridiculously vulnerable. But even with Javert’s anxiety after weeks without Valjean’s usual smiles- the former mayor avoided meals, slept as much as Javert after the Seine, didn’t bother to visit the garden to see the rare flowers that bloomed in the winter- he began to truly die.
A new feeling arose in Javert’s chest, something that wasn’t wholly venom, bordering on something he had little use for prior. He practiced with the new emotion, testing and pushing to the limits, figuring that it was nothing more than pity- it could not be further from pity. So, Javert busied himself with pacing outside of his housemate’s quarters, fretting at the door- until, finally, he gained what could only be called courage, and forced the unforgiving door open.
It took a series of conversations, Javert’s voice rising more hysterically than he cared to admit, sitting on the bed with a stubborn Valjean, and the man smiled as if nothing was wrong. And Javert managed to relax after Valjean promised he’d eat and go outside, and it wasn’t the last time they had intimate talks under the midnight hour. Javert wanted endlessly for Valjean to believe in himself- the man could not be swayed easily, however, and Javert was admittedly terrible at getting his emotional points across. So, Valjean held true to his promise, but not without the occasional talk about their- Javert shuddered at the word- feelings. But for Valjean, he didn’t mind. A flaw in his morals. Each word spoken was damningly tender.
“Good morning!” Valjean greeted, bringing a plate over to the table before ushering the inspector out of his makeshift bed. No matter Valjean’s protests, Javert slept on the couch, and there he remained. “How was your night?”
Javert let out a hiss, letting Valjean win and sat down at the table, a meal that Valjean had made in less than an hour. He scowled- how could the man be so angelic? Indulgence, far too much of it- he brought his coffee to his lips. Already sweetened provided by his love of sugar. Sinful indulgence- he glanced towards Valjean’s plate, paused, and placed another piece of toast upon it. No, this wasn’t indulgence- the man needed his calories after all. Yes, Valjean may have been broad shouldered and physically fit, but he didn’t eat nearly enough for comfort! Some time ago in the midst of true depression, Valjean had explained that he wasn’t worthy of such nourishment- bah! A fool.
It was the law of the house that they often broke- Valjean loved to cook and Javert loved to garden. Amusing how it worked- the inspector provided food for preparations to a convict. And ever since Javert began sleeping without hating every moment of it, Javert grew to love sleeping as well when he had the time. Thankfully, he had a brief moment on every Sunday to sleep in an extra hour or two, but always made it up by staying up until the birds chirped the following eve. He did enjoy hearing the birds, however. He kept a mental list of the traitorous things he loved.
One of the first elements: Relaxation. He continued to work with the police force, and with his new perspective, was more swallowed in his labor than ever. Valjean hated it with a blistering passion. He didn’t hate the fact that Javert brought a new justice to Paris, a new bliss to the city- no, he hated the fact that Javert didn’t have time to rest. Often, Valjean would not see the inspector for an entire day, showing up mysteriously at his desk by the time Valjean awoke. Leisure seemed to elude the man! It took an entire three months to convince the man to take one day a week for himself! And even then, Javert settled himself with paperwork, and of course, Valjean despised this too. So, he would finally hoist the bewildered man up in his arms, set him onto the sofa, and guard the man until sleep finally anchored him in.
The two of them had their crusades with the world of rest. Insomnia, night terrors and waking up with a scream lodged in their throat. Valjean had them constantly, at least four times a week- shame grew in his housemate’s mind. Toulon? He almost didn’t want to know, terrified that the man’s night was spotted with whips and blood and- his stomach tightened. So, Javert grew out of the hesitation to comfort the other. He would sit beside the bed, his simple presence doing wonders to the other’s mental health. And of course, Valjean tugged on his sleeve to join him in bed, and how on earth could he say no? For he knew, he knew all too well, that he wished every day to touch the man once more. They’d start awkward- with their backs touching- but always, Valjean would nestle himself firmly into the other’s arms- both were on the verge of weeping, desperate for the physicality, for the intimacy they craved, but it wasn’t enough. Both wishing the lazy touches were anything more than platonic.
Javert did not often sleep: he was far too busy to need it. But even in the moment when exhaustion was pulling at his every limb, grasping and lulling him into a suspicious calm, Valjean snuggled and snoring softly beside him, Javert was awake. But, no, not because of his constant labors. Because of the ridiculous way the moon fell upon the ridiculous man’s face, he looked at peace, all lines of his face calm and seemed so content, happy. Javert shook his head, face hot, every single time. Nonsense.
“I slept,” he said, which was his standard, content response. He kicked himself under the table, and drained the red out of his face: he had to leave his dreamland at one point or another. “And you? How are you?”
“I’m quite well!” Valjean exclaimed, Javert noticing the excitement in the other’s words, and smiled into his mug. Always a blessing. “And we must take advantage of your freedom today- I do love Sundays- so, I am going to trim your beard today.”
“Good God. Says who?”
“Says the man holding the blade, as well as the towel, and I have the washroom set up, so, dear inspector. You are getting a shave!” Valjean grinned, and while his smiles came often, the genuine ones were superior, turned his knees weak. Javert snorted in amusement, an unfamiliar ache in his chest.
“Perhaps we could visit the alms today.”
The two of them lapsed into their daily routine, fit perfectly around each other’s company and it came to be even quicker than expected. They’d wake up, often tangled in each other’s arms- far too much of a lingering touch that was a dagger to Javert’s chest. After breakfast was served, they lapsed into their separate but overlapped schedules. Javert would fill out paperwork if he could not be active in the streets and tend to the garden, Valjean would sketch on the porch- occasionally checking on the other with a loving grin. And of course- the evenings were for chatting- or at least, when Valjean could get something out of the other that wasn’t an overworked grumble.
And Valjean discovered a softened spot in Javert’s heart in the midst of their conversations, that provided the first chance he got, but never had the chance nor reputation to. Javert was laughably awkward at the idea of donation, but Valjean harbored a pride like no other. Soon, protesting didn’t arrive when they visited the alms, and they’d return to their home with their pockets empty and a pleased, unspoken aura resting on Javert’s shoulders for hours after.
“We shall, then! We may have to go later, you have quite the set of whiskers, my friend.”
“Bah. That makes two of us,” the inspector said, the usual edge out of his voice, a burning in his chest that would make sense- his pains had been growing worse ever since starting to garden with the other. Old age, it seemed. “Your beard has grown unruly- I cannot believe you cited something about my hair.”
Valjean snorted, tilting the other’s chin up as he moved the blade carefully along the other’s jawline. An exercise of trust. They connected gaze for a moment, the corners of Valjean’s eyes crinkling with a smile. “You truly think so? I was-“
And at that note, Javert lurched over, a cough pushing itself out of his throat, and the blade sliced through his skin.
He doubled over in pain, coughs wracking themselves free as he took in vicious gasps- a violent pain wasn’t simply discomfort from being old, this was more- no man coughed like this! Fear gripped him by the throat, hurrying through every possible solution as he hugged his middle, dangerous pressure rising in his breast. Tears blazed in his eyes as he stared at the ground through the blurry mess, the figure with stark white hair exclaiming in panic. The worst pain had only been active for a week! He must have been poisoned, who had been suspicious? Some sort of advanced illness, a mastery of a poisoning, he was sure of it-
He glanced up, Valjean standing right next to him, holding a cloth to his bloody face. A terrible habit it was- any face injury Javert received made him cry like a child, and Valjean’s concerned face was more than enough to send him over the edge.
“Javert- are you alright?” The aging mayor’s voice finally reached his ears, who, on instinct, helped him up without pulling his hands away, and the hacking only got worse. “Let me get you something- here, how about-“
Valjean pressed a cold linen to Javert’s forehead, the other heaving in pain but the coughs began to subside- and on that note, Javert thought a thank you to whoever was listening. He could feel the panic: the way Valjean’s trembling hands couldn’t hold the towel still, the vibrations of the other’s urgent voice that usually held such kindness, and his free hand on his shaking back- oh, how Javert hated how much pleasure he received from such a thing.
Everything Valjean did gave Javert far, far too much happiness, a way no one had given to him, and Javert didn’t understand. He hated the solemn sound of uncertainty, but Valjean made him so calm and comfortable and feel so content in such an life- with each touch and glance and word, Valjean pulled him into feelings that, yes, he didn’t understand, but he cherished them. A feeling that signified: Yes, I would follow you across France, across the sea and to the sun and to the stars if you asked. And I would be ever so happy to do so.
“Deep breaths, now,” Valjean comforted, helping him up and ushering him into the bedroom. They fit around each other too perfectly. Something would go wrong, Javert was sure, but the feelings gave him the same sensation of caffeine. Jumpy and energetic, anxious even, and then there was a layer of calm. His heart beat slowed in the evening hours, the reassuring gaze of the other could lull him in any situation. Of course, the emotion sparked its own horrors, but he was sure: as long as he kept these feelings to himself, nothing terrible could happen. But since when had the privately adored feelings from Valjean turned sickening?
“I’m not a child,” he spat, wiping at his watering eyes, not a hint of malice in his tone. Why was he so rude? Could he even be considered as a friend? He did not deserve the beauty that of such a man- he debated daily if he deserved such a life.
“Of course you’re not- you are quite too tall for any child to be.”
Javert managed a tired chuckle, unsure if he could actually laugh until he met the other man- listen to him! He sounded like a lovesick fool. His mouth dried- love. He pushed this word to the side. The respect many had held for him was long gone, dripped down the drain and forever unforgivable, but oddly enough, he did not care. He glanced towards Valjean, another cough rising, and immediately: tears climbed his throat, but he swallowed even as the other sat him down and hurried off to get a glass of water.
The pain in his chest remained, throbbing and made each shuddering breath sound as if it was coming from deep underground- and quickly a new series of coughs overtook him, blood and its metallic taste coating his throat. But something stuck on his tongue, thick and soft, but covered with blood nonetheless-
A flower.
He pulled the object out from between his lips, terror hitting him- a single sprig of lavender, red intertwined with each violet flower, the usually sweet smell nauseating: going right to his head. What? No, this couldn’t happen, it wasn’t possible! It was impossible- there is no way he- the footsteps of Valjean wandered back into the room, shoved the herb under the blankets, and thankfully swallowed the water. It was a single sprig, must’ve been a mistake. Valjean regarded him with an incredibly tender glance, that only caused another cough to climb his throat- there was little time to dwell on anything going on. He feared it- feared being so vulnerable but Valjean didn’t say anything against it.
Valjean hated seeing his housemate so miserable- and with the curious addition to most of Javert’s emotional or physical pain, for an inspector, he cried quite a bit. Nothing wrong with the reliever of course, it was a welcome coping mechanism rather than worse ones. But it broke the old mayor’s heart each time, to see him position himself at an angle where tears wouldn’t threaten to spill, and he wanted nothing more than to gather the other up in his arms, a natural solution, but both were too afraid of what the other would think.
But thankfully, thought Valjean, this seems like a simple cough. I’ll get some medicine when in the city if it worsens. He smiled, satisfied that Javert’s eyes had dried and his fingers had stopped shaking, and in one swift movement, he tossed the inspector over his shoulder.
“I can walk!” Javert snarled, almost unfazed by the constant carryings. The action had begun when he had truly been unable to get out of bed without help from his- er, friend perhaps. Why was the title not fulfilling enough? He didn’t have time to dwell on it, terror was crawling up his neck. “You carry me as if I am a sack of potatoes!”
“You weigh less- and potatoes already weigh so little! Perhaps while I’m away I shall get more meals for us…”
“While you’re away? Are you leaving?”
“Oh!” Valjean exclaimed, blushing as if he had been caught lighting candles for prayer. He set the inspector by the couch, examining his new clotted wound. And as for Javert, he was suddenly far too aware of the softness of the mayor’s skin on his own, and his heart rate accelerated without hesitation. And the pain in his chest began again, more brutally- each beat a crackling flame in his ears. His world was ablaze.
Valjean continued, unnoticing the other’s sudden pallor. “I’ve been invited to Cosette and Marius’ home in the countryside- to the sunflower patches! I’m bringing home flowers, foods, I must apologise since I felt alright after considering the desertion of my daughter! Good thing I had you by my side.”
Javert swallowed, pressing a fist to his lips. “Bah. Seeing you in such pain proved my claim. You’re a great father.”
The smallest words made Valjean’s heart swell with pride, both of the man Javert had become, and the fact that he himself had changed as well. He grinned. Javert was a man of few words, and even fewer expressed emotions, but the nights they spent inadvertently tangled up in each other’s arms expressed far more. And of course, there was no more of an amusing hobby than flustering his housemate.
Javert couldn’t stand another moment of kind gaze from the other, and quickly, he went on with a cough.
“Ahem- when do you leave?”
“Oh, of course!” Valjean smiled, and Javert’s heart gave a painful convulsion. “I was planning to leave tonight, get time in with dear Cosette. However- are you well? Those were some particularly severe coughs you had- perhaps I could stay-“
“Incredulous!” Javert barked, turning away to hide his burning urge to cough, as well as a flush of comfort. He waited for a thrust of jealousy, envy of Valjean and his family, but none came. Instead, he felt a rush of excitement for the other man and the prospect of seeing his dear daughter. He knew how important children were from the fact that Valjean had been neck deep in depression over the girl, and if this gave him comfort: Javert could be nothing but supportive. “You must go.”
“I do hope dear inspector isn’t willing me away,” Valjean teased lightly, “have I been that bad of a friend?”
Friend. Javert coughed, wiping his lips and pulling up a nonchalant façade to distract that another sprig of lavender had been produced. His stomach churned. He couldn’t do it. Valjean would say otherwise, if he knew. Would Valjean throw him to the streets if he were to explain his feelings? Perhaps laugh uncomfortably, and leave within the hour, ask for him to depart? It was the only home he ever had. Quite a makeshift one at that- but a home, he supposed. Did he have permission to call it as such? He couldn't ask that, of course. Insane to believe that it was the same mind that thought, every day, ever-present urge to close the gap between their lips. Javert knew the other’s lips were soft: the man’s skin looked far too gentle. But to close their breathing and the entirety of the universe between them, could it be done? Again, he could never ask. Because saying the words brought it into reality and made everything far too true.
“Of course not, you’ve been nothing but, er, kind- suspiciously so at times-“ Valjean let out a delighted laugh, clapping his hands- “and you need to see her. I won’t let your thoughts turn you bedridden again. I will not have it.”
Valjean leaned against the sofa and into Javert’s shoulder. The burning spread to his side- Valjean had always been so traitorously affectionate. “Thank you, my friend. While you’d never admit it- you’re far too stubborn- but you are a wonderful man.”
At once, Javert fell into another series of coughs. Valjean didn’t hesitate this time- he put his head against the other’s forehead, tutting softly before putting an arm around him in order to stay steady. It was his goal: repay the ever-growing debt he had for the inspector. And while Javert would have raised an eyebrow at the idea, he had done far more for Valjean than he’d ever know.
“Are you alright?” He asked helplessly, Javert doubling over in pain as he wheezed, tears gathering in his eyes. “Javert?”
In the angry midst of hacking, Javert nodded. With his head almost on his knees, he tore bundles of flowers and lavender from his throat, swallowing them back down, as he pulled away from the other’s grasp. Each blossom risked death. Had the sprig of lavender only been the beginning? He wasn’t sure what hurt more: the lack of touch or the burning in his throat! It was a ridiculous idea!
He excused himself, rushing to the washroom and forced Valjean’s concerned expression out of his mind. He coughed up new flowers, the second time in an hour as his mind spun in hope to land on a lucky assumption.
It had to be a joke, Javert thought, it had to be! A poisoning? It must have been. Could I have swallowed some sort of petals when gardening? When did I bring flowers close to my lips, however? It could have been from the fall, seeds lodged in my throat with the perfectly damp temperatures- it could have happened! Panic grabbed at his chest and trapped him staring at his foggy reflection- his eyes filled with water, every inch of him desperate to escape this new ache- it had to be temporary! There couldn’t be remaining flowers in him- shouldn’t have been any in the first place! I am fine, he assured himself, utterly and perfectly fine.
“Javert? Are you alright in there? I brought some water.”
The rapping on the door shot him out of his nightmarish rêverie. He wanted to explain, he wanted to keep quiet, he wanted to confess every thought sodden with unfamiliar feelings and even more terrifying thoughts, he wanted to shut his mouth and never speak again! He didn’t know what he wanted- ridiculous bouts of illness kicked him like no other. He wasn’t in control- he never had been.
“Yes, one moment.”
He got the words out of his lips as he scrubbed at his face, his hair unkempt and jaw decorated with trimmed whiskers and a thick bandage. He looked put together enough to pass as sane: a true miracle. His stomach churned, panic gnawing at him. Valjean wouldn't hesitate to open the door, he knew that. The first time Valjean had taken his eye off Javert- a week after the attempt- he had gotten ahold of a kitchen knife. What any man could assume followed, and Valjean caught him and carried him back to bed. The oddest part about it: Valjean wasn't angry. Only a sort of sadness that was heavy enough to keep Javert away from any more blades.
He inhaled, exhaled. He could do it. Well, perhaps not. But that had not stopped him before.
"Are you alright, my friend?" Valjean asked once he emerged, giving him a one-over with a hand on his shoulder.
No. I’m confused and terrified and want to kiss you. Very badly. And all the time. Perhaps that’s why I am so afraid.
"Yes, yes thank you. I must have inhaled something," he said, taking another deep breath before allowing Valjean to lead him. “I must have. Nothing of concern.”
“I could make you some chamomile tea!” Valjean offered cheerfully, opening the door. “Our garden is looking beautiful- oh! I know you do like ginger tea, I planted extra but it will be a few months- hm. I’ve always trusted plants that blossom, still- ginger is the exception. Summer crops are personally my favorite, and even autumn gives the best crops, but spring yields the flowers, it’s funny how that works. You would think- oh, I’m babbling, aren’t I?” An amused giggle from the man at his own habit to go off on tangents. Javert’s cheeks were hot; he loved hearing the rambling from his housemate. “Spring is almost here!”
Together, they had grown an array of flowers and vegetables, Valjean introducing the inspector to fruits he hadn’t known existed, let alone the fact that he could successfully grow something. He had never killed the blooms, Valjean always figured out a way to bring them back from the cusp of death. Javert’s heart thundered. He brought everything back from death- whether they wanted to live or not.
The cool breeze whipped across their sanctuary, Valjean letting out a bright laugh at the insanity that was the other’s long hair. Again: the idea hit him. I want to kiss you, Javert thought miserably, frowning as he stepped into their fenced area, but I preferred the time when I could think such things and not throw up foliage. Whatever this is, it is truly sickening.
The moments where they happened to both be tending to the garden were blessed. While their schedules were comfortably busy, the garden was their shared place. Emotionally, Javert supposed. Physically, they were never more than a few feet from the other, it was a small home and Valjean was always there for comfort and support. And of course, Javert always was more than ready to return the favor. But the moments that they could share were always honored.
He kneeled down in the dirt, Valjean digging a hole beside him with his hands. Like a rabbit, Javert mused to himself. The aging hands of the former mayor kept a rough feeling, but the emotion Valjean held with each touch was more than enough to make them soft. Javert silently studied the wrinkles around the other’s eyes, from smiling so much, from basking in a heaven. His wrists were imprinted from the years of prison- a dagger to Javert’s chest, another ache besides the forsaken flowers- and he knew the back of the ex-convict looked the same. Had the man lived his life in heaven or hell? A specific desire he had: to kiss along each scar until the imprints weren’t there, to convince himself he hadn’t caused every moment of suffering. Had he ordered the pain? Had he not thought twice? Perhaps kisses could heal some sort of hidden pain of the man. He flinched. When had he started such suggestive thoughts? Oh, oh, it had to be months ago they began. Just like the ache in his chest, easy to brush off, but fatal in an instant.
And yes. Javert was sure of it: Valjean was handsome. Ridiculously attractive even, easy to look at with features that reminded one of a comfortably warm evening spent at home. The way a husband fetched logs for a fire that illuminated the room, pressing a gentle kiss upon his wife’s head, a child toddling at their feet: it was bliss. Spoken, cited and noted by so many, reached by few. But this appearance only hit the surface: unfair to Valjean to not mention his mannerisms too. The beauty reached deep, deep below the surface. And Javert, on the other hand, was ugly. He knew this, accepted it, and truthfully didn’t care. Sharp corners and vicious angles touched his face to make him constantly look as if he were having the worst day of his life. Deep lines across his forehead, void of anything that showed human nature: a block of ice. Even internally, he was no better. Cutting words and constant doubt- even his name had an issue! Javert: his only title. Perhaps a first, perhaps a last name, he did not know. But Valjean- he bristled, his face a deep red. Did all saints look as he?
“Javert? Do I have something on my face?”
He had been caught admiring.
“No. I- er- just distracted. I’m alright.” His face burned- staring at the other’s bright hair that looked like a halo in the sunlight. A saint. His hands- covered in dirt at the moment- had been the point of far too many childish and romantic thoughts, far too many. “Hush. I’m fine.”
Valjean grinned, standing up and brushing off his hands. “Your face is red. A fever perhaps?” He held a smile that suggested otherwise. Javert had been caught- quite obviously too, he should’ve been- he didn’t know what he should’ve been doing!
Again, Valjean pressed his hand to Javert’s forehead. “Oh Javert- you definitely have an illness! Absolutely, you do. Come, let’s go in. Let’s lay you down, I’ll stay for the next few days. I don’t want your pneumonia returning-“
“No, no, you incorrigible man,” he said, the two of them exchanging a glance that assured there was not a hint of malice behind the words. “You must go! She is your daughter, she is expecting you.”
“But you’re ill and-“
I need you okay. The words caught on his tongue. I want you to stay.
“No need to worry,” Javert mused, suppressing a cough. He could feel petals suffocating him- each colorful bud a knife. Why had it come so suddenly? The ache had been caught in his chest for ages now, why was it then that it decided to surface? The time alone had to help- he didn’t want the other to see him so helpless. What good was he then? Valjean insisted that he wasn’t overstaying his welcome, that it was a pleasure to have someone around, but Javert doubted it. “Come- do you need help packing your bags?”
Valjean frowned.
That wasn’t good.
“You have everything? Clothes, sketchbook, a few francs?”
Valjean smiled sadly, nodding. They had been sorting through his case for the past few hours, switching between packing and Valjean rushing to aid the ill man. He seemed to be getting worse- holding every symptom of pneumonia, he must have been out too late again! Their evening strolls were lovely- they should have been more careful with Javert’s fragile state. Valjean chewed on his lips, examining Javert’s long fingers, scarred from years of work. Oh, how he wished he could hold those hands- how he wished. A silly thought, but laced with reason. The man was magnificent.
“You promise you’ll see a doctor if you feel worse? Your coughing sounds awful, I’ll pick up some medicine in the city, are you alright? Please don’t hesitate to write if you need me to come home-“
“Hush.” Javert snorted, long hair pulled back. Valjean always loved seeing his face- his strange smile that grew to be the highlight of his days, the odd, sharp angles and laughs. No matter how bizarre to outsiders, Valjean could not help it. “I’m fine and you have a carriage waiting. Remember: you are going to have fun and see your daughter, and I’m truly fine. Most likely a one-day ailment, alright?”
Valjean sighed, itching at his hands. Each cough that his housemate let out grew more painful than the last, and each time he would brush it off and excuse himself to the washroom. Valjean searched the other’s gaze for a hint of pain, but Javert held such a gentle, stoic aura, so different from months ago. Everything about him had changed so drastically, but of course, he retained the parts that made him, him. But this illness didn’t look good, weariness gripping the other along with each sigh he let out.
“Ah... Alright. You promise that you’ll see a doctor? Please.”
Javert paused, and nodded.
“I’m going to miss you,” Valjean said, pulling Javert into a tight embrace. It was the first time in months that they’d be separated, the words were unbelievably true. He nuzzled into the inspector’s neck, their skin pressed together and Valjean smiled.
The skin over Javert’s stomach had filled, finally gaining a bit comfort and so opposed to the emptiness that had been there before. His ribs were only apparent if he was shirtless and laying down, but his hips had been entirely submerged in cushion. He was a tall man, multiple inches to the point where the former mayor had to stand on the edge of his feet to have them at the same height. Of course, he didn’t mind. Javert fit perfectly in his arms- no issue in that! Valjean would lay his hand on the other’s chest, stomach or neck, monitoring the heartbeat. A confirmation: they both made it. Both were still there.
He pulled away from the other, Javert’s face red. Valjean grinned. Whether it was from heat or truly him being flustered, it was always wonderful to see.
“How dare, er, I shall…” Javert cleared his throat, averting his eyes. “I shall wave you off.”
I want to kiss you.
His throat burned in pain, flames crawling up his chest with such intensity, don’t cough. He shall stay if you make another noise- ah, would that be so bad? He could hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears, furious tears threatened to spill. Furious at himself for being so weak when it came to goodbyes. When had he cried so often? He stayed stark still for so many years, and now, at the smallest hint of kindness, he wept.
He helped Valjean out to the carriage, doing his best to remain silent and not pour out every forsaken feeling right there. Instead, he stared at the other’s broad shoulders to keep his head, at least somewhat.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Valjean said sadly, as if he would miss the other- Javert found it hard to believe, but nonetheless, the corners of his mouth quirked up. “I’ll be back Sunday, and if I find that you worked this entire week, I am going to lock you inside.” A laugh. “Take care of yourself, swear by it?”
“Ah, I swear. Goodbye- I- I’ll keep an eye on the garden. Have fun, don’t you dare come back early, you old fool.”
They exchanged a grin.
The carriage pulled away, Valjean sticking a hand out in a wave, and Javert smiled.
The sky deepened in color, the purples mourning the departed man, the oranges warning of the days past and blue warning of the days yet to come. His vision black at the edges. But Javert had never been one for sunsets- so he turned and stepped inside. That damning, stupid smile was the only thing he could see for miles and miles.
He snorted humorlessly, shook his head, and collapsed.