Chapter Text
By the time Courfeyrac is decent again, Enjolras is as well. He tries to apologize, stammering a little on the words, for once aware of just how virginal he is - and how far he'd fallen in the hours preceding - but Courfeyrac is having none of it, and kisses him pointedly on the lips before bidding him adieu. He leaves with a grin to oppose Enjolras' frown, and again he is alone. Not for long.
He barely has time to reorganize his thoughts and come to terms with his own actions (something that's near impossible when the heat is still raging through his veins, making him dizzy at times) before Joly is bustling in with a pail of water and a rag. Behind him is Marius still smelling of gunpowder, and behind him is Jehan with a wilting flower in hand, which he offers to a bemused Enjolras the moment he can squeeze into the cramped space.
"For you. I know this must be difficult. But you are always up for a challenge, are you not?" He smiles radiantly and the chief merely nods, not trusting himself to speak with the double scent of alpha making the air heady and thick to breathe. Joly notices right away, and orders the others sternly to the corner.
"I'll be hard pressed to help him at all if you insist on crowding him!" he cries, waving his hands about frantically. Water sloshes in the pail and a droplet slides down Enjolras' arm; he's surprised that it doesn't sizzle, evaporate right there, for his skin is burning and too-tight and he would give anything to bring an end to it now. He opens his mouth to say so, managing only a clipped phrase before choking off again.
"Ah- Joly, my friend, I apologize-"
"Oh, sit down." The young doctor looks to be restraining himself from rolling his eyes. He pressed his friend down with a hand on his shoulder, a contact that has Enjolras pliant beneath him, taking a deep breath through his mouth. Marius peeks at him in a morbid sort of curiosity from the corner, face twisting. He can only imagine the sight he makes, leaning into the rag Joly is using to wipe the sweat from his brow with his lips parted and his eyes fluttering closed. A debauched omega, desperate for more. That his coupling with Courfeyrac hadn't solved the problem bothered him immensely and humiliated him in equal parts.
"How long does it last?" Pontmercy asks, almost nervous to speak directly at him. Enjolras, however, is not deaf and feels himself flushing as he composes himself enough to answer.
"For me, it has lasted up to five days." He takes another deep breath, steeling himself, and winces. Marius is a beta and, like most of his in-between brethren, tragically unaware of the dynamics of the other fifty sixty percent of the population. Enjolras would pity him, but he finds him exasperating at the best of times. He braces himself for more questioning.
"Five?" Marius sounds horrified, and Enjolras offers a grim smile, cracking one blue eye open to look at him. "That's insanity! How do you work?"
Normally he would be pleased to hear the burgeoning respect in Pontmercy's voice, but at the moment he's distracted by Joly's nimble fingers as they prod and test, sliding over his skin expertly for any damage. Any contact, any at all, is far too much for him to handle right now. Even from an alpha who'd already been bonded. He'll admit, Joly and Bossuet have an odd relationship - it seems a fluke of nature that they were bonded to the same woman, and yet they acted as if it were a blessing, an indulgence. Bossuet would probably allow him, too, if it would do him any good.
But it won't. They both know it won't. Heat was a mating call, and Bossuet and Joly were both happily deaf to it now. Enjolras would have to suffer alone.
Not alone, though. He replies to Marius with a strain in his voice. “I am hard pressed to think of work at the moment, my friend.”
Or anything other than Joly, leaning over him, palms against his flushing skin-
“I must offer my apologies,” the alpha says, smiling weakly and continuing his ministrations. “I am only being thorough.”
“Was Courfeyrac not the answer, then?” Jehan, having been unusually quiet, finally makes his presence known again with a thoughtful remark. He hums under his breath, eyes bright – if Enjolras didn't know him better he would have thought his heat was the cause, but it seemed more likely some song in his head, or an imaginary romance. Lord knew that Prouvaire had probably invented him a thousand patrons in his mind, to kiss him and to temper his severe nature. He was a romantic and Enjolras could forgive him for it, was fond of him actually – but now he is eying him with a contemplative look and he dreads to answer him.
“Apparently not,” he mutters, lowering his eyes. Joly steps away and he inhales deeply in relief as he is given the room. Marius is fidgeting still, obviously growing uncomfortable.
“Well, he treated you well – though with Courfeyrac you must expect to be left with a mark,” Joly says, a small smile gracing his mouth as he dips down to soak the rag in water. “Shall I swipe away the remnants, or would you wait until the heat has passed?”
Though he was loathe to put himself back into that position, Enjolras nodded – the stickiness left behind by his coupling was beginning to dry uncomfortably between his legs and, indeed, he felt filthy. “Now is as good as ever.”
“Brave as ever, Enjolras” Marius proclaims, almost awed. He fights the urge to roll his eyes, especially when he continues, “I could not imagine the temptation. Or perhaps I could... Cosette-”
“Marius, I cannot say I care,” he cuts him off tersely as Joly gently rolls him back and spreads his thighs. He feels like a helpless child and his frustrations are hardly appeased by Pontmercy's romantic rambling. Jehan he might have accepted it from, but Marius-
“Marius, perhaps you ought to step out,” Joly says distractedly, his hand between Enjolras' thighs making it hard to think. He works with precise and thorough movements, the rag dripping onto the already-damp sheets, and perhaps he isn't as unaffected by the scent crawling over his skin as Enjolras had first assumed. “I think Jehan is better suited to help our fearless leader.”
The beta blinks, clueless. “I thought that moral support would be appreciated-”
“It's been appreciated. I will see you when I am well,” Enjolras grits out, his chest heaving, eyes squeezed shut. He doesn't need to watch Marius leave, listening to his hesitant footsteps disappear down the rickety flight of stairs to leave them to their business. And it is business, or else a favor between friends- he lets out a breath, deflating and arching up off the mattress.
“Jehan, then, I take it,” he says faintly, not daring to open his eyes. The cool cloth has disappeared and he still feels filthy despite it. Perhaps it is only his opinion of himself that has been stained. Courfeyrac's touch has still not faded and his skin tingles with the ghost of unhurried hands and mouth, of touch so intimate that he had never imagined or longed for before.
He still needs more.
This is, without question, the most humiliating thing he's ever been subjected to.
But now Jehan has drawn nearer and those dainty hands are smoothing down his ribcage, fingers splaying around his hips, as the poet lovingly caresses him. “I will be gentle,” he says, and Enjolras opens his eyes to glimpse a sweet smile before he turns and begins divesting himself of his clothing.
He is only dimly aware of Joly taking his bucket and his rag into the corner and sitting himself down in the chair previously sat before the desk, turning his eyes politely away. All he can feel is fire where Jehan had deliberately ignited his skin. He shudders, sitting slowly back up to watch as smooth skin is revealed and the tiny alpha – tiny by alpha standards, anyways, nearly as slender as Enjolras himself and it is a wonder that this gentle soul can even think to participate in such carnal activities when there are sonnets unwritten and words to be penned – turns again to greet him, sliding up on top of him like the most natural thing in the world.
It is the most natural thing in the world, exactly what nature wants of him, and he supposes he must succumb. The heat has not faded from his bones. Indeed, it seems deeper now, brighter and more feverish and he wants to draw Jehan in until his knot is locked inside of him-
He cringes at the realization that if this were anyone else, he might be in danger of actually succumbing.
Courfeyrac had spared him once – and he would thank him later, profusely. Jehan would surely do the same. Enjolras trusted his friends with his life, of course he did. Outside they were deconstructing the barricades that they had all planned to die upon with him if necessary. But to think that he could have been like this, been at the mercy of an alpha of the Guard-
The thought is severed when Jehan leans down, the end of his braid tickling his chest, and leaves a trail of open-mouthed kisses down his neck.
Enjolras feels his jaw nearly unhinge as he tips his head back, gasping. His hands are on the poet's slim shoulders, pulling him insistently down as he'd done to Courfeyrac, but Jehan only smiles against his skin. Somehow it had never occurred to him that Jehan would be experienced in the art of lovemaking, but then, Jehan is a born lover, a selfless lover. Of course he would be in practice. Of course. Enjolras simply hasn't had the time to think about-
Again, he cannot think clearly like this. Jehan's hands are soft and teasing, lighting over every inch of skin he can reach, followed closely by his pink lips. In comparison, Courfeyrac had been a barbarian. Enjolras whimpers, his dignity having escaped through the floorboards some time ago, forgetting completely Joly's flame of a presence in the corner. Jehan is so close, so close, those lips brushing and sucking and closing around the head of his straining cock so velvet-smooth until his hips are bucking off of the bed with a breathless stream of profanity that he must have learned from Grantaire or Bahorel-
“W-why not Bahorel?” he asks faintly, trying to maintain some organization of his thoughts. Jehan is bobbing his head down now and Enjolras can do nothing but stare down in helpless wonder, shivers wracking his heat-ravaged body, hardly expecting any answer. Joly calls from his seat.
“We thought we might spare you a rough night. Bahorel is... Ah...”
“Big,” Jehan supplies, coming up for air and leaving his length spit-slick and straining, suddenly aching for touch. How he knows this, Enjolras hardly cares right now. He groans and can't find it in him to make any disapproving comment, letting the smiling poet push him back again and cup his wet hole like it's a precious thing. “Would you allow me the pleasure, Enjolras?”
“Please,” he begs, his voice strained again, and if he is pathetic nobody mentions it.
He expected Jehan to love like an angel, like he was an angel – and indeed the words streaming from his lips in a low, appreciative lyric are beautiful and hardly apply to such an obscene setting though he makes them anyways – and he is taken off guard when he is rolled into his stomach and entered with stunning force. Grunting, he tangles his fingers into the sheets and draws himself with difficulty up onto his knees as he's pounded into, each motion slick and smooth, aided by nature.
“Ahh, Apollo indeed, Grantaire is right to praise you so, you are beautiful always but especially like this,” Jehan sighs, his breath comforting against the blonde's back. He feels less of an omega with Jehan and more of a lover, perhaps even odder, but it is reassuring.
He is a person, more than what nature has defined him as, and his friends will think no less of him when this ordeal is over.
Feeling him relax beneath him, Jehan slows his pace, encouraging, “It is no sin to love, Enjolras, or be loved.” His thrusts are deep, aching, and his knot has begun to swell- it touches briefly to his hole and Enjolras writhes, trying to press back against it as he had before.
“Shhh shh shh,” and a kiss placed between his shoulder blades, and a hand has come around to stroke him to completion as he bucks and moans and begs incoherently and otherwise makes a fool out of himself. Humiliated tears prick at his eyes but Jehan, sensing his distress as he nears another desperate climax, soothes him with words of love cooed breathlessly into his ear as he holds his hip and guides him through to his release.
Enjolras collapses onto his stomach, a fresh coat of semen sticking to his front. He can't fin it in himself to care, now, gasping for breath and it burns, it's not over- will it ever be? He wants to cry out in frustration, even with Prouvaire pulling him into his lap, those delicate fingers combing through his hair.
“I think that you may nearly be there.” Joly's voice is swimming before him, and if he could look through his tears he's sure there would be a thoughtful gleam in his eyes. “Once more, perhaps?”