There is sweat on Javert's skin. The sound of his harsh, broken gasps fills the small room. Everything in here feels slightly cheap, slightly worn; even the light that filters in through the curtain is gray and gives everything a tint of that misery Valjean knows only too well. Javert takes good care of his sparse possessions; he does not take good care of himself, and Valjean, who even now would prefer to deny himself the white bread Cosette insists on sending, cannot deny himself this.
Javert's prick is already softening. There is a pool of come on his stomach that is still warm as Valjean draws his fingers through it; Javert reaches out for his hand, and he pulls back sharply. He knows what Javert wants. He knows the sight of him closing his mouth around his fingers will undo him. No man should make sounds such as Javert makes when he licks his own spend from Valjean's fingers, when that sharp, angular mouth turns soft and sweet and licks his come from Valjean's prick until he is so sensitive that he cannot bear it anymore and has to push him away.
He breathes heavily; he pulls out of Javert, slick with the lamp oil they've used, and still hard. He watches with fascination how Javert stretches around him as he slides out of him. Javert would take him without the oil. He knows that; a part of him fears he would prefer it. Javert, who is furious abruptness – it is not aimed at Valjean, and maybe not even at himself, but at something that is still gnawing at him, turning him short and impatient even when they come together like this until Valjean gives him what he has never asked for in words, but begs for with every frown, every brusque gesture.
Javert is a riddle. His thoughts and reasons are a tangled knot which Valjean has partly unraveled with long patience. To open up that lanky body is to slice through the knot, to push inside with his fingers makes his tense thighs spread wide, smoothes away the deep crease between his brows. Valjean was hesitant at first. He did not want to hurt Javert, it seemed impossible, certainly he was far too large for Javert to ever bear it comfortably – but Javert was so insistent, so demanding, hurting for it, and Valjean has never been able to deny another. He is still not certain whether he understands it, but Javert, who will beg with such tight-lipped, furious impatience, shudders out sounds that make Valjean forget all his misgivings. He worries still, sometimes – he knows Javert would not mind pain; he wonders, he fears that he would be eager for the pain – but then he will slide inside, slick with bitter lamp oil, and Javert's body will stretch around him, and Javert w ill make such sounds...
Javert is languid with his release, but his forehead starts to crease as he watches in confusion. Valjean is not quite certain what he is doing, only that it hurts to see Javert return to that brusque impatience which brings with it with the tang of disappointment, and maybe he should just drive into him again the way he knows Javert wants, stretch him and make him open up until Javert is all shivering, slack-jawed incoherency – but today, something holds him back.
Something makes him stroke his own prick once, choke back a groan when he flicks his thumb hard against the ridge, and then he pulls away, pushes Javert back down who tenses with returning frustration.
Valjean leans forward; his eyes are intent on Javert as he presses two fingers against the hole that is still gleaming with the oil they used. He bites his lip as they slide in easily. Javert turns his head into the pillow with a low groan, raises his hips, begs for more with the way his face at once tenses and relaxes. Whatever haunts him is gone in these moments, and Valjean wonders what it is that makes that specter return as soon as the sweat cools on their bodies again.
He pushes in deep, spreads his fingers, finds him so slick that it seems almost too easy; he knows this is not what Javert wants, but the ease with which he takes Valjean makes his breath stutter for a moment. There is a sweetness to how easy this is; his fingers linger and tease at the rim, stretching very gently, and his cock jerks against his stomach as he imagines pushing back inside, Javert stretching around him with that desperate need he did not believe possible, as if even Valjean's cock is not enough to give him whatever he is still searching for with such furious despair.
He adds a third finger, a fourth, stretching him with his fingers the way he has with his cock. The pad of his thumb teases at the smooth, taut skin, feels the oil, the sweat, slickens Javert's own come over him as he feels the impossible stretch, and Javert makes a beautiful sound, broken and begging and canting his hips up for more, always more. Valjean's other hand is splayed on his stomach; he watches, disbelieving, as Javert opens for him, takes him, sweat beading on his skin as his thighs tremble with the effort to spread even wider, to encourage him even deeper.
He does not know what he is doing. He is not thinking at all. But something – Javert's sounds, the sight of his mouth gone slack, eyes unfocused and dark and unseeing – makes him fold his thumb in with his other fingers, and there is something terrible in it, and something breathless; he can't breathe for a moment as he pushes into Javert and the slick, gleaming flesh gives way and stretches. Javert's mouth falls open for a sound he has never made before and still Valjean cannot stop pushing in, sliding right inside Javert who convulses with a silent cry as his fingers stretch out to touch his core, reaching to unravel whatever it is that holds a part of Javert still bound after all this time.
His heartbeat is loud and frantic as it echoes in his ears. He cannot believe he is doing this. He cannot believe it is possible. Most of all, he cannot believe Javert would let him, that he would–
“Javert,” he says, chokes on that name, trembles with the strain of controlling himself when Javert's mouth opens and he makes such a sound of almost agony, but it isn't, it is something deeper, more primal, not human. And how can he stop now when Javert is his to hold at last, when Javert gives him all of himself? Valjean pulls out and pushes back in, deeper and deeper, watching Javert stretch around him again and again, thin skin taut and gleaming with the oil and their sweat and the slickness of his own spend until he feels like he must be tearing him apart but still Javert just lets him, moans his name with dark, glassy eyes, his hair sweaty and disheveled against the pillow, panting and sobbing and then suddenly coming all over himself again with long, agonized moans as he pushes against just the right place and Javert falls apart around him. This time, he can feel it as Javert breaks; this time, he can hold him through it and not let go. He does not understand it, but still he keeps reaching out to keep Javert safe, aching with the need to keep him from entangling himself once more in whatever fetters he has wrapped around his heart so carefully.
“Javert,” he says again, “Javert–” and Javert just watches with every line smoothed away from his face, so painfully open and needing that Valjean too feels like something in him is breaking. The sound he makes is almost a sob; his release paints long streaks of white over his arm, over Javert's straining thighs, and he gasps for air for a long moment, his heart still racing as he reaches out to rub his own come into Javert's skin with gentle motions as he slowly pulls out.
Javert stretches around him once more; his entire body tenses. He squeezes his eyes shut, raises a hand to cover his face as if he cannot bear it, and now at last Valjean would almost believe that he is in pain, that he has done the unthinkable, unbearable, and has hurt him. But although the sound Javert makes is a sob, it is his name he is sobbing, and – “ Christ , Valjean, Valjean–” and he is pleading, his prick is soft but there is still something almost like ecstasy in his voice. For the first time since they came together like this, and since Javert begged him for something neither of them understood with his frowns and sharp glances and traces of a bitter desperation that could never be driven away completely – for the first time, Javert settles into a trembling languor, breathless, shocked, overwhelmed. Valjean moves to lie down by his side. He cannot think of cleaning them, not now and not like this, not after this. Not when Javert now curls into him with a slowly grasping need, slack mouth painting his shoulder wet with saliva as he pants his speechlessness into his skin.
Valjean has no words either. He lightly rests an arm around Javert. All he can think of is the house in the Rue Plumet, the abandoned little garden. He thinks of green-gold light filtering through leaves to paint Javert's face with bright strokes, instead of the cheap, gray tint of his drab room. Then Javert's frantic breathing calms at last, and he sighs, and for the first time, he closes his eyes with Valjean's hand in his hair. He falls asleep like that, no bitterness marring the curve of his lips, no impatience driving him from Valjean's arms, and Valjean thinks of the little bench in the garden again as he listens to the sound of his breathing.