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For someone who had always sought order and neatness, the wilderness was doubly unbearable. Javert would have called the whole sorry mess a foul trick of fate, were it not for how the thought sounded vaguely rebellious even in the silence of his mind. Very well, he would accept the situation he was in, outrageous as it was, but he was under no obligation to enjoy it; this he told himself, over and over, as he sat in silence, watching Valjean put away the wild garlic, announcing his plans to look for trout.
"I will go and wash first," Valjean said. "Shall I take your shirt?"
As if they were not captor and captive. As if they were two friends, helping each other as best they could. Javert's thoughts went to the night before, to the way he had forgotten himself, forgotten who he was supposed to be. The way he had abandoned momentarily the responsibility of his title and his role, which even the indignity of being trapped here had not taken from him, because it was bestowed upon him by something greater than himself.
In his enthusiasm he had spoken to Valjean almost like an equal, like a friend. Of course, it had been the thrill of finding an unexpected meal and therefore not going to bed hungry, but more than that, it had also been the relief of proving himself useful for once. Of helping, of contributing, of fulfilling a task. And while he had always taken a certain pride in his own attention to duty -- for after all, was that not what distinguished him from the vagabonds and the rabble? -- it bothered him that he should get the same feeling of accomplishment from this situation. It did not behoove him in any way to seek Jean Valjean's approval.
"I will wash it later," he said stiffly. No need to make himself even more helpless in Valjean's eyes. Not that he ought to do anything to win the convict's respect -- what did it matter what a felon thought of Javert, regardless of their almost friendly intercourse the night before? The law, on the other hand, commanded respect from them both. Valjean's vice had been to flaunt it.
Once he was alone, he got to his feet and went outside. After hobbling around the hut a couple of times, he paused, tilting his head back to look at the sky. A clear morning, which meant the chances of finding more snails later were slight. Perhaps Valjean would have some luck fishing.
He shook himself at the thought. To be at Valjean's mercy was bad enough. To rely on him for food to the extent that he'd forget his sense of their positions, as if mere survival was more important than proper respect for the law -- was that truly what he had come to?
"No," he said aloud. "No."
His leg hurt. He took a few more steps and found himself welcoming the pain. Let it be a reminder of the weakness of his body; he would use it in turn to test his will. Surely he could walk further than Valjean suspected. The convict would not have Javert's secrets yet.
Slowly but steadily he trod the path leading away from the hut. There was a strange comfort in following its lead. His thoughts wandered to Montreuil, of long nights and days patrolling the streets, familiar routes in a familiar world. After a while the pain eased into a background dullness, ebbing and flowing with each step. It was only as the path rose steeply in front of him that he realised how far he had come, and that he must be on his way to the pool Valjean had talked about.
Javert stopped. Sweat had gathered on his face, and he wiped it off impatiently, considering his options.
The further he went, the longer the way back. That in itself was not an argument. His leg might be protesting, but he would be damned if he could not take a bit of pain. And was he not still of the police? Could he really justify letting a criminal out of his sight? Even a criminal who prayed to God and kept returning to Javert's company every evening?
Once a convict, always a convict. The past could never be erased. What use was there in trying to pretend one was something one wasn't?
Jean Valjean had saved his life: Javert would admit as much. And not by accident, either. Not after the second time.
Why had he done it? Why had he not let Javert die, why was Javert still being kept alive, hobbling around the small hut like an old favourite dog retired from duty? Surely Valjean must realise that Javert's loyalty could not be bought nor traded?
Going on would be his one chance to observe Valjean without his knowledge. If Valjean's saintly behaviour was a ploy, then would he not let down his guard as soon as he thought himself alone? Perhaps Valjean had made himself a hiding place up here, a secret stash of weapons...
Javert eyed the path in front of him, then glanced over his shoulder. After a moment, he drew himself up and went on.
Stepping on a loose stone in the path, he gritted his teeth as pain shot up his leg. What a curse to be so thwarted by his own body! This feeble flesh, failing him when he needed it the most, tormenting him with hunger and pain -- and worse, betraying him, not only this morning but several mornings already, when he would wake up hard and straining, the heat of Valjean next to him.
He flushed, only partly with outrage, remembering all too well the indignity of it, of pretending to be asleep so as not to wake Valjean and be shamed further. It was bad enough that it had happened at all, and that it kept happening. His mind, lost in sleep, could offer no bulwark against his body's base desires, and perhaps it was not so strange that those desires would take over at last, especially now that he was in such a weak state -- but to have them roused by a convict!
But then again, his wretched flesh could not know that the body next to it in bed, warm and solid and hard with muscle, belonged to an impostor and a criminal. His urges had been roused by the uncommon presence of another, enough to cause this inappropriate reaction. Sooner or later, Javert thought grimly, he would wake up to soiled sheets, as though he were a young man. And that would be impossible to hide from Valjean.
Shuddering, he hastily pushed the thought away. He could hear running water not far away and just in front of him, the path made a bend. He must almost be at the pool.
Javert paused, wiping sweat from his brow once more, breathing heavily. He allowed himself a triumphant grin: had he not made it all the way here? Then it occurred to him that Valjean might hear him approach. He strained his ears, listening, but all was quiet.
As silently and controlled as his leg would permit, he crept towards the sounds of water. He could already discern it further ahead, trees opening up and giving way to light. Some bushes nearby seemed to provide a good spot for observation, tall but not too tall, dense enough to hide in if one kept still. Javert made for them, slow but steady. As soon as he reached them, he turned towards the water -- and stopped dead in his tracks.
A small waterfall cascading into a natural pool. Valjean, standing with his back to him, naked, water lapping about his thighs. As Javert watched, he ran both hands through his hair, then shook himself, as careless and relaxed as an animal. The scars on his back stood out in stark and sombre contrast, but in this moment he seemed entirely unaware of their presence; he seemed free, unblemished, the most unburdened man in the world.
And his nakedness, far from rendering him vulnerable or weak, displayed his strength. Javert watched, mesmerised, the myriad of droplets glistening on those broad shoulders, those powerful arms; he found himself staring at Valjean's hair where it clung wet to the nape of his neck; his gaze took him in, all that power and strength laid bare, and he could not tear his eyes away.
Javert remembered well enough Toulon and those things that went on in the dark. Brutes taking lesser brutes to fulfill their primitive urges, never heeding their gasps and grunts of pain. His eyes roamed over those defined arms, that broad torso. Even without a broken leg, Javert would not have stood a chance. Valjean could have done to him exactly as he wished.
He swallowed at the thought. It was all so easy to imagine, too easy. Being held down, pinned by such a man -- yielding to him, as never Javert would yield...
But Valjean had slept next to him all these night, their bodies so close, too close, and Valjean had not touched him. If Valjean had wanted to, he could have.
Treacherous heat began coiling within him. What would it feel like to run his hands over the broad planes of Valjean's chest? To spread his legs for him, to push inside him, to possess and be possessed and lose himself either way? He, Javert, who always had taken such pride in his own control of his urges -- to find himself entertaining such thoughts about a convict, to stand like this, transfixed, watching as Valjean took a step forward, dived gracefully, then came back up, tossing his head and running both hands through his hair to push it away from his face...
Javert wet his lips. Unable to tear his eyes away from Valjean's back, the tangle of old scars, he told himself to find it repulsive. But when he imagined that back bent under the beatings, the only repulsion he felt was at knowing he himself might have been the one to hold the lash.
Slowly but inexorably, the treacherous thought emerged: this was where Jean Valjean belonged. Not in chains, not in the dirt, but in clear water, under the open sky, amidst trees and birdsong.
Javert recoiled, every fibre of his being in revolt against this preposterous notion. Surely it was yet another trick of his mind, a residual damage caused by the fever. If he were well, he would never have entertained such notions. He would not have felt the flesh between his legs grow hot and hard, he would not have followed the drop of water where it trickled down Valjean's back, slid along the ridge of a crossing scar -- and yet. Here he stood, mouth dry, watching that drop hungrily, imagining tracing its path with his tongue, down the firm lines of muscle, into the small of Valjean's back, and even further down...
He felt dizzy. His throat throbbed, his heart throbbed, his prick throbbed; he thought he would keel over, and yet knew himself to have already fallen. For was he not feeling desperately jealous of that drop? Of the water glittering on Valjean's body, of the air that he breathed, of everything that surrounded him and that he opened himself to, trustingly, lovingly --
It was clear to Javert in an instant: he could not stay.
A stab of pain went through his leg as he turned around, too abruptly. He grimaced, but dared not falter; step by step, he made his way down the winding path towards the cottage, suddenly terrified of the notion that Valjean would know he had been there, that he had seen him -- that he had intruded upon the convict, who had no right to hide from lawful eyes. That even now, he could not expel the sight from his mind, of Valjean there in the water, naked and glistening and free -- that even now, Javert's flesh was throbbing with a desire that was tinged with a shame he could not even explain.
Arriving at the apple tree, he could not bear it any longer. The image haunted him, taunted him, played mercilessly before his eyes, the strong body with its unconscious ease and grace, covered in droplets like diamonds, shining in the sunlight. The convict's body, a sight he had not been meant to see. A sight that he had stolen, hiding behind the bushes as if he were the thief and Valjean the honest man.
He shoved his hand into his trousers, exhaling as his fingers wrapped around hard flesh. How easy it would have been to stay there, to reveal himself and let his shame be known. To expose himself to Valjean's pitying gaze, infuriatingly calm. For it was not enough that he now owed his life to the convict. No, Valjean had to take Javert's pride from him as well.
Groaning in misery and lust, he thrust into his fist, imagining it was Valjean's hand on him. Valjean would touch him far too gently. Valjean would put his hand on him with mild disinterest, an act of cruel kindness, of mercy that was not mercy; he would let Javert rut against him like a beast, groaning, sweating, desperate for the convict's touch. The convict who so easily could have flung him down, made use of him -- but who would do neither, because he did not in any way want Javert. His only desire was the pure water and free air, and the shame, the animal urges, were Javert's alone.
"God!" he gasped, his hand working furiously as he pictured it, over and over again: himself, begging to be despoiled, begging to touch that statue of a man, that impossible mystery of a man who had saved his life for no good reason and fed him and washed him and slept close to Javert without touching him. A convict, a criminal, and none of his actions made sense -- Valjean did not make sense, standing there in the sunlight with the water running down his body, oblivious and pure.
Heat was roaring within him, his wretched flesh twitching and leaking; he was getting closer, and he needed that shameful relief, it could not come soon enough, he must rid himself of this torment before Valjean got back, before Valjean could see him like this, trousers down and rutting into his own hand, powerless, out of control, no better than a beast.
Yes, he was the beast, the convict was a saint, the world was upside down and no longer made sense. If only he could get away, he thought, leaning heavily against the tree trunk as he felt himself draw closer to completion. If only he could get away from here, back to the world of laws and rules, where convicts were convicts and mayors were mayors and Jean Valjean would never appear before his eyes in naked perfection --
A sound, like that of a twig being stepped on and snapping, cut across his own laboured breathing. He looked up and directly into Jean Valjean's eyes.
Valjean stood only a few yards away, stock still. He was dressed now, but no amount of covering could take away that memory of his body, wet and naked, marred by scars yet no less pure. That image still hovered before Javert's eyes, even as he froze in horror at being bared like this to Valjean's shocked gaze.
They stared at each other. Javert's cock was still hard and dripping in his hand, his shame as obvious to Valjean as it was to himself, and even now he could not get it out of his head, even now he longed to do it: to throw himself at the convict and demand his touch, to put his hands and mouth on that strong body, to push Valjean into doing something, anything, so Javert could feel those hands on him, if only for a moment.
Yes, he thought again, wildly, that was the creature he had become. He had sought to spy on Valjean, he had stolen the sight of Valjean naked and defenceless, and as if by some spell or curse the sight had transformed him. The convict's body, revealed to his gaze, had proved itself spotless; in turn Javert had revealed himself repellent. How very right that Valjean should stare at him like that, flushed and aghast. What a sight he must be!
Valjean's chest was heaving almost as much as Javert's own, his eyes were wide and dark, and Javert saw his own shame reflected in them.
Suddenly Valjean broke the stare, mumbled something, then turned abruptly and disappeared amongst the trees. Javert exhaled, slumping against the tree trunk, trembling with sick excitement. And as he resumed his motions, fucking his fist, groaning through clenched teeth, the image of Valjean's stunned expression reappeared before his eyes, mingling and melding with the memory of the sight of him there in the pool; and when he came at last, slumping against the tree with a groan of despair, it was with the memory still teasing at his mind, of Jean Valjean there in the water, infuriating and breathtaking and pure -- and never to be Javert's.
1832
Waking up next to Valjean in the morning was new and familiar at once, as if time had been rewound. But this bed, albeit modest, had proper sheets and blankets, the walls around them did not belong to an abandoned shelter but to Valjean's small shack in the Rue Plumet, and the garden outside, though wild, was still a garden.
Everything was the same and yet it was not. That time with Valjean had taken on an almost dreamlike quality over the years, though he had never stopped looking for him, willingly or not, never ceased to give a start whenever he passed a broad-shouldered man in the streets of Paris. But the barricades had shaken him awake yet again, thrown him off that old familiar route to which he had reverted these last years -- out of despair at first, then out of resignation and wilful blindness -- and shown him that the dream was, in fact, more real than anything else that had ever happened in his life.
Valjean was asleep next to him, splayed on his stomach, face half buried in the pillow. The sheets were tangled around his waist, allowing Javert a full view of his naked back. He lay for a while taking it in, committing to memory every line of muscle, every silvery scar. This sight -- of himself so utterly bared and trusting, willingly offering himself up for Javert's eyes -- was Valjean's ultimate gift to him. Never would he take it for granted.
At length he leaned in and pressed a kiss to Valjean's shoulder. "And this is my gift to you," he murmured. "That you'll never have anything to fear from me again if I can help it."
Valjean stirred under him, drowsily. Javert kissed him again, closer to his neck this time. He ran a hand down his back and marvelled at his own carefree touch.
"It's true," he said into the air. "By God, it's true." He felt a sudden and intense desire to do something reckless, foolish, in order to prove his words, but nothing came to mind, certainly nothing that would gain Valjean's approval. The magnitude of his emotion and his guilt combined seemed to call for something spectacular, but he was brought up short.
Almost in desperation, he shifted to lean over Valjean's back and press his mouth to the scars between his shoulderblades. I saw you, he thought, tracing the tip of his tongue along the ridge of an old wound. I saw this, and yet I was blind.
They had never spoken of what had happened that one time. He suspected, however, that Valjean remembered just as well as he. But amidst all the things that lay between them, all the memories of that dreamlike time in the mountains, it did not seem significant enough to mention.
Or perhaps part of him was still ashamed, too proud to bear it if Valjean should remember him as he had been: unruly, undressed, rutting into his own hand at the thought of a stolen sight.
He had been a thief, and he had been rewarded, shown grace he did not deserve. Valjean's body was now his to touch, warm and alive under his hands and lips; for every day and every night that passed, they learned to know each other a little more, reawakening those old recollections and creating them anew.
One night. That had been all. One night and then it had been over. He closed his eyes, remembering again the torment, the confusion. That one night had haunted him for years, try as he might to forget it during the day. But part of him had been lost then; he had never been himself since that night. Perhaps not since the day he first saw Jean Valjean naked.
He ran his hand down Valjean's back again, remembering how he had hungered for this touch. Now he had it, and yet he wanted more. Everything Valjean would give him, Javert wanted; he would scramble for every crumb this man would throw him, that was the truth of it. But of course, Valjean's gifts were not crumbs. Valjean's love was life itself.
Javert shook his head in wonder, again feeling the wild need to do something bold. Hunger stirred within him, and he rested his forehead against Valjean's shoulder, thinking of all the nights spent alone in his bed, memories and fantasies blending into one another so he could not always tell where one ended and the other began.
"Do you know," he said, "that I used to dream of devouring you?"
Valjean let out a sleepy hmm, not yet fully awake. Javert wondered if he should save this confession for some other time, or if Valjean would prefer not to hear it at all.
"To have you in my grasp," he murmured, stroking his flank. "To make you shiver. I still want that. Is it wrong of me? I would never harm you, that's not what this is, I know simply that I'd..."
He stopped for a moment, realising he did not know how to put this desire into words, at least not safely. "I'd want to heal you, not break you," he mumbled at last, annoyed with how preposterous he sounded. As if Valjean's wounds were of the sort could be healed with Javert's help!
"Javert," Valjean said in a low, rusty voice; Javert's mutterings seemed to have woken him properly at last. "What are you talking about?"
"Nothing. Everything." He shifted back up, leaning in to kiss Valjean's mouth. Outside it was raining, soft taps on the window of the small shack. He remembered it so vividly, the two of them caught in a world of their own, far from everything. If the distrust was gone, they were still strangers in many ways. But perhaps that was just as well. A new leaf. A new chance.
They lay on their sides facing each other for a while. A lock of Valjean's hair kept falling down and hiding his gaze; Javert tucked it behind his ear, then let his fingers linger on Valjean's neck. To heal, not to break. Yes, it was preposterous. But it was the truth.
"Did you often think about it?" he asked, stroking his thumb over Valjean's cheek. "The two of us, like this...?"
He could swear Valjean's skin grew hotter under his touch, although his gaze, half hidden by the pillow, did not waver. "Did you?"
"More than you can imagine." Valjean's throat gave a jump against Javert's fingers as he swallowed; a thrill went through Javert at the reaction. "So often." He leaned in to whisper the words against his mouth: "All the things I wanted to do with you."
Valjean swallowed again. Javert waited, breathing softly, their lips close together. At length Valjean spoke, so quietly Javert felt rather than heard the words. "What things?"
"Ah..."
So many elaborate fantasies over the years. How little they measured up, in the end, to the stunning reality. He could have been content to lie like this with him forever. He could have been content with what they had already done. Touching each other, hands hesitant on hot flesh. That first joyous time when he had spread his legs and urged Valjean inside; later, when he had tried to give Valjean some of that pleasure back and Valjean had allowed it. Even his richest dreams seemed paltry when compared to that.
But Valjean had asked, and Javert would not refuse him an answer, any more than he would refuse him anything. Again the urge rose within him to do something wild and reckless. Perhaps, he thought, this was it: putting into words some of that which remained unsaid, offer up his shame and his naked heart for Valjean to see and do with as he wished.
"That time I saw you," he said, pulling away a little to kiss Valjean's neck. Perhaps speaking of it would be easier if they did not have to face each other. "When you caught me, afterwards... It was terrible. But I could not forget it. I could not forget the way you looked."
The flush was spreading down Valjean's throat now, but he kept still, his breathing soft and even.
"The sight of you there in the water," Javert muttered, kissing him between the shoulderblades, as he had done earlier. He moved down Valjean’s back, licking along the scars, alternating with light brushes of his lips. "It haunted me throughout the years. I wanted to devour you. There, I said it again. My hands on you, my mouth."
"Devour me." Valjean's voice wasn't trembling, but there was a certain note to it -- of wariness? "How?"
He curved his hands around Valjean's backside. "In so many ways."
There was a birth mark in the small of Valjean's back, and he pressed his mouth to it before letting his tongue dip lower. "Like this, for instance."
A quiver in the strong thighs, as of muscles tensing, preparing for fight or flight. Yet Valjean remained still, his breathing even. "What would you do?"
"I'd put my tongue in you," Javert said, licking lightly across the cleft. Valjean drew in a sharp breath. "I'd take my time. I'd make sure you would enjoy it." His own prick was growing hard and heavy, even more so at the way Valjean's breath was quickening. "I'd make you come from nothing but my mouth."
This last he murmured against the soft skin of Valjean's inner thigh, wondering if Valjean could hear the longing in his voice, or the hunger. So many years had been lost already, so many years where they could have had this. Or could they? He had thought Valjean gone forever, lost to this duty he had taken upon himself. Providence alone had sent them here.
Valjean trembled in his grasp, almost imperceptibly. "You could," he muttered into the pillow. "If you still want, you could -- I would allow it."
The words made him tremble with want, and yet he held himself back. "Allow it?" he said softly, planting another kiss on the back of Valjean's thigh. "I would not wish for you to merely allow it. I would wish for you to want it." He stroked Valjean's skin gently with his thumbs, but did not move his hands otherwise. "I would not be your violator, just as you would not be mine."
Perhaps it was too late by now to say such a thing. Perhaps what they had already done together had been merely all the work of Valjean's grace, not of his desire -- but no, Javert knew well enough by now the look of arousal in Valjean's eyes, the hot hardness of his flesh. If Valjean would permit him to do this, he was certain they would both come to enjoy it. But still, the thought of Valjean asking for it, wanting him to do it... He shivered in turn, not quite voluntarily.
"You'd want it," he murmured aloud, nipping lightly at Valjean's hip. "You'd be eager for it, for me, for the things I could make you feel. I dreamed of you pleading. Is that wrong of me? I wished to hear it from your lips, how much you wanted me..."
Valjean let out a shuddering sigh, spreading his thighs a little, as if that was all the admission he would permit himself, at least for the time being. And yet it was unmistakeable. Javert had to swallow.
Had he gone too far? He had no right to demand anything from Valjean, let alone his desire or his eagerness; then again, the days of chaste bed-sharing were long past. Valjean had decided to have him, to give himself to him, for better or for worse. Perhaps it was not so wrong to want this affirmation, the proof of Valjeans's own desire.
"You'd plead for me," he said again, very quietly as he spread him open. "You'd say my name, over and over."
"Javert," Valjean whispered, so quiet it was almost inaudible. A thrill of longing went through Javert's body; he closed his eyes for a moment, swallowing again.
"You'd say, 'Your tongue, now'. And I'd obey. I'd obey because you asked it of me, but also because of the way you said it, all desperate and hungry, and I'd know it was because of me, that it was my touch you were hungry for."
Valjean let out a moan, half muffled in the pillow. Javert's breathing came hard and fast. The words had come from somewhere within him, a wealth of fantasies never before crystallised into speech, and they had taken him by surprise perhaps almost as much as they had done Valjean. But even now that fantasy had become reality, his to hold and cherish, the image of Jean Valjean in the water remained, unforgettable, in Javert's mind and heart. It would remain there until the day he died.
"Incorruptible," he murmured, breathing against Valjean's bared hole. "A saint. Far above me, and yet you would sink to my level, desiring me as I desired you..."
Valjean shivered. Javert leaned in to trace his tongue lightly across the tight muscle, and was rewarded with another choked moan. Emboldened, he pushed the tip of his tongue inside, wondering only briefly whether this was more or less depraved than anything else they had done so far. In the end, it did not matter. He desired it, and so did Valjean, who would let this be done to him, keeping himself still and obliging under Javert's greedy mouth and hands -- but the tension in him, the harsh breathing, spoke of his desire as plainly as in any fantasy.
He had never done such a thing apart from in his dreams, and now the intimacy was almost too much to bear, Valjean's skin hot and tender under his lips and tongue. He pushed deeper, sliding his tongue inside; Valjean gasped, arching his back. "Javert --!"
Again the sound of his name went through him like a spark catching fire. He groaned, jerking his own hips against the mattress, his flesh hard and impatient between his legs as he worked his tongue deeper into Valjean, keeping his hands firmly on his hips. Valjean was not shivering now; instead he was pushing back, albeit carefully, just enough to let Javert know he wanted more.
And Javert, too, wanted more. He pushed deeper still, pulled back to lick at the exposed muscle, soothing little kisses and gentle nips of teeth before he plunged back in, drawing another gasp from Valjean, who jerked in his grip and then relaxed. Javert smothered his own gasps in Valjean's hot flesh, working him relentlessly with his tongue, only vaguely aware of the pounding between his own legs. More, Valjean was groaning, though whether in reality or in Javert's imagination, an echo of those long nights filled with restless dreams, he did not know. Please, Javert, more, and whether he was pleading or not, Javert would give it to him regardless; never again would Valjean escape his grip, and never would he escape all the pleasure Javert could give him.
He drew back a little, face flushed and wet with spit, to admire the sight in front of him: Valjean splayed on his stomach, panting hard, gripping the pillow so hard the muscles in his arms were standing out. Javert ran his hands down Valjean's thighs in admiration, taking in the sight. He would never forget this either.
"I cannot believe it," he muttered, short of breath, bending again to kiss the small of his back. "That I'm making you feel like this. With nothing more than my mouth..."
Valjean gave a sound that was half sigh, half moan, spreading his thighs wider. Javert moaned in turn, hunger roaring within him; he buried his face between Valjean's legs, closing his eyes as he pressed his tongue back into him, rutting feverishly against the mattress. More, his heartbeats insisted, echoing in his ears, more, please, more, and who was doing the pleading did not matter anymore, his own desire and Valjean's were nothing but two sides of a coin, a need that had been roused between them and stirred and come to life after years of sleep. And when finally Valjean tensed once more under him, and then shuddered, calling Javert's name out loud, he wondered only for a split second whether he had imagined that too; and then his own orgasm hit him, seized him and sent him soaring so that he could only cling to Valjean's hips, choking his cry against his skin.
At length he opened his eyes. Valjean lay slumped under him, his hair clinging sweaty to his nape. Javert wanted to kiss it. He wanted to put his mouth on any part of Valjean where it had not already been, and he was not even surprised by his own greed.
He shifted to lie next to Valjean, who turned on his side to face him. Valjean's eyes were dark and shiny, and Javert thought there were traces of wetness at their corners. He wanted to lean in and kiss them away, but kept still, barely breathing as Valjean reached out to stroke a lock of hair away from Javert's brow, tucking it behind his ear in a reflection of Javert's earlier gesture.
"Thank you," Valjean said, smiling a little. His hand rested on Javert's cheek for a moment, and now Javert could not stop himself from turning to press a kiss to it.
"It is I who thank you." Again, he thought, and always, and to the end of his days.
He wiped at his chin, suddenly a little self-conscious. Valjean was still watching him, inscrutable but no longer untouchable. That slight smile was still playing around his mouth, and Javert treasured it all the more for its rarity. He traced it with a finger tip, then leaned in to rest their brows together.
"I'm yours," he whispered, breathing the words very quietly against Valjean's lips. "And you are mine. What a strange thing it is."
Valjean kissed him, seemingly uncaring of where Javert's mouth had been; then he wrapped both arms around him so they were lying as close as they had done during those nights when the choice had been between each other's warmth or death. "Listen," he murmured in Javert's ear. "It has stopped raining."
And indeed the light had changed; the sky outside was brighter now, and the air let in through by the half-open window was fresh and sweet. The grass in the garden would be wet, the trees heavy and green, the early sun clear and blinding. Javert thought of the hut in the mountains, the forest, the stream. In that place his eyes had been opened and the world remade. Now, here, a second chance had presented itself.
"You never told me," he said in a low voice, breathing in the scent of Valjean's hair. "If you ever thought about it. Us."
Valjean smiled against his neck. Javert closed his eyes, a shiver going through him; his heart was growing far too large. Outside the birds were waking, the day was at its beginnings, and life stretched out, made new.