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Jehan's hair is soft where it tickles Combeferre's shoulders as they trade lazy kisses. Combeferre's glasses are off, long forgotten somewhere (hopefully perched safely on his bedside table). It doesn't matter, he doesn't need them now, not while his eyes are closed and the only thing that matters is the languid sweeping of Jehan's tongue against his own, the warm heat of Jehan underneath him.

He doesn't know how he got so lucky, to have this poet, who offers love so freely to everyone around him, offer something special just for Combeferre alone. They have something soft and private and unbreakable. They are of course at the mercy of their friends: well-placed quips at their expense that leave Combeferre blushing and Jehan grinning deviously. There are few secrets within their group, after all. But Combeferre keeps a little notebook full of poems that Jehan has written just for him alone, that nobody else's eyes have graced, and Jehan keeps pieces of Combeferre in turn: whispered secrets, hidden insecurities, guilty pleasures (like the fact that Combeferre has One Direction's entire discography hidden in his iTunes under Tchaikovsky's name- something he attributes to the fact that he likes the mindless pop in the background when he studies because he doesn't have to pay attention to it, but Jehan knows it's because he has a crush on Zayn) that nobody knows but Jehan, not even Enjolras.

Combeferre holds himself up, leaning his weight on an elbow rather than Jehan. His other hand, the one not currently propping himself up, gently traces his thumbs over the delicate bones of Jehan's face. His hands are large and rather calloused- knobby not from physical work, as Bahorel and Feuilly's are, but from where pencils and pens have worn against his fingers over the years. Jehan says that he likes these hands; that they make him feel safe, that he likes them especially when they are wrapped around his cock or inside him, stretching him open. He says this whispered against Combeferre's mouth and Combeferre pulls away to groan, dropping his head into the crook of Jehan's neck.

Jehan laughs lightly but they both feel Jehan's hardness pressed against Combeferre's thigh, feel Combeferre's arousal in turn as he shifts almost unconsciously, seeking friction.

Everything feels hazy and slow. Jehan reaches over to the bedside table to pick up the joint from where it's been idly turning to ash, forgotten in the press of lips against each other. It's not a vice either of them partake in often (especially not Combeferre, who had to be convinced even longer than Enjolras to try it for the first time), but every once in a while Grantaire will come by and give Jehan a dime bag, maybe even a dub if he's feeling generous.

Jehan says he likes it because it makes each movement of his body feel like poetry, be it a sudden twitch or a luxurious stretch. He also says he likes it because of what it does to Combeferre.

Combeferre is no less dignified when high than when he is sober. He's a little slower, overcompensating for the lack of control he feels, and he smiles much more often, wide but bashful grins stretching across his face, until Jehan must kiss him. Combeferre likes it because his mind is always running, attention on one task, then the next, hyperfocused and aware. He is always so precise. From the first hit, sweet smoke filling his lungs, he can feel it creeping up his veins to his head, and it relaxes him, leaves him unworried and calm.

Jehan puts the joint to his lips, taking a long and practiced inhale. Jehan's never been one for cigarettes, but weed he will smoke eagerly, if it is presented to him. Combeferre watches, transfixed, as Jehan lets some of the smoke escape his red lips before inhaling again, even deeper, holding it inside his lungs like a precious secret.

Jehan turns his head to the side and Combeferre tilts his head to align with Jehan's and opens his mouth to breathe in as Jehan breathes out. It's like instinct, like they do this all the time but they don't. But Combeferre has always been surprisingly in tune to other people's moods and desires, it's one of the things Jehan loves about him, and he just knows that this is what Jehan wants. And Combeferre, as always, is keen to give it to him.

With anyone else Combeferre might feel needy and insecure, but Jehan always wants to give so much, share so much that he's bursting at the edges with it, and Combeferre accepts it openly and unashamed, just as he does now.

He doesn't breathe in too deeply, because no matter what he thinks he'll always be kind of terrible at smoking weed, doesn't do it enough to ever get used to hot smoke in his lungs, the smolder in the back of his throat. He can't help but let his eyes flutter shut for a moment as he accepts the joint from Jehan and takes his own hit, tipping his head back and exhaling slowly.

Between the two of them, they finish off the joint, passing it back and forth. Jehan holds the roach and inhales one last time, then puts it on the bedside table. He moves to shotgun with Combeferre, who kisses Jehan instead, and they attempt to trap the smoke between their mouths, but by the time they separate, breathing heavily, the smoke is gone and they are lightheaded.

Jehan flops backward gracelessly and pulls Combeferre with him, arching up into Combeferre's weight without even thinking. They're a little bit giggly, Combeferre's dimples pronounced and the corners of Jehan's eyes crinkling, and Combeferre reaches down and tucks a stray hair behind Jehan's ear before kissing him deeply. Jehan hums in the back of this throat and slips his tongue into Combeferre's mouth, warm and wet, no trace of the usual cottonmouth that tends to accompany weed. Jehan hitches a leg up around Combeferre's hip, and Combeferre gets an arm wrapped around Jehan's waist, drawing him even closer.

Combeferre can't help the warm, low-grade arousal he feels. Weed always does this to him, it seems. There's a steady thrum in his abdomen, blood not exactly rushing, but definitely determinedly heading to his cock. He finds himself making aborted thrusts of his hips and Jehan notices, sighing contentedly and nuzzling into Combeferre's neck, rocking his hips up to meet Combeferre's.

Combeferre moans at the new pressure on his cock, and Jehan lets out a breathy sigh. It's slow and sweet, entirely unhurried. Clothes are removed in between hands running over vast expanses of skin. Mouths are wet and open. Jehan gets a thigh between Combeferre's legs and Combeferre rolls his hips steadily in a smooth rhythm. Jehan thrusts back, and their cocks slide together in a languorous friction.

They lose all sense of time- and whether that's from the weed or how lost they are in each other, Combeferre doesn't know. All that matters is the hardness between them, and Combeferre reaches down and takes them both in hand, and they are slick with precome. Jehan lets out a high moan and Combeferre strokes them faster. Jehan bites at Combeferre's collarbones and Combeferre's hips stutter- Jehan notices and bites again, harder. It's not long now; heat pools low in Combeferre's stomach and Jehan's fingers are wound into Combeferre's hair, and he's pulling hard.

When Jehan reaches a hand down to wrap around Combeferre's, that is when they both lose it, spilling hot in between them, and Jehan's eyes are screwed shut and Combeferre tries to keep his open, to see the look on Jehan's face, but pleasure overtakes him and he shuts them tightly, hand that was on their cocks now grasping at Jehan's hip.

They come down slowly; Combeferre is gasping and Jehan is laughing, giddy with post-orgasmic bliss and the high that was not brought on solely from sex. For a minute there is just the sound of their breathing, and then Jehan starts pressing kisses all over Combeferre's face, and neck, and chest, sucking a little at the bruise he'd made on Combeferre's collarbone, just to make sure it stays.

However, there are other pressing matters at hand, and Jehan whines. Combeferre shoots a questioning look his way: he's too exhausted to do anything else.

"I'm starving," Jehan explains, and it's not even that funny but they both begin to laugh again. Munchies are only ever funny to the high, it seems. They'd prepared for this, ordered Chinese food a couple hours ago, and it's sitting at their kitchen table, probably still warm. So Jehan gets up and cleans them both before tugging on a pair of briefs and a threadbare v-neck that is several sizes too big. Combeferre lies there for a moment longer and he realizes that no, Jehan is not going to bring the food back into bed with him, so he gets up as well, opting for boxers and a wifebeater, because Jehan loves his arms. (Something about how carrying all those books had built up muscle that Combeferre apparently hides under nice and proper button-ups. Combeferre doesn't have the heart to tell Jehan that he actually runs almost every morning and lifts weights- not nearly at the level that Bahorel and Feuilly do, but Combeferre thinks personal health is very important thank you very much. But he doesn't tell Jehan, because Jehan very much likes the "sexy librarian," thing, and Combeferre doesn't want to shatter the illusion for him.)

When he walks out in the living room, Jehan's put all the takeout containers onto their coffee table and put something on the TV. Combeferre doesn't know or care what it is; he's more interested in the honey sesame chicken that literally seems to be begging to be eaten. He sprawls out on the couch cradling the food to his chest, and he thinks he might even be cooing at it, but Jehan is currently composing an ode to the lo mein in his hands so he won't be getting judged any time soon.

They settle into a comfortable silence, interrupted only by the occasional gratuitous moan of delight when a still-hot bite is consumed, and the ambient noise of the TV in the background. Jehan's put on some nature documentary about lions, and one of them has tuberculosis so they change the channel, and from then on it seems like every single channel has something on it with tuberculosis. It shouldn't be funny but it is, and Combeferre is full-on belly laughing, head thrown back while Jehan shoves his fist into his mouth in an attempt to smother his giggles.

Eventually they change back to the lion documentary and watch silently, wide-eyed as they watch TB (which is a terrible name, Combeferre points out, but Jehan says he's still too high to think of anything better) stagger around the savannah, abandoned by her pack. TB dies, probably, but by that time Combeferre and Jehan are asleep, tightly wound in each other and entirely lost to the world.