Chapter Text
“Are you working today?”
Javert raises an eyebrow. “How can I make an arrest if I do not work? I will not allow your mercy to infect my conscious on this case.”
“I am not attempting to argue for your mercy,” Valjean says, a faint smile flickering across his lips. “I wanted to know if you will be home for supper.”
Home. A foreign concept that Javert has been growing familiar with for several months. When Cosette was married, Valjean had opened his home to him and surprisingly Javert found himself accepting. He reasoned that Valjean would be lonely without his daughter and prone to destructive behavior he insists he will not do, but he cannot lie to himself and say his reasons were not entirely selfless. Valjean had taught him friendship and mercy and yet, despite the months spent around his person, he still craves even more of his company.
He does not understand why. Is it not enough to have Valjean’s forgiveness and friendship? Is it not enough to see Valjean’s rare smiles and hear his even rarer laughter? Is it not enough to be taught happiness and to be content every day? He does not allow himself to dwell on it as he has no answers and he certainly cannot ask Valjean.
So it is that he shares a roof with his once-foe.
“Most likely not,” Javert answers, dragging his eyes away from Valjean’s mouth which is no longer smiling. “I do not know when I will return. Perhaps not at all tonight.” He frowns at that. Since living with Valjean, returning to his dwellings has been something to look forward to. He has still not acclimated to such a feeling.
“Do not put yourself in danger,” Valjean asks of him. “I do not wish to see you—“
“I will do my best to avoid being shot again,” Javert cuts him off, even as he regards such a request with more amusement that irritation. It is not as if he enjoys being wounded even in the pursuit of justice. Valjean worries too much but Javert cannot help but take such words to heart. “I will attempt to keep myself from immediate danger.”
Again, Valjean’s lips flicker in a soft smile that Javert basks in despite how fast it disappears. He receives another smile when he leaves, as always. Some days such smiles that sustain him while dealing with criminals and irritating inferiors and without them he does not know if he would be responsible for his actions.
Javert had orchestrated a trap laid out for his most recent case and has high hopes for success. It would be satisfying if he could return to share supper with Valjean once this is over and done with.
Unfortunately, despite the hours spent in designing this operation, his quarry does not show. The longer Javert lies in wait the more impatient he gets. Finally, when the hour grows so late even Javert is yawning, he calls the whole thing off. All his planning has gone to waste and he scowls his entire walk home. He is still exhausted from the day despite being unable to make an arrest. He is no longer a young man who can survive on a few hours of sleep and still preform at full capacity.
It is quite late when Javert arrives home. Finally, he can allow himself to relax and let his exhaustion show itself. He enters quietly, knowing that even the slightest sound could possibly wake Valjean. He is a light sleeper and Javert does not want to disturb him. Usually, Valjean will wait for him, book in his hands and candle by his bedside, until Javert returns safely. He always does no matter how Javert protests that he should be resting. Valjean has no need to stay awake for him, but the knowledge that he is cared for and wanted is... comforting. Unfamiliar and alien, yes, but one he is growing to like all the same no matter Valjean’s foolish reasoning.
He hangs his coat and hat on the coat rack, his gloves already tucked in the pockets hours ago due to the heat, then removes his boots at the door and carries them with him to reduce noise. Valjean does not always sleep through the night and if he is indeed sleeping Javert will not interrupt his rest. There is no need for a light when the full moon spills silver through the window brighter than any candle, drenching the familiar room in soft shadows and comforting greys. He moves silently towards the room Valjean had designated as his, although he still feels like a guest in Valjean’s home. He believes he always will no matter the months he has lived here.
When he passes Valjean’s door, Javert pauses. There is no candle lit inside, but it is unlatched and pushed open a few inches as if in invitation. Perhaps Valjean is still awake and wishes to speak with him. Valjean always wishes to speak with him when Javert returns home, although Javert suspects it is to make certain he did not do anything reckless to endanger himself.
Javert pushes open the door with a light hand, boots held firmly in the other, and freezes as the sight. He had expected to see Valjean asleep, or perhaps praying in the dark, but he had not expected this. Valjean is very much awake; however he has not noticed Javert standing in his doorway. No, Valjean’s focus is on a much more private need, one that Javert had never dared imagine Valjean attending.
The night is warm, so warm in fact that Valjean had apparently decided to forgo a nightshirt entirely and has kicked his blankets to the foot of the bed. The moon shining through the window paints the plains of Valjean’s strong chest with bold strokes of silver, his hair and beard unnaturally bright. The muscles of his arms and thighs are accentuated by crisp shadows and white highlights, the rest of him in tones of grey. He is beautiful, he is beyond words, but that is not what causes Javert’s heart to stop in his chest and his mouth to suddenly become dry.
There, at the junction of his legs, Valjean’s erection is flush against his stomach and mostly hidden by his large hand wrapped around it.
Javert has thought of Valjean as many things: a criminal, a superior, a Saint, a friend. Never before has he thought of Valjean like this even in passing. Never before has he thought of Valjean lost in the passions of the flesh. Never before has he wondered what sounds he would make, how his eyes would close in pleasure, how he would feel with his strong hands on Javert’s hips, filling him to the brim and—
No, he has never once thought of Valjean in such ways, has never desired another quite like this and never so strongly until this moment. How can he not, with Valjean laid before him like a living statue carved from flawless marble?
Valjean’s stomach flexes and his hips give a slow, deliberate roll, pushing his cock through the sheath of his hand. The head of it is flushed dark, beads of liquid emerging from the tip that are quickly swiped away by his thumb in a rough motion. Javert cannot look away, caught still and silent by the sight.
He should turn away, he should leave and return to his room and never speak of this to his friend. He should forget he ever pushed open Valjean’s door tonight. It is improper, immoral to some, but, not for the first time, Javert cannot do what is right. He is helpless, enraptured by the sight of Valjean like this, desires he did not even know existed for his first and only friend rising to the surface of his mind. How would it feel to have that same hand wrapped around his own length? Would he take Javert as slow as this, never quickening his pace no matter how much Javert demanded it of him? Or perhaps he would take him rough and fast instead? Would Valjean allow him to take him between his thighs and press down on him, to feel Valjean moving both underneath and inside while Valjean rolls his hips like—
Valjean emits a groan, one that is quiet but breaks the silence of the night all the same, and rolls his hips again in that same deliberate motion that holds Javert captive. His face is slack and his eyes closed as if in sleep, but Valjean rarely looks so relaxed when truly sleeping. Javert’s eyes linger on his mouth where his teeth have bitten his bottom lip so hard it is dark with blood and wonders what it would be like to kiss him. His mouth is kind, but are his lips the same? As he watches, Valjean groans again and his lips form the shape of a word Javert cannot make out.
It could be anything. It might be a name. It might be Javert’s name, which he finds himself wishing for, but Javert highly doubts that he is the one featured in Valjean’s fantasy. Why would he? He is not handsome like Valjean and it is unlikely Valjean would be imagining a man. Is it? Valjean has never shown an inkling of interest in anyone of this kind to Javert’s knowledge and certainly not for himself, but before tonight Javert did not even dare to think this facet of his friend even existed.
The word comes again with another thrust of Valjean’s hips and Javert finds himself halfway to Valjean’s bed without giving his feet permission to move. What is he doing, watching over Valjean like this? He should leave now, before Valjean opens his eyes to see him. If he knew, Valjean will surely be disgusted with him and throw him out of his home at once. His kindness must have limits, his forgiveness must end somewhere. Yes, he should leave and never think of this again, never imagine how beautiful Valjean’s form looks in the moonlight, never acknowledge how much he wants him, how he—
“Javert,” Valjean sighs, eyes closed with a soft pleased smile on his face, and Javert’s heart stops.
His boots clatter to the floor, shattering the silence.
Valjean startles instantly, eyes flying open as he sits up. Javert cannot bring himself to look away when Valjean makes eye contact and finds he cannot say a single word.
“Javert?” Valjean says again, this time panicked. He quickly grabs a portion of his blankets and covers himself up to his waist, his cheeks already flushed dark.
For a long moment, neither of them say anything.
“I-I did not here you come in. You had been gone for so long I thought perhaps you were, ah, working through the night as you said,” Valjean says. His words are rushed together in a panicked excuse, like he expects Javert to condemn him instead of the other way around.
“There- I did not- I,” Javert stutters, trying to make his own excuse, but what eventually comes out is, “Jean,” in an exhale of breath that betrays his desires.
His feet take a step forward, again without his permission, and he forces himself to stop before he is close enough to touch Valjean. He has never wanted quite like this in his life and does not know how to deny himself. Valjean must know this. Surely his desires are obvious, both on his face and elsewhere.
Valjean blinks at the use of his given name, hands tightening in the blankets around him. He frowns and Javert wants to kiss him, and then Valjean’s eyebrows come together in confusion and Javert decides he wants to kiss those too and indeed every part of his friend that he is allowed.
“Javert?” Valjean asks again, somewhat softer and more fearful. “I- I can only apologize—“
Javert does not hear anything past his name on Valjean’s lips. It is not like said it before, in a breath like a prayer, but it is similar enough that it provokes an audible intake of breath from Javert that cuts off whatever Valjean was saying. They stare at each other, both caught between fear and desire.
Lust is not a new experience for Javert. He has felt it on occasion towards other men, but it was always a sinful annoyance his body demanded and not true desire. This is something more than simply lust. This does not feel like sin. This is Valjean, his friend and confidant, who had stubbornly forced friendship upon him despite their shared past. In Toulon he had witnessed how two men could fulfill such desires, if such violent coupling could be called fulfillment. Surely Valjean knows of it as well, but they are not young men and Javert does not desire Valjean for his form alone. He desires his kind smiles and his warm hands and whatever else Valjean is willing to bestow upon him. This emotion he feels, the one that warms his chest and races through his veins, is not simple lust but something else entirely. He does not know its name, but it is obvious that Valjean inspires it within him.
Javert takes a hesitant step, knees nearly touching the side of the bed now, reaching out a hand to touch him, then abruptly stops himself with a sudden, uncoordinated motion. He cannot take this from Valjean; he cannot take anything from Valjean! There has already been too much taken from him and Javert will not add to the debt he owes his friend. It must be given to him, a choice Valjean must willingly make for his own sake.
He expects Valjean to turn him away, to deny them both this obvious desire, but he does not. Perhaps it is because of the very late hour, perhaps it is because of the silver light that bathes them both in shades of grey, perhaps it is because of the flush that stains Valjean’s cheeks that only grows darker by the moment; but Valjean does not ask him to leave. Instead, Valjean silently reaches a hesitant hand to Javert’s face. His touch is light along the line of his jaw, yet it sets Javert’s pulse racing. Javert has always known Valjean is capable of gentleness, but this is something different entirely. Valjean touches him as if he is something fragile or easily bruised, as if Javert would break if he pressed too hard. He has known himself as a tool, a weapon, something to be wielded, but never before has he felt such a touch.
Still, Valjean says nothing. Javert’s hands are nearly shaking with the desire to reciprocate in his own inexperienced way and he squeezes them into fists at his sides, nails biting into the flesh of his palm. Then Valjean’s hand reaches his cravat and, after a slight hesitation where his hand trembles, tugs on it gently in a suggestion Javert is more than ready to follow. Javert does not have Valjean’s discipline, although he considers himself a disciplined man, but he never had to exercise it in such a way as this before.
Another wordless sound escapes Javert as he leans down and captures Valjean’s lips in a rough, clumsy kiss, holding Valjean’s broad shoulder in one hand for support while the other buries itself in Valjean’s white hair. He tries to keep his grip lax, to follow Valjean’s lead, but his efforts are clumsy at best. Their noses knock together until Javert turns his head to the side and his hands tighten briefly on Valjean before he remembers himself.
Valjean makes a startled noise in the back of his throat but does not move to push him away. Instead, one hand holds fast to his waistcoat while the other comes around the back of Javert’s neck and fumbles with the leather cord that keeps Javert’s hair pulled back out of his face. It is untied with a clumsy hand, then tossed on the floor without care and Javert feels his hair fall around them like a curtain shielding them from view. He is released with his hair tangled in one of Valjean’s hands. Valjean is even more beautiful with his eyes open and looking at Javert with desire. It very nearly takes Javert’s breath away.
“Valjean,” Javert breathes, taking a moment to memorize the play of shadow and moonlight of his friend’s features, to observe the guarded desire on his friend’s face.
“Say my name,” Valjean asks in a whisper, smoothing back a lock of hair that falls in Javert’s face when he looks down again. “You said it before. Use my name—"
“Jean,” Javert obeys, helpless. “Jean—"
Valjean pulls him forward into another kiss, tangling his hands fully in Javert’s hair and pulling gently in a suggestion to follow him into bed. Javert makes no resistance and gladly obeys this too. There is no reason to be so carefully quiet, but neither of them makes a sound above a low murmur. To do so would be to break the careful silence of the night, shattering whatever dream Javert must be caught in.
The way Valjean kisses him is at odds with the man Javert knows. Valjean’s teeth tug at his lips gently but firmly, his tongue insistently pressing against Javert’s at the first opportunity. His lips are demanding and hungry and Javert eagerly submits himself to them. Perhaps Valjean’s lips are not as restrained as the rest of him, or perhaps he too is half-thinking this is nothing more than a wistful dream.
Javert wants the rest of Valjean to be like his lips for Valjean deserves all the things he denies himself. He wants to pleasure Valjean until sweet sounds emerge from his throat, to kiss away the tension Javert can still feel in his arms, to take Valjean’s flesh in his own body until they are both satisfied and spent. Valjean’s hands are fumbling with the buttons on Javert’s waistcoat, all the while holding him captive with rough lips and a seeking tongue. Javert’s hands explore Valjean’s form in turn, taking his time to comb his fingers through the thick hair on his chest and run apologetic fingertips over the many raised scars he finds.
Javert reaches Valjean’s cock after his shirtsleeves are carelessly tossed aside. Valjean is larger in girth than he had first thought, but the thought of taking such a thick cock only excites him more and Javert kisses him again to muffle a moan. He cannot help himself and allows his hand to stroke his entire length to feel the weight of it in his grasp. He nearly misses Valjean’s sharp, near-silent intake of breath. Valjean must be using oil or some other substance as his hand slides far more easily than he expected. Yes, Valjean must have had the same education as himself, as Javert has also used such things in the past to control his body’s urges with his own hand.
“You have oil?” Javert asks, lips moving against Valjean’s ear.
“There, the table,” Valjean answers in a breath before Javert recaptures his lips.
He shudders under Javert’s hands as Javert strokes him again, taking his time as he saw Valjean doing with himself before. Valjean does not allow Javert to leave his grasp, hands trailing over Javert’s still-clothed hips and keeping Javert in place by hooking his fingers in the waistband of his trousers. After a time, he pushes Javert’s hands away and focuses on disrobing him, fingers dancing on his skin all the while and leaving warmth in their wake, and Javert is just as eager to comply.
It is only after the rest of Javert’s clothing join his waistcoat and shirtsleeves on the floor that Valjean removes his hands. He simply sits back, no longer embarrassed by his uncovered body now that Javert is in an equal state of undress, or perhaps simply too distracted to think of covering himself, and observes Javert with undue scrutiny. Javert knows himself to be nothing as pleasing as Valjean is, a multitude of scars both large and small from a lifetime of police work on display. His limbs are lean and angular and possess none of the broad power that Valjean has. Certainly, he is not worth such attention and certainly not from Valjean. He allows it for the moment, content to give Valjean everything he wants despite his inadequacies.
There is a gutted candle and a closed book with no parchment marking the page on the table next to Valjean’s bed. Valjean must have initially waited hours for Javert to return, enough to finish his book and for the candle to burn out. Beside the candle is what Javert is looking for; a small vial half-filled with what he assumes to be the oil Valjean spoke of. It is more than enough. When Valjean has had more than enough time to look at him, Javert reaches for it.
A small part of him, the part that is the Inspector that he can never completely silence, wonders if Valjean takes himself in hand often. Why else would he have such accessibility for such a specific product? Then he wonders how often Valjean has thought of him in this manner and his mind stutters and stalls on the idea of it. Valjean has never once indicated he wanted this. How many times has he desired to take Javert to bed with him, to kiss him and bestow adoring touched to his body?
Javert quickly coats his fingers in oil. Surely he cannot take Valjean immediately as he wishes; he should at least try to prepare himself. It is not as if he is unfamiliar with using his fingers to pleasure himself this way, but he has never done so in anticipation for something larger. He has thought of it, yes, but his need had never overcome his discipline before now.
Valjean gives a choked grasp at the first finger Javert inserts in himself. He is still watching, eyes unwavering as Javert stretches himself and adds another finger to assist.
“Javert,” Valjean says with no small amount of desire in his voice, “you are—“
“Yes,” Javert manages to say. For Valjean, he will give anything
Valjean takes him in his arms and presses soft kisses against his face, cutting Javert’s words short, his hands combing through his hair and brushing across Javert’s skin. Javert is glad he says nothing more. It is embarrassing enough he cannot quiet hold back his own groans, cannot quite prevent himself from imagining Valjean preparing him in the same way with thick fingers calloused from labor. Those same fingers trace halting patterns on his sides and tangle themselves in his hair like they desire more roughness than Valjean allows.
Three should be enough, he thinks, his mind dizzy from Valjean’s possessive hands and the warm hardness against his hip. Javert groans at the thought of taking that length, to have Valjean use his strength to thrust into him, and buries his face in the crook of Valjean’s neck. The scent that is uniquely Valjean fills his nostrils, the one Javert has come to associate with warm familiar hands and kind words he does not deserve and soft encouraging smiles. It intoxicates him, filling him not only with lust but also that other unfamiliar emotion that has his heart constricting and feeling too large at the same time.
“Jean,” Javert breathes, lips hardly moving against his friend’s neck. His skin should not be so soft after the trials he endured. “Jean—”
“Javert, I will not ask you to—“
“Please, Jean.”
Valjean’s hands tighten on him briefly, possessively, at his plea before they seem to remember themselves. Javert wishes they were less careful with him. They travel downwards his chest and past his stomach until they reach their destination. Valjean wraps a hand around him and Javert nearly chokes on his own breath. It should not feel so pleasurable, laying here half on top of his friend while he prepares himself and Valjean stroking him.
“I will,” Javert groans against Valjean’s neck, “Valjean, I will finish too soon.”
“You will?”
“How can—” Valjean strokes him again and Javert moans a swear at how good it feels.
Valjean takes him by the hair to kiss him once more, that demanding tongue easily breaching Javert’s lips. He makes no sound, but Javert does, soft groans escaping from his throat.
He pulls himself away with great reluctance and straddles Valjean’s hips, pressing at Valjean’s shoulders until he is once again lying flat on his back. He is more beautiful from his angle, viewed from above, the moonlight casing soft shadows in his face and his white hair spread about his head like a halo. Javert spends a moment struck silent, reverently tracing the line of his jaw and the shadows of his collarbones.
“You should see yourself,” Javert says in a low murmur.
Valjean’s cheeks flush dark and he looks away, clearly flustered by such a comment.
“You are beautiful like this,” Javert continues, hands now admiring the muscle on his arms.
“I am not beautiful,” Valjean denies, his flush spreading to his neck and further. Javert cannot help but touch, smoothing his hands across the broad plains of Valjean’s chest. Under his palms, Valjean’s heart beats just as quickly as Javert’s own.
“Handsome, then.”
“I am not—“ Valjean gasps, cutting himself off when Javert strokes him with a firm hand.
Javert reached for the vial of oil again, coating his fingers once more and taking his time to lavish attention on Valjean’s cock. That done, the vial is tossed aside and Javert takes a breath to calm himself. It has been a long time since he has done this, since before he lived with Valjean, alone in his own bed with only his fingers for company. This will be different, better, with Valjean beneath him bathed in shadow and light.
He groans as he presses against Valjean’s cock, lowering himself slowly until he is finally seated. Valjean’s hands are like iron against his thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises Javert will certainly feel in the morning. Even still, Valjean is nearly silent. His eyes are squeezed tightly shut and biting at his lower lip. Javert wishes he would not be so silent.
“Valjean,” Javert groans, reveling in the pleasant burn of how stretched he is around Valjean’s cock. “Jean, by God you feel—“ He cannot finish his sentence, his own hands are bracing themselves on Valjean’s wide chest, the muscle shifting as Valjean tenses and relaxes.
Javert does not move for many long moments, adjusting to Valjean’s girth inside him. Valjean’s hands wander, gently soothing his sides and even stroking along his face. His hands are once again soft and careful, and somehow it is that which has Javert’s chest warming to the point where it feels like a burning ember and he blinks to clear his vision. He is overwhelmed by Valjean’s kindness, even in this, how Valjean touches him as if he is some fragile thing deeply valued.
When he does move, giving a tentative roll of his hips, Valjean’s eyes grow wide in surprise.
“Oh,” Valjean gasps softly, once again gripping tight to Javert’s thighs.
Javert would echo the sentiment had he had voice to do so. His hands shake on Valjean’s chest as he pushes back, fucking himself on Valjean’s cock. Valjean is so thick inside him, so warm, filling him entirely when Javert is fully seated on his lap. Soon enough Valjean’s hips are meeting his in slow thrusts and drawing groans and soft sounds from Javert’s lips.
He wonders what they must look like from Valjean’s doorframe; backlit by moonlight performing lewd acts. Such a sight should be obscene, yet Javert almost wishes such a moment could be captured visually. Valjean is magnificent in a way Javert had never known to imagine. There is a restrained power in every roll of his hips, his stomach flexing with every movement, the silver light of the moon highlighting each and every powerful muscle Valjean possesses.
It is difficult to muffle his own sounds of pleasure as Valjean takes him. He seems to be in no hurry at all, keeping the movement of his hips slow and deliberate and all the more intense for it. Javert almost wishes Valjean would go faster, to take Javert’s hips in strong hands and keep him steady, but he is more than content with this. It seems fitting for them to be so careful with one another in this after being adversaries for nearly as long as Javert can remember. Strange emotions fill his chest, nearly so much that he feels he might burst, and he finds himself drowning in that unfamiliar feeling.
Valjean stills his movements, looking up at him in concern. Javert looks down, confused. Why would he stop when it is clear they are both taking pleasure from this?
One of Valjean’s hand’s leaves Javert’s hips and travels to his face, fingertips feather-light on his skin. They come away shining with wetness.
Javert touches his own face to find it damp and wet and he stares at his hand in confusion. It is only now that he notices his vision is blurred with tears he did not realize he was shedding. He wipes them away quickly, scowling at them. There is no reason for him to weep, yet they do not stop.
Valjean’s eyes soften and he cradles Javert’s face in his hands, thumbs wiping away the tears. Javert’s breath shudders in his chest as he submits himself entirely to Valjean’s gentle hands. Another tear falls from his eyes and Valjean soothes that away too.
After allowing Valjean’s attentions for a moment, he pulls his face from Valjean’s gentle touch and quickly wipes the wetness from his eyes with the back of his hand once more. It does not help as much as he wished. He scowls at the evidence of it on his fingertips and decides to ignore it and hopes Valjean will leave it alone. Were they not enjoying each other quite thoroughly just moments ago?
Javert presses down on Valjean once more, his hands splayed across Valjean’s vast chest. Despite the look of worry that lingers on Valjean’s face, he is still thick and hard inside him. Unfortunately, Valjean is not so easily distracted and reaches for Javert’s face once more. Javert pauses to bat his hands away, then continues to ride him and take pleasure in the warm feeling of him.
Valjean’s face is a mixture of familiar doubt and unfamiliar pleasure. Javert quickly decides it is annoying and that he vastly prefers the soft look of adoration Valjean had previously worn for him. Valjean ceases the attempts to wipe Javert’s tears away and tentatively returns Javert’s movements. His hands are somehow softer, gentler, with worry in every soft caress. That too is annoying.
Javert growls at him impatiently, fixing a look of annoyance on Valjean. He does not want Valjean to be gentle with him for fear of the tears falling from his eyes at such obvious affection. No, he simply wants Valjean to touch him as he had been; with care and admiration and not like this out of fear. Javert is not some fragile thing simply because he is weeping for reasons unknown.
Valjean looks up, face uncertain, but he resumes his deep, deliberately slow pace. Javert rides him eagerly, again captivated by the light of the moon on Valjean’s silver skin. Valjean is still biting his lip to keep silent, the skin there once again dark and tempting. There is no reason why Javert should not kiss him and hear the sounds Valjean is silencing. Perhaps that would distract Valjean from his tears.
The angle is awkward and Javert knows his body will protest in the morning, but he cannot bring himself to care as he falls with his elbows framing Valjean’s head to kiss him. Valjean groans beautifully against his lips, whispering Javert’s name into his mouth with lips forming familiar syllables, and Javert’s breath once again catches in his chest and releases with a shudder. He feels calloused hands on his hips and then Valjean manages to grind against that place within him that has Javert swearing breathlessly against Valjean’s lips.
“Again, Jean,” Javert tries to demand. It comes as a sobbed plea instead.
Valjean obeys, arms folding around Javert in what could almost be called an embrace and grinding his hips against Javert’s in an effort to somehow bring them closer together. Javert rests his forehead against Valjean’s chest with his hair falling around him, tears still falling from his eyes, faintly wondering how he had never thought of Valjean like this before. Perhaps it is because he thought Valjean too pure for such things, devoting himself to God and nothing else. Even now, Valjean does not use the Lord’s name in vain while Javert finds himself praying that this pleasure will never end.
Valjean presses his lips against the side of Javert’s head and mutters something unintelligible. Javert can hardly concentrate on Valjean’s words. He is close, his cock caught between them and providing additional pleasure. He presses his mouth against the side of Valjean’s neck, tasting salt. It does not deter him and he does it again, daring to graze his teeth against Valjean’s skin. He is rewarded with a wordless sound and a stutter of Valjean’s hips.
“Jean, are you—“
“Yes,” Valjean answers in a quiet groan.
Javert reaches to take himself in hand properly, but Valjean is already there. Having Valjean in him and around him excites him more than Javert expected. It is not long before his fingers grip Valjean’s shoulders tightly and he finds release with a moan approximating Valjean’s name. Valjean follows him shortly, teeth again worrying his lip and remaining near silent. Javert wishes to hear him unrestrained rather than quiet and muffled.
They do not move from each other for many minutes, catching their breath as sweat dries on their skin. Javert straightens his legs into a more comfortable position but does not dare to leave him. There is comfort in the embrace Valjean has him in. Javert tries to remember the last time he was embraced and cannot think of a single instance. He savors every inch of contact between them. Surely he is too heavy to be comfortable for Valjean, no matter how strong he is, yet he cannot bring himself to move. Instead he stays where he is and rests his head on Valjean’s shoulder and finds contentment simply breathing with him.
He does not know how long they lay there, Javert halfway asleep, when Valjean moves a hand to again wipe wetness from Javert’s face. The unwanted tears had not stopped when Javert wished them too and now they are drying on his face. He allows Valjean to lavish attention on him for a few moments before he finally untangles himself from Valjean to lay beside him. Javert growls irritably at him when Valjean reaches for him again, but the sound is heavy with sleep and he can barely open his eyes enough to glare at Valjean.
Valjean must have understood because he does not make a further attempt. Instead, Valjean rolls to his side and kisses Javert’s shoulder briefly. There is easy affection in the gesture, something Javert finds himself unequipped to handle. Then he thoughtlessly touches Javert’s arm in a gentle caress. Valjean’s eyelids close and Javert finds himself strangely fascinated by Valjean in sleep. He brings the sheet over them both, as he cannot imagine walking to his own bed, and fights his exhaustion to watch Valjean breathe before he too succumbs to unconsciousness.