Work Text:
Javert frowned, watching Valjean try to straighten his cravat as they left the small theater. It had quickly grown hot inside, and neither Valjean nor Javert were used to such a crowd after the months it had taken Javert to fully recuperate.
When Valjean had first loosened the knot due to the heat, Javert had caught a glimpse of something: a reddened mark blooming on pale skin damp with perspiration – unless it had been a figment of his imagination, he thought as his heart beat painfully fast in his chest. Maybe it had been a shadow, or a strange reflection of the lights.
But already Valjean's cravat had been tightened again, and now his appearance was as spotless as when they had entered the building. The crowd here at the Petit-Lazari was not that of the opéra; a cravat slightly askew would cause no raised brows. Still, Valjean always dressed meticulously for these occasions, and as Javert allowed his fingers to lightly brush the warm coat of dark wool, he wondered if Valjean still thought himself a criminal on the run, who wrapped himself in different clothes and manners to hide the truth of what he was.
Javert had seen the truth of him in those weeks he had spent in his bed, raving and shouting and weeping until at last he had found a way to live with that terrible weight of his past. Those moments had revealed the truth that lived at the heart of Valjean: skin that was warm against his own, arms that would embrace even him, lips that would kiss his brow and call him brother, despite the weight of Javert's sins.
These things were hard to accept, harder still to deny. And Valjean, who would gladly give this comfort, would in turn accept no comfort for himself. Javert had discovered that truth later, when he sought to return the healing he had found, though his uncertain, rough hands were too used to wield a cudgel to learn gentleness easily, and his lips did not know what name to call this love.
And yet, these hands had learned the truth of Valjean: that at his core, there was nothing but gentleness and warmth and love for all of God's creatures, save for himself.
No, it did not surprise Javert that Valjean still felt the need to wear a disguise, even though it was Javert himself who had hunted and then released him from that past. But then, Valjean had never feared the judgment of the law. In truth, it was Valjean who judged himself, and from that harsh judgment, Javert's words alone could not release him.
“Did you enjoy the play?” Valjean asked after a moment, and Javert forced himself to look away from where the silken cravat nestled so innocently against warm skin.
There had been a bruise. He was certain that was what he had seen. His heart thudded in his chest when he remembered how he had kissed that bared, vulnerable throat before he had fastened the cravat, how he had pressed his tongue against where the pulse fluttered, and then sucked gently until Valjean at last made a sound, and his fingers came to rest on Javert's shoulders – not to push him away, but to keep him close.
That was when he had forced himself away, and concealed the mark of his lips with soft silk. He felt the steady throb of his pulse between his legs now at the thought that, all this time, the mark of his kiss had been on Valjean's skin, blooming red and hot on the throat of this man who was all respectable gentleman on the outside, who wore his fine coat and his new hat and his silken cravat, and who had sat in the theater amidst a hundred people who looked at him, and looked at the cravat, and never saw the lurid mark of Javert's lips hidden beneath.
He should, Javert thought dimly through the roar of his blood in his ears, be ashamed. He should not mark this man who had been forced to wear the marks hands like his own had left for all of his life.
And yet. Again Javert looked at the cravat. A sliver of pale skin was visible, there at his throat.
“Javert?” Valjean tilted his head in question, and Javert, already flushed with disconcerting heat, reared back.
“Ah, it was...” He searched for words. “Dreadful. Terrible. To think that such tales are meant to excite; why, I promise you, such crime would never--!”
Valjean's lips twisted into a small, tentative smile, and that was still new and delightful enough that Javert fell silent.
“Well. It was entertaining enough, I suppose,” he said a little stiffly. These situations still left him helpless. He was not used to searching out entertainment. Even less was he used to company, not even Valjean's. But all in all, he supposed, it had not been a terrible way to pass the time.
“And you? Did you enjoy it?”
The smile had already vanished again from Valjean's lips, but there was still a warmth in his eyes that made Javert feel absurdly grateful when Valjean took hold of his hand to press it for a moment.
“I am glad you came with me. I would not have gone on my own. And now Cosette will be pleased to hear that I had an adventure, and perhaps stop sending over letters and more food than any man could eat.”
Javert did not say what he thought: that Valjean was weak still, compared to how he remembered him; that his coat seemed a little too large; that Javert was grateful to have an excuse to visit and stay for dinner and help Valjean with whatever Cosette had sent to make her father recuperate from the mysterious illness that had ailed him after her wedding.
Instead, he lightly pressed Valjean's hand, and then, with silent regret, allowed his fingers to slip free.
~
The memory of that red bruise did not leave his mind even in the coach they took back to the Rue de l'Homme-Armé. Javert took care not to look at the cravat again, lest his thoughts get distracted and invite his fingers to stray in such an unseemly place.
He waited until they had entered the apartment to allow himself that indulgence once more. Valjean slowly took off his coat, and Javert found his body tensing as he watched. Suddenly angry with himself, he turned away from the sight and forced himself to take off his own coat. He neatly placed his hat on the hat rack, then ground his teeth as he looked at the door again, contemplating escape for a moment – but then he turned and there Valjean stood, unexpectedly close, looking at him with puzzled softness. Javert realized with aching need that Valjean did not even know; Valjean had walked through Paris and into the theater by his side, completely unaware of what mark had bloomed on his skin.
Javert breathed in, then forced himself to exhale slowly. His fingers rose to Valjean's cravat. Helplessly, he watched as his hands pulled carefully on the silk, unraveling the knot, and as the silk fell apart, his mouth grew dry. There it was still, the bruise his mouth had left: a spot of red against Valjean's throat, and he could barely keep from leaning in and kissing it again in a bid for forgiveness.
“What is the matter, Javert?” Valjean asked. His voice was soft, and Javert shook his head, overcome by a need he could not express. He wanted to unbutton Valjean's shirt, watch it slide off those strong shoulders, draw his fingers over firm muscles – instead, he took hold of Valjean, and drew him towards the mirror.
“Ah,” Valjean said when he beheld the bruise, and now at last Javert allowed himself to bend his head and press his lips to it in apology.
Valjean's skin was warm against his mouth. When he parted his lips to breathe against the small mark, a tremor ran through Valjean; emboldened, overcome, Javert rested his hands on his arms, and licked at the bruise, and now Valjean's skin heated, his pulse racing beneath the thin skin, and Javert tasted the salt of his sweat.
“Javert...” Valjean swallowed a gasp. “Javert, is that why... It was hidden all this time. There is no need to be upset.”
“No need, you say?” Javert asked in disbelief when he drew back. Valjean's lips were swollen and flushed, as if he had bitten them while Javert pressed his mouth to his skin; Javert rested a finger against the bruise, and Valjean shivered again, bit down on his lip until some nameless force pulled Javert forward and made him kiss the tension away.
“No need, when you bear marks enough,” he said at last. “I am sorry. I shouldn't have; you must think me a wild animal, a brute; I did not--”
“Javert.” Valjean's voice was calm, although his face was flushed, and Javert could still see the hectic thrum of his pulse there at his throat. “You are no brute. And you are no animal. Here.”
Valjean took hold of his arm. Javert watched as his fingers opened the cufflinks, then gently pushed the fabric up to reveal his wrist.
Valjean's lips were hot and warm as they pressed to the thin, sensitive skin of Javert's wrist. The wet touch of Valjean's tongue wrung a choked cry from him, and then there was the gentle firmness of teeth set to his skin, and the pulse between his legs throbbed with maddening heat.
He tightly gripped Valjean's shoulder with his other hand as he stood and trembled, flushed and so overwhelmed that he had to let go of him after a heartbeat, pushing the heel of his hand hard against his aching prick to stave off his release. Valjean's teeth still pressed against his skin. The kiss went on and on; Valjean's mouth was hot and hungry there against his wrist, sucking on his skin, and Javert thought that if he took his hand away it would be over. He would soak his trousers with his spend from nothing more than the thought of Valjean taking possession of him with such new and unbearable intimacy, marking him with love and passion instead of pain.
When Valjean released his wrist at last, Javert looked down. His veins gleamed blue beneath the pale skin, and now teeth marks showed and spit gleamed wetly while the skin slowly began to redden as a bruise began to form.
“Oh,” he said, and swayed lightly as his cock pulsed insistently, asking for the single touch that was all it would take now.
Valjean gave him a smile, although his eyes were strangely shy. “Now you have your own mark to carry. Is that--”
“Yes,” he said, before Valjean could even end the question, and then, again, with enthusiasm: “Ah, good God, yes. Yes. It's enough; it's more than I deserve, it's--”
Valjean reached out for his hand again, and pulled it towards him to rest it lightly against his shirt.
“You might have left more marks.”
The words were an invitation; and that was all it took. Javert did not speak again, but set to open button after button with reverent deliberation, his hands careful even as his heart contracted with painful need at the thought of uncovering another bruise, and being blessed with another mark himself.