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The story of how Bahorel first met Jehan is one he loves to tell, mainly because it just shows exactly why he loves the little poet so much.
It was before he met Les Amis; he’d been in the Corinthe, drinking with Grantaire. He’d looked over and seen Jehan, slight figure, small stature, his hair braided as usual with flowers tucked into it, with a much larger man harassing him. It had been quite obvious that the little poet had been uncomfortable, and was trying to back peacefully out of the situation. Bahorel, deciding to play chivalrous, and hoping he may get a fight out of it, had excused himself from Grantaire with a pat on the shoulder – although Grantaire had been rather too drunk to really notice – and strode over.
“He troubling you?” he asked, looking up at the larger man – he probably wouldn’t be much of a match for Bahorel, who was 6’2” of solid muscle, but a fight was a fight if it happened. Jehan looked up at him, and smiling slightly.
“I can handle it.” He’d murmured – soft spoken, as he often was. “Thank you.”
Bahorel may have frowned a little disbelievingly, but then the man had lurched forward to have another go, and Bahorel had pushed him back and stood in front of Jehan protectively, partially out of instinct. The man had growled at him, levelling him with a glare that suggested he wasn’t best pleased of his advances being prevented, but before Bahorel could do much more he’d felt a small, firm hand on his arm.
He hadn’t been expecting the punch in the face.
The little man stood, glaring up at him fiercely, shaking out his fist. In that moment he’d seemed full of fire, some of his hair escaping his braid and falling into his face, his floral shirt pushed up to his elbows, and Bahorel thought he may have fallen a little in love with him. As it was, he stared a little dumbly, his hand pressing over his left eye.
“I told you, I can handle myself.” Jehan had said lowly.
He had promptly turned and handled the situation, pushing the other man back roughly with firm instructions for him to back off, and then kicking him to the floor when he continued. Eventually the guy had given up, nursing a good few bruises, and Jehan had let out a long breath and tucked the escaping strands of hair behind his ears. He’d looked over and seen Bahorel, leaning back against the bar, still staring at him, a smirk starting to tug at his lips, and had raised his eyebrows.
“You can handle yourself.” Bahorel had managed. Jehan had laughed softly and carefully pulled his hand away from where it was still shielding his eye.
“That’s going to bruise.” He murmured, touching the side of Bahorel’s face gently, and giving him an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry. I’ve been told my temper can get a little short.”
“It’s fine.” Bahorel laughed. “You’re a little fighter, you’ve got spirit. Honestly didn’t expect it from you.”
Jehan had blushed slightly, again brushing his hair back behind his ear. “Not many people do.”
“Well, I’m not going to make that mistake again.” Bahorel assured, rubbing his temple in emphasis. There was a crash from the direction of the table he’d originally left, and he’d looked over to see Grantaire on the floor, apparently having tried to get up, calling out “B’rel, where’d y’go?” and likely completely smashed.
“Oop, that’ll be my friend. I’d better go take him home.” Bahorel grinned, clapping Jehan on the shoulder. “See you around.”
Bahorel didn’t meet Jehan again until his first meeting with Les Amis, when he recognised him and said “There’s the little firecracker who gave me a black eye!” with a huge grin on his face. He finally got a name to the pretty face, though from that day onwards he usually referred to him by the affectionate nickname of “firecracker”. He learns that Jehan knows savate, karate and taekwondo, and knows from personal experience that he can throw a solid punch. He takes to practising savate with him occasionally, absolutely adoring the ferocity that Jehan fights with. Bahorel admires Jehan’s strong spirit.
It’s not at all surprising that from then on, they become fast friends.