Archive of Our Own

“You understand, dear fellow, that Prouvaire’s parties do not require new clothing. Particularly this one — it’s only going to be the nine of us, for the most part, and we’ve already seen you at your very best and very worst, Courfeyrac,” Bahorel said idly. Despite his objections, he lounged quite comfortably in his seat in Staub’s, watching Courfeyrac examine himself from all angles in the mirror. He was wearing a pair of newly tailored trousers and an expression of deep concentration.

Bahorel shook his head gravely. “One might note that a lack of clothing is usually the end result of any party. A good one, anyway.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Looking one’s best never hurts. I always end up making a fool of myself at Prouvaire’s parties. I’d like to avoid that tomorrow night.”

“You’ve only made a fool of yourself at one of his parties, but point taken. I suppose that one time could count for ten, considering the state you were in at the end of the night — and the next morning, if I recall correctly.”

“Please don’t remind me. And besides, it's Prouvaire’s birthday. I wouldn’t want to spoil it. How old is he going to be, again?”

“Somewhere between fourteen and forty. He somehow manages to look both at once. Certainly older than you.”

“I’m not so very young.”

“Even Enjolras is older than you, and he looks fresh from lycée.”

Courfeyrac made no reply. Instead he turned from the mirror to look over his shoulder at himself from behind, striking a wholly unnecessary pose which made Bahorel laugh.

“I will give you credit, Courfeyrac. You have a keen eye for fashion, even if you took my advice to Joly for yourself.” Indeed, Courfeyrac had chosen the finest cuir de laine for his trousers, which clung tightly to his form, emphasizing the pleasing curve of his legs. Bahorel could not help but let his gaze linger, and Courfeyrac caught his eye in the mirror. A dimple appeared on his friend’s cheek.

“Your advice serves me very well, even it it wasn’t meant for me,” said Courfeyrac, obviously pleased with himself. “And it’s not as though you won’t be dressed in your very best waistcoat tomorrow night. I know you better than that. Now, let me go change and sort out the bill, and then we shall have a game of billiards. You owe me a rematch after that travesty the other day.”

Though he appeared wearing his new trousers the following evening, Courfeyrac looked much less self-satisfied upon meeting Bahorel and the rest of their friends at Corinthe for dinner. Bahorel could not understand why — he was impressively turned out in the cuir de laine, his legs further emphasized by a tailcoat that framed his hips and thighs to advantage. Again, Courfeyrac caught him staring, but this time his reaction to being looked at in such a way was entirely different. His drew in his shoulders, gave Prouvaire subdued well-wishes for his birthday and then sank down between Combeferre and Bahorel without saying much to anyone else. His cheeks were pink from the cold.

Bahorel observed him for a moment, sitting dispirited and hunched a little in his chair. Their friends were all in a lively mood tonight — it was usually so, when they were celebrating a birthday. All of their duties, their classwork — for the few of them that actually attended — their work for their Society could all be set aside temporarily. Even Enjolras, though he maintained his usual sang-froid, interjected with an amusing comment every now and then. But Courfeyrac, usually delighted at Enjolras’ rare jokes, was silent.

“Unhappy our little experiment in suffrage did not work out?” Bahorel whispered to him, as Gibelote brought three more bottles of wine to their table. The group had spent a full week arguing about where they should eat for Prouvaire’s birthday meal, and Courfeyrac in particular had advocated going somewhere new for a change. Prolonged indecision had resulted in eating at Corinthe yet again before they were to attend the theater later in the evening.

Courfeyrac gave a grimace, but good humor still gleamed in his eye. “You know I can never convince our friends to try something new. However pioneering we all might think ourselves, it seems we are really just creatures of habit.”

“Is that so?” Bahorel leaned in a little. Whatever had been bothering Courfeyrac upon his arrival seemed to be ebbing away now that he was sitting amongst his friends, and Bahorel found himself glad of it. Perhaps it was merely the biting cold outside that had dampened his spirits. “And what, exactly, would you say our habits are?”

“Bad wine, excellent carp, and being welcomed by Père Hucheloup no matter how much money we owe him.”

“And your habit seems to be spending too long in Combeferre’s company. How philosophical you are becoming.” Bahorel shook his head. “You worry me. If you spend too much time under such scholarly influence you might take it into your head to do something unthinkable, like dissect a corpse or attend class.”

“Heaven forbid it!”

“Indeed! If we are speaking of habits, you should model yourself after mine.”

“Having none?”

Bahorel laughed. “Yes, exactly.” They clinked glasses, and then flinched at the sour wine. “Though maybe encouraging the habit of trying new cafés would be of benefit.  One day, if we are very lucky, we might even find a place that serves wine instead of vinegar.”

The meal wore on, and Bahorel turned his attentions towards his other friends. He sang Prouvaire a bawdy birthday song with the most licentious lyrics he could think of — which made even the likes of Lesgle blush — teased Combeferre mercilessly about his new romance, flirted enthusiastically with Matelote as she passed their table, and got into a heated discussion with Enjolras about a piece of news from Lyon. By the end of dinner, Bahorel was in a very good mood indeed, but as they were all gathering their hats and coats to leave, he happened to glance at Courfeyrac. He had wrapped his greatcoat around himself, and was gazing with consternation at the exit of the wine shop as though reluctant to leave. But the group began to file out, still chatting and all, except for Bahorel, unaware of their friend’s discomfort. Despite his apparent misgivings, Courfeyrac sighed and seemed to steel himself as he followed the group out onto the street. It was bitingly cold, but the group began meandering in the direction of the theater all the same, and Bahorel saw Courfeyrac’s frown deepen.

“Couldn’t we take a fiacre?” he asked the group at large. “There is no need to walk so far in this cold weather.”

“It’s not far at all!” Lesgle called from the front of the group. “Besides, Courfeyrac, it’s not snowing. We’ve wandered about in worse before — don’t tell me you’re growing soft!”

Bahorel expected a repartee thrown back at Lesgle, but Courfeyrac’s face reddened and he did not answer. Instead he tugged his coat more tightly around himself and walked in silence next to Joly and Combeferre, who were having an enthusiastic and deeply disturbing conversation about an anomaly they had found in their latest cadaver’s brain.  It was odd, perhaps, that Courfeyrac was stony-faced rather than shooting them with disgusted looks and pleas to keep the details to themselves, as he usually did when presented with even the smallest scrap of information out of the medical school. Bahorel shrugged it off, however. The cold, he supposed, could put anyone out of temper.

Luckily, they arrived at the theater soon enough, procured their seats, and sat chatting and warming up until the curtain rose. It was a little establishment run by a struggling little troupe of actors with whom Bahorel and Prouvaire were vaguely acquainted. They had been invited to several of the rehearsals, and after the preview he witnessed Bahorel did not have high hopes for this production. Everyone had to start somewhere, he supposed, and even terrible theater was enjoyable with friends.

The play began, and Bahorel was soon proven correct. The plot was overwhelmingly melodramatic, with many costume failures and forgotten lines. Halfway through the second act, the paper background fell, revealing several actors behind the scenes midway through a costume change, and they were forced to dive into the wings. The whole thing was ludicrously enjoyable, and Bahorel had to struggle to contain his laughter, and eagerly looked around to see his friends’ reactions. Lesgle and Grantaire, who did not bother to hide their mirth, had brought in a bottle of wine with them and were passing it back and forth, exchanging quips almost as quickly. Joly and Combeferre were still deep in discussion, though the topic had shifted from brains to spinal fluid. Prouvaire and Feuilly were both watching the play, the former with polite appreciation and the latter with utter incredulity. Enjolras had his gaze trained somewhere in the rafters, his mind on grander things than theater.

His friends’ behavior amused Bahorel as much as the play itself, but then he looked over at Courfeyrac sitting next to him, and what he saw gave him pause. His friend, who never lost an opportunity to go to the most melodramatic of operas and read the most lurid of romances, did not seem to be enjoying the play at all. What was perhaps most disturbing was that Courfeyrac remained entirely composed. Without fail, the barest whiff of fictional tragedy would have Courfeyrac sniffling into his handkerchief by the end of the first act, but now the play was halfway through and he was still sitting rigidly in his chair, legs crossed and staring straight ahead as though unaware of the chaos on stage in front of him.

Courfeyrac’s uncharacteristic dismay at walking in the cold was one thing, but this — this was odd.

Deciding to be blunt, Bahorel leaned towards him. “You’re not yourself.”

Courfeyrac gave a half-shrug. “This play is awful.”

“It isn’t the play; you’ve not been yourself all evening. Here I was, hoping to be barraged with the usual Courfeyrac enthusiasm at an evening spent with friends, but I’ve been deprived of it. It’s putting me out of sorts — no easy feat — and so I demand an explanation.”

Though he didn’t meet Bahorel’s eye, the corner of Courfeyrac’s mouth turned up and the dimple — that infernal dimple — appeared again on his cheek. Bahorel had never noticed it so clearly before. Before he could think about it too deeply, Courfeyrac replied, “It’s nothing serious, I assure you.”

“If that’s true, you won’t have any qualms about telling me what is the matter.”

There was a pause, during which Courfeyrac seemed to grapple with what exactly to say. Finally, he said haltingly, “It’s - It’s these blasted trousers. They- Well, they don’t fit quite right. That’s all.”

“They seem to fit you excellently, if you don’t mind me saying,” Bahorel said, with a mock-lascivious smirk.

“It’s not how they look,” said Courfeyrac, with a helpless sort of smile.

This, too, struck Bahorel as odd. Cuir de laine was soft enough that even an ill-cut pair of trousers would be comfortable and not pinch the wearer in unfortunate areas, and he was about to say as much before he glanced down at Courfeyrac’s lap and immediately realized the problem here was quite another matter. Courfeyrac shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, which only seemed to make things worse, before shushing Bahorel when he choked back a laugh.

“Poor you!” Bahorel said, shoulders shaking with laughter. After a censorious look from Courfeyrac, he continued in a softer voice. “Poor you. Fashion is a dangerous thing. A scarlet cap catches the attention of the gendarmerie, and now those trousers are going to catch the attention of everyone else. Unless that was your aim?”

Courfeyrac’s cheeks were red again. “It wasn’t.”

“No wonder you looked so miserable walking around. A tailcoat was not a wise choice, my friend. Everything is on display.”

As he said this, he realized that it was lucky that he himself had chosen a frock coat — the skirt covered his lap easily. The notion that Courfeyrac, with his warm smile and dimples and shapely legs, had been walking around with an impressive cockstand all evening, his soft, tight trousers rubbing against him in exactly the wrong — or right — way when he moved, affected Bahorel to an astonishing degree.  An idea flashed through his head to find some semi-private alcove and relieve Courfeyrac of his problem, and the breath caught in his throat, his nostrils flared. Courfeyrac met his eye at last. Was it wishful thinking or was that heat in his gaze?

Before Bahorel could parse it, the moment was interrupted by the end of the play and the audience’s meager, slightly sarcastic applause. Courfeyrac nearly leapt from his chair to put on his greatcoat again, and hurriedly lead the way out of the theater.

It was decided that the remainder of the evening would be spent at Prouvaire’s, and the group began to make their way there. This time Bahorel took a little pity on Courfeyrac and seconded his slightly more desperate plea to take carriages. “As much as I enjoy wandering about Paris in all conditions, I wouldn’t bet on your nose and ears surviving frostbite, Bossuet,” Bahorel said, as Lesgle protested yet again. “No hair is one thing, but no face is quite another. I’ll pay, if that’s what concerns you.”

Courfeyrac stepped into the first fiacre gratefully and looked relieved as it set off in the direction of Prouvaire’s lodgings on the Rue de la Mortellerie, though he winced occasionally whenever the carriage jolted from a bump in the road. They arrived soon enough, and the only obstacle Courfeyrac had to endure then was to climb the stairs to the second floor. The rest of the group followed at their own pace, their cheer dampened by neither the cold nor the terrible theater they had just witnessed.

The night, it seemed, had only just begun. Upon arriving at Prouvaire’s flat, they found a large party already in progress. The whole of the apartment was full of Prouvaire’s Romantic friends — artists, budding novelists, and fellow poets. They had apparently broken in and started the festivities without the guest of honor. Upon his entrance, the whole room raised their glasses and offered loud well-wishes, pulling him into conversation, and pressing drinks and gifts into his hands.

For perhaps the first time in his life, Courfeyrac looked dismayed at being confronted with so many people at once. After some short salutations to the few people he knew, he wandered away from the crowd on the pretext of looking at some curiosity or another at the back of the room. The flat was so filled with the oddest assortment of art, dusty tapestries, stuffed birds, and other artifacts that it was entirely believable that something curious had truly caught Courfeyrac’s eye, but Bahorel knew it was merely to have a moment alone to compose himself. Bahorel wandered over to him.

Courfeyrac was staring fixedly at an oil painting whose varnish had yellowed so much with age, the subject was scarcely discernible.

“Enjoying that piece of art?”

“I can’t even tell what it is.” Courfeyrac frowned. “Bahorel?”

“Hmm?”

“Have you come to goad me?”

“Goad you? No, unless you enjoy that sort of thing.” Courfeyrac shot him a disparaging glance, but Bahorel merely smiled back at him with counterfeit innocence. “Don’t give me that look! You are never really annoyed at being teased by your friends — I should know, as I do it at every opportunity. I would advise you to just go home, however. Making yourself uncomfortable all evening for the sake of a birthday party — you don’t need to do that. Prouvaire won’t mind if you make some excuse and leave. Indeed,” Bahorel added, as he watched Prouvaire engrossed in tearing open his gifts, “He may not even notice.”

“I know, but-“ Courfeyrac hesitated in such a way to raise Bahorel’s suspicions.

“Unless there is now some reason to stay,” he said slowly. “Something that has piqued your interest, perhaps?”

“Perhaps.”

“Maybe you wanted assistance with your unfortunate condition? It is more fun, after all, than going it alone.”

Courfeyrac swallowed; Bahorel watched the movement of his throat behind his cravat and then, without even checking whether they were being watched, pushed him behind some nearby folds of drapery.  Courfeyrac gasped, and Bahorel just had to look at him for a moment, his back pressed against he wall, biting his lip to stifle the sound of his breathing. His greatcoat was unbuttoned and hung open, and if Courfeyrac had been hard before, it paled in comparison to the state he was in now, his cock straining at his trousers, caught in the crease between hip and thigh.

Slowly, giving him time to refuse the touch, Bahorel reached out and ran his thumb slowly up the length of his cock, ending with a firm pressure against the head, making Courfeyrac stifle another gasp.

“So, you’re determined to stay and torture yourself. Whatever am I to do with you?”

After several deep breaths, Courfeyrac managed, “You seem to know exactly what to do with me.”

“It’s hardly a challenge — you’ve worked yourself up quite enough without any effort on my part.” As if to prove this, he gripped Courfeyrac’s hip as he drew closer to him, chest to chest, applying just enough pressure that the material shifted against his friend’s prick. He felt Courfeyrac give a helpless shudder. “You see, I don’t even have to touch you.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac breathed. He arched into Bahorel’s touch, but then someone laughed very near to where they were concealed, and he froze. “Wait. The others are- are right-“ He trailed off, distracted by Bahorel moving his hand away, torn between his desperation to be touched and the fear of discovery.

“Do you really wish me to stop?” Bahorel eyed him, a smile lifting the tips of his moustache. “Truly?”

Courfeyrac’s eyes fluttered shut, and his voice was barely audible when he replied, “No, but- If someone was to just-“

At “no”, Bahorel had repeated the movement with his thumb, more slowly this time, and Courfeyrac’s head tipped back against the wall, lips parted, pressing his hips into Bahorel’s touch. Oh, what a sight that was; a searing tension curled low in Bahorel’s gut. There was warmth and wetness gathering at the tip of Courfeyrac’s cock; Bahorel could feel it even through the cuir de laine. He tsked. “If you think walking around with a cockstand is embarrassing, just think of how you would feel if you were to spend in your trousers.”

Courfeyrac was somehow able to compose himself enough to say, “Surely it's against your moral code to ruin a perfectly good pair of trousers.”

“Do I have a moral code?” Bahorel’s grin was wicked as he circled his finger lightly over the head of Courfeyrac’s prick. “And have these trousers been perfectly good to you? They have been perfectly good to me, I grant you. Or at least, I think they are about to be.”

Courfeyrac’s chest heaved, but a sudden exclamation from Jean Prouvaire made them start.

“Oh, Courfeyrac! This is wonderful — you’ve outdone yourself. Courfeyrac?”

A flash of panic crossed Courfeyrac’s face, but Bahorel was still able to think quickly. He flung aside the drapes and dragged the dirty oil painting out of their little corner, letting out a bark of laughter as he did so. All attention was drawn to him, giving Courfeyrac a moment to take several steadying breaths unnoticed.

“Prouvaire, I have to compliment you once again on your taste in art. This painting is so filthy that surely you must be keeping it only for the sake of symbolism. Beauty obscured and yet preserved beneath a façade of ugliness. Am I close?”

“Of course!” said Prouvaire, very pleased with himself. He was holding a newly unwrapped present — a hideous, one-eyed stuffed guinea fowl. “But it was also such a shame to leave it alone and forgotten in that curiosity shop. Perhaps I can clean it, and bring forth its true beauty. Courfeyrac!” he added, as Courfeyrac appeared at Bahorel’s shoulder. “Thank you so much for the gift. It will be nice to finally replace my last one that was lost.” This last bit was directed at Grantaire, who tried and failed to appear innocent. Bahorel was amused; some time ago, Grantaire had thrown an earlier ancestor of Prouvaire’s gift into the river, ostensibly to illustrate some philosophical point, but in actuality because he had wanted to and because Bahorel had encouraged him.

“I’m pleased you like it,” said Courfeyrac. His smile was strained around the edges. “And I do hope you’re having an enjoyable birthday party, but Bahorel and I really should be going.”

“So soon?” Prouvaire looked crestfallen. “But we have not yet had dessert, nor any of that fine opium my friend Théo gifted me.”

“That sounds, euh, lovely, but we have some business to see to.”

This was said with such emphasis on the secretive that it drew Enjolras’ attention away from a quiet conversation with Combeferre and Feuilly. “Give us a report, if you gather any news.”

Courfeyrac did not answer directly, merely smiling and bidding the group a good night, and steering Bahorel pointedly out of the door.

“Enjolras will be terribly disappointed when we tell him we don’t have any actual news,” said Bahorel as they stepped into the street.

“I’m confident you’ll come up with something,” Courfeyrac said, waving down a passing fiacre with barely concealed urgency.

“Enjolras values honesty in all matters. I could just tell him all about what we have been doing tonight.”

The fiacre had rolled to a stop in front of him and Courfeyrac got in, taking the back-facing seat. “You wouldn’t do that to him.”

“I suppose not.” Bahorel climbed in after him. “I’m not cruel.”

“I beg to differ.” Courfeyrac was still flushed as the fiacre began to move. “You are excessively cruel, but not yet beyond redemption.” He leaned forward, ostensibly to continue their activities behind Prouvaire’s curtain, but Bahorel laughed and pushed him back.

“You’ve waited this long. You can wait a little longer.”

For a moment, Bahorel expected Courfeyrac to sulk, but instead he sat back. His legs were spread, obviously to give Bahorel a view of exactly how much he did not want to wait.

“I have half a mind to bring myself off right here,” Courfeyrac said, and as if to prove it he ran his fingertips up the silhouette of his prick, hard and heavy against his thigh. He closed his eyes and tilted his hips in a way that made Bahorel’s own cock twitch insistently against the fall of his trousers. “Since you won’t.”

“My friend, a furtive liaison in the back of a fiacre is one thing, but pulling yourself off in one is quite another.”

No matter how much he wanted to, Bahorel would not touch him — not yet, when in only a few minute’s time he could have Courfeyrac fully to himself, helpless and pleading under his hand. Until then, he was content with self-denial —  if only Courfeyrac would stop touching himself in that way, exaggerating every movement to prod Bahorel into doing it for him. Courfeyrac’s knee pressed against Bahorel’s as he repeated the movement along his still-clothed cock, his other hand curled over the edge of the carriage seat in a white-knuckled grip. Bahorel’s prick throbbed again as he watched. “You are pleased with yourself, aren’t you?”

“I could be more pleased,” Courfeyrac said, his voice slightly breathless. “If you would come here for a moment.”

It would be so easy, Bahorel thought. He could lean in, take Courfeyrac in his mouth and listen to him try to stifle the noises he would undoubtedly make. He could pull him forward to straddle his lap, reach into those damnable trousers, or pull them down and bend Courfeyrac forward — but no. Though his cock ached at the possibilities, he did not make a move. Frustrated, Courfeyrac sat up straight and seemed to decide on trying a different approach.

“Are you really so unaffected?” His voice was teasing, but there was a ripple of uncertainty just beneath the surface. “Or are you merely against a little hidden pleasure in the back of a fiacre?”

“I am not unaffected,” Bahorel assured him, and cursed himself inwardly at the hoarse arousal in his voice. “And if you think I have never given pleasure in the back of a fiacre, then you are sorely mistaken.”

Courfeyrac smiled and leaned forward. A hand gripped Bahorel’s thigh, tight enough to draw out an involuntary gasp, and Courfeyrac brought his lips to Bahorel’s jaw, punctuating open-mouthed kisses with the scrape of teeth, moving up to just beneath his ear, his tongue hot against Bahorel’s skin. Bahorel was shocked at himself, at how quickly and hard he found himself panting, shifting and squirming beneath Courfeyrac’s touch. Courfeyrac’s hand roved up his leg, skipping over his cock, and smoothing over his chest beneath his coat. Bahorel’s resolve nearly cracked, but no — he knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it, even if stopping now would be agony.

Courfeyrac had tugged at his cravat just enough to expose a thin strip of skin above Bahorel’s collar, and kissed and bit almost hard enough to hurt. Bahorel groaned. “Stop that, damn you,” he managed, and to his chagrin Courfeyrac did, sitting back down with kiss-swollen lips and a self-satisfied smile.

Before Bahorel could retaliate for letting Courfeyrac get the better of him, the carriage arrived at the Hôtel de la Porte Saint-Jacques. With forced composure, Courfeyrac settled the fare with the driver and watched as the fiacre drove on, disappearing around the corner at the end of the street. At last, they were alone.

Bahorel caught Courfeyrac from behind, hands roving over his body, dipping under his greatcoat, skimming slowly over his chest and stomach. With a groan, Courfeyrac arched against him, heedless of the fact that they were still standing in the middle of the street, but Bahorel pulled away once he had found the key to his flat. Grinning at Courfeyrac’s expression of annoyance, he slipped an arm through his and steered him towards the Hôtel.

Later on, Bahorel would scarcely remember how they walked past the porter, nor mounted the stairs, but he would never forget the sound of the apartment door clicking shut behind him, and Courfeyrac’s desperate hands pulling him close. They wrestled with each other for a moment, each trying to get the upper hand, but though they were matched in size, Bahorel was the stronger of the two. With a laugh, he shoved Courfeyrac against the door with much more force than was needed, reveling in the groan this elicited at being handled so roughly. He felt Courfeyrac shiver under his touch as he dropped to his knees and with one deft movement, freed Courfeyrac’s prick from those infernal trousers.

A pause. Courfeyrac’s breath was harsh, erratic, as Bahorel clutched his hips, pinning him to the door so he was unable to press forward. Bahorel sat back on his heels to take in the sight before him. Courfeyrac’s cock was flushed, painfully hard, his fingers curled into Bahorel’s shoulders. Bahorel simply considered him for a moment, before leaning forward and lapping his tongue slowly over the head of Courfeyrac’s prick. Courfeyrac trembled again, his hips straining to thrust forward against Bahorel’s grip.

“Poor Courfeyrac,” Bahorel said, his voice hoarse again. “What would you do if I just left you now? How long, I wonder, could I keep you like this?”

Courfeyrac swore, the end of the word choked back as Bahorel repeated the movement, yet more slowly, licking up the underside of Courfeyrac’s cock and flicking once over the tip. “Bahorel-“

“Hmm?”

For a moment, Courfeyrac could do nothing but gasp for air, which was just as well. Bahorel’s own prick was hard, aching against his thigh, but he would not touch himself — not yet. To his own surprise, he was struggling to compose himself, and his cock gave a painful throb as Courfeyrac’s clutched his shoulders tighter and groaned, “Stop torturing me and suck me off.”

It was all the encouragement needed for Bahorel’s self-control to fall away. With a growl, he pressed forward and took the whole of Courfeyrac’s cock into his mouth, bobbing his head, swallowing around him and drawing out from his friend the most deliciously ragged cries. It was scarcely a minute before Courfeyrac’s body twisted and writhed above him and he came down Bahorel’s throat with a sound that was half agony and half utter relief.

Bahorel did not give him time to recover — his own need was too great. He rose to his feet and pressed Courfeyrac back against the door with a rough kiss, over his mouth, his jaw, leaving bruises against his neck. Courfeyrac let him, dazed from the strength of his climax but responding as best he could. He brought his hand down between Bahorel’s legs, feeling a sweet sense of triumph when Bahorel gasped and rutted against his palm. Bahorel kissed him again, hard, before drawing back.

“Oil?” It was a question and a plea for permission. Without hesitation, Courfeyrac answered, “Nightstand,” and Bahorel instantly swept away into the bedroom. So quick was he in finding the little bottle of oil and returning to the sitting room, that Courfeyrac only had time to take a few stumbling steps forward before Bahorel reached him again. There was no time to go elsewhere, even to the sopha across the room. Courfeyrac braced himself against an armchair and helped Bahorel push aside the skirts of his coat and fumble with his trousers, Bahorel tugging with such force that before long, a ripping sound was heard. Alarmed, Courfeyrac began to protest but before he could utter a word, his trousers were around his knees and Bahorel’s slick, warm finger was against him, teasing him open little by little.

Though Courfeyrac’s desperation had been lessened, Bahorel could not but be pleased when he made a muffled noise against the fabric of the armchair and pushed his hips back as Bahorel’s fingers entered him. With shaking hands, Bahorel pulled out his own cock, biting his lip as he quickly slicked himself with oil and then pressed into Courfeyrac as slowly as he could manage without spending.

Courfeyrac did not need time to adjust. He thrust himself back almost immediately, making Bahorel grunt. He grasped Courfeyrac’s hips again before rolling his own with more urgency than finesse. Courfeyrac made another sound and reached one hand back to stroke himself as Bahorel thrust into him again and again, increasing his pace moment by moment. He could scarcely breathe. Courfeyrac may have been the one wearing the too-tight trousers all evening, but ever since Bahorel had discovered what had thrown him so off-kilter, he had longed to do this, to tease Courfeyrac, to bring him off before taking him — he could not get the idea out of his mind. Another moment and Bahorel’s rhythm faltered, and he was lost in wave after wave of pleasure. Only vaguely could he hear Courfeyrac’s cry, and then feel him tighten around his prick as he came a second time.

At last, there was stillness. Bahorel’s heartbeat was still thundering in his ears as he drew out of Courfeyrac, who slumped into the armchair, flushed and out of breath. Bahorel followed him, sitting on the floor and leaning into Courfeyrac’s legs without bothering to rearrange his clothing.

Neither said a word for a moment, but upon catching sight of the state of the cuir de laine — they could no longer be called trousers — around Courfeyrac’s ankles, Bahorel let out a disbelieving laugh.

“Blasted things,” Courfeyrac said, attempting to sit up a little straighter. His hair was tousled and his lips were still swollen from kisses. “It’s not as though I would ever wear them again.”

Indeed, the scrap of material was so torn and stained that there was no hope of ever repairing them. Though Bahorel would ordinarily never gloat over the destruction of a fine piece of Staub’s work, pride swelled in his breast while looking at them.

“It is certainly for the best,” he agreed. “Though in one way, a shame. They offered an excellent excuse for a little liaison.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “If I had known what was in store for me, I wouldn’t have needed an excuse.” Though obviously tired, he cast Bahorel a sardonic sort of look, which made Bahorel grin. “Perhaps next time, there will be a little less teasing?”

“It depends on the type of teasing,” said Bahorel seriously. Before Courfeyrac could respond, he added, “And I’m glad you don’t need an excuse. By the way, did you know your nose gets extremely red when you come? It’s a charming sight, and one that I would be very happy to see again.”

He smiled beatifically and braced himself for enthusiastic protestations, but was pleasantly surprised when Courfeyrac said flatly, “Be quiet and give me a quarter hour, and perhaps you will.”

Bahorel was delighted.