(Inspired by To Hell and Back episodes of Criminal Minds, of all things...a doctor who enjoys poking wounds a little too much, heh)
"Grantaire," Combeferre asks, with a hint of warning in his tone, "where are you off to?"
R jumps--he hadn't seen his lover sitting in the dim flat. "Ah! Ferre, you startled me! I box on Tuesdays, you know that."
"Mm, boxing. I'm not sure I approve. You always come home with bruises and lacerations I have to take care of."
Grantaire laughs. "You worry too much. I boxed before I met you, and I'm fine."
"...how many times has your nose been broken or dislocated?" the medical student asks, looking at his lover's erratic nose.
"Ah...six...but only once from boxing..." he says, trying to reach the door.
"Hmm...maybe I'll come with you and see what all the fuss is about. Hold on, I'll get my coat."
It is nearly half an hour before Combeferre has searched his flat for the necessary items--hat, coat, gloves, umbrella, medical bag, water...
Grantaire is shifting anxiously from foot to foot, trying to hid his impatience, and not saying a word about the delay.
Combeferre smiles to himself when his back is turned--it's nice to have such a well-behaved lover. "Alright. I'll get us a fiacre, seeing as we're running behind."
Grantaire says nothing about his implied complicity in making them late, but he does say, "...you don't need to come. I'm sure you'll be quite bored..."
"Nonsense," the medical student says, taking his lover's arm and signalling a passing carriage with the other. "It's important to you, so I want to know more about it."
"Well, alright..." R says, sounding almost shy.
After some hushed, giggling groping in the fiacre, they arrive at the small gymnasium where Grantaire goes to box weekly. Many of the men entering greet the cynic, not realizing that he's with Combeferre. The medical student draws plenty of curious glances from the men--mostly workingmen--as he's dressed simply, but quite a bit more expensively than most of them. Noticing this, Combeferre places a proprietary hand on Grantaire's shoulder. Before becoming lovers with his cynic, he probably would have been too shy to come to such a place, but now he walks in like a prince with his fighter.
Grantaire shows his lover a chair before beginning his pre-fight exercises and stepping into the boxing area. His opponent is a larger student, a few years older, named Bahorel. They've fought plenty before, and fucked on a few occasions. Grantaire smiles at his sparring partner, then remembers that Combeferre is watching, and blushes, flicking a glance at the medical student.
Interesting, Bahorel thinks, wondering if he can use the smaller man's obvious relationship to his advantage as he sees the glance. Usually they're fairly evenly matched--Bahorel's reach is longer, and his blows are much more powerful, but Grantaire is faster, more agile and more experienced.
It is soon clear to both Bahorel and Combeferre that Grantaire is distracted--he misses several openings, and comes close to being struck early on.
Combeferre finds himself leaning forward in his seat, enthralled. This is very different from the entertainment of his cultured, privileged upbringing--books, theatre, opera, perhaps hunting. Certainly not two sweating men in their shirtsleeves laughing madly and revelling in their strength. He finds himself shouting along with the other spectators, quietly at first, but soon not holding back.
Grantaire distinguishes his lover's voice from the crowd, and turns to look, startled.
Bahorel, who had been expecting his opponent to block, is just as surprised to find his fist connecting with the bridge of Grantaire's nose, which dislocates with a sharp crack. He quickly grabs Grantaire around the waist and lowers him to the ground so he doesn't injure himself falling. "You're alright," he says with a grin. "Your poor nose." Injuries are rare at these matches.
Instantly, Combeferre springs out of his seat and between the two men. Several of the men watching nudge one another and snicker--they all know about Grantaire's proclivities, but here he is with a gentleman. Combeferre pushes Bahorel aside a little more forcefully than necessary, touching the injured nose. He handles it more roughly than he's been taught, enjoying Grantaire's noises.
"Ow," R says, smiling at his lover. "Am I still handsome?"
"Of course. Lay still."
"...you were cheering for him," Grantaire remembers.
"Of course not. You're imagining things," the medical student answers, having the decency to blush.
"I don't mind. You like seeing me hurt."
"Yes," Combeferre admits, "but I also like seeing you win. One moment." He approaches his lover's opponent, who he hasn't met yet. He gestures for the larger man to step aside with him.
Bahorel is expecting some sort of hysterical accusation from Grantaire's lover, and prepares to explain that this is a boxing match, not a picnic.
"I am a medical student," Combeferre explains, although part of him wants to scream 'you've broken my property!'. "His nose is dislocated, but I can fix it. I'll need your help. You two have been lovers, yes?" he asks, showing that occasionally observes human relationships.
Bahorel nods, grinning as his role is explained. Kneeling by Grantaire, he calls the injured man's name. When R looks up, Bahorel grabs the other's jaw, and simultaneously runs his ragged nails along the sensitive flesh of Grantaire's inner arm.
Grantaire sighs happily, attention fully on Bahorel.
While he's thus distracted, Combeferre deftly snaps the cartilage back into place.
Grantaire shrieks and thrashes, but is held firmly by Bahorel.
"You can let him go," Combeferre instructs the large man.
Bahorel does, and stands, waiting.
Combeferre kisses his lover's forehead, wiping his bloody face with a pristine handkerchief, which he folds and places in his pocket like a favour. "You're fine. Go fight." He gives his lover a nudge and goes back to his chair to watch the fight.
Grantaire stands, looking a little dazed and wiping more blood from his face. He nods at Bahorel, indicating that he's ready to continue. He raises his arms and reassumes his fighting stance.
Bahorel grins, noticing how determined the little cynic looks, and anticipating a good bout.
Grantaire is much more on the offensive than usual, his bloody face and wide, staring eyes making him look a little crazed.
Bahorel finds himself driven back by the number of swings the smaller man is taking. He notices that he's outside the line they use to indicate loss, and raises his hands in defeat, a broad grin on his face. "Well done, Grantaire. It looks like you'll be...rewarded...tonight."
Indeed, Combeferre is approaching with a rather hungry expression. He all but grabs his lover and hurries him back to their flat, where he orders him to undress. "Mm, not as bruised as usual," he says, sounding almost disappointed. "But well fought. I think I like boxing after all," he says, descending on his lover, careful to bump his injured nose when he kisses R's stubbly cheek.
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