Scout's Ma

OMFGHSJHKJJ!!!!1

Something THAT.IS.HET!!!!!!!1! (I know, right? Who knew we [or in this case, I] had it in us?)

I actually dreamt this story--and I mean, I dreamt that I was sitting at the laptop typing it up, so some of the words are actually from my dream. Weird, right? Anyway. I obviously couldn't post this on Y! but, here's a super-short ficlet.


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Scout’s ma sat up. It was still dim in the room she woke in, but she could tell by the light coming through the holes in the thick curtains that it was morning. “Charlie,” she mumbled sleepily, “you’d better be up!” Charlie was the only one of Scout’s brothers who still lived at home, and he was holding down a job—barely. She was getting pretty darn sick of riding his ass to get him up in the mornings.

She blinked. Why couldn’t she see out of one eye? She rubbed at it and her fingers found rough fabric. An eye patch? Why on earth? The strap holding it on was quite loose, obviously made for a larger head than her own, and she was surprised that it was staying on at all. A little more awake now, she rolled over to assess the situation. There was a man in the bed, and it wasn’t her bed. Hardly anything new, but she knew this man. “Demoman?” she asked, softly.

Sleepy rumbling was her only reply.

Now she remembered—damn, but that scrumpy, or whatever he’d called it, packed a punch! She’d drunk plenty when she was younger—much younger, before she’d had her boys—and she had the odd drink now and then, now that her boys were (mostly) out of the house, but she certainly wasn’t prepared for that stuff. Her head was, mercifully, pain-free. She moved a bit more—her stomach seemed to be alright, too. Well, that was something, anyway. Her hands moved automatically to her hair, making sure her coiffure was still more or less intact (bless Scout. He could be a  crazy little shit, to be sure, but the money he sent home sure helped make Mommy’s life more comfortable).

Hair in place, she started looking around for clothing. There were some underwear. She started pulling them on, frowning a little—maybe the scrumpy had affected her more than she had thought? These were clearly women’s panties, so they must be hers, but they were much, much too large (every ounce of her baby weight had been lost after Scout, thank-you-very-much). She looked over her shoulder at Demoman, who was making little grumbly noises and might be waking up. She raised an eyebrow, looking from the size of his waist to the size of the panties. Yep. She’d just slept with another crossdresser. 

Greek God Advice Column

(Is it Corinthian or Doric? Ooooooh...)

Dear Zeus,

My girlfriend and I are having relationship problems. What should I do?

Sincerely, Hot And Bothered

Dear Hot--

Make like a swan and fuck her! That gets ALL the ladies!

Zeus

Dear Zeus,

My boyfriend gave me swan herpes...should I see a doctor?

-Feathered Friend

Dear Feathered

No! You should go give your man a blow job is what you should do! He's doing it right.

Zeus

Dear Apollo,

I really like this girl, but every time I try to talk to her, she brushes me off. Help?

Waiting for advice,

Lonely Guy

Dear Lonely,

Be careful with this one. Have you met her father? Make sure you will not get your heart broken by a tree.

Apollo

Dear Zephyrus,

I really like this guy, but he won't give me the time of day. He totally has the hots for someone on the track team. How can I get him to notice me?

Lusty

Dear Lusty,

KILL HIM WITH A DISCUS!

Yours Truly,

Zephyrus

Dear Orpheus,

This boy I really like was killed in a freak discus accident. I'm really upset. Do you have any advice?

Pining and Alone

Dear Pining,

I can't tell you exactly how to get into the underworld, or how to get past Cerberus. But I do have some advice: don't turn around!

Orpheus

Graverobbin' Ferre

(Write a plan for grave-robbing as Combeferre)

1. I need to obtain a cadaver for anatomy class
2. I have no idea how to do so
3. I need a plan
4. They are difficult to come by, which is why the school has run out--see 1.
5. I am wary of paying a body snatcher
6. I will have to produce a cadaver myself
7. I will need to locate a fresh grave
8. See 2.
9. See 3.
10. Perhaps I can ask Bahorel
11. I suppose I could wander graveyards looking for freshly turned earth
12. Probably guards/gates/dogs
13. I need a shovel, a lantern with shade, and pry bar
14. Could I bribe a guard?
15. Is that legal?
16. I suppose not. See 5.
17. However, see 1.

a) obtain items--see 13

b) see 11.

c) 14.

Perry and Christian

Perry was sitting directly in front of his door, waiting for Christian to come by and let him out, almost bouncing in place with eagerness. He hasn't felt so happy and willing to leave his room in...a long time, and the thought no longer terrifies him.

The sound of Christian's boots in the hallway is very distinctive. Though the man tries to walk light, it's hard to be quiet in combat boots on wooden floors. He unlocks the door and opens it.

Perry is on his feet when he hears the boots, flinging himself at his friend/companion. "Christian! What're we going to do today?"

"Hello Perry." Christian smiled down at the shorter boy. "You're excitable today."

The poet nods, clinging to the guard, nodding furiously. "Where's Dog? I saved him a present!" Perry rushes back into the room, bringing back a plate covered in some sort of...fuzz...

Christian made a face. "You know, normally when Dog eats fuzzy things, they're squirrels." he hurriedly adds, "but I'm sure Dog would love this. I'll make sure he gets it when he's done his run." he puts it on one of the nearby tables, knowing Yves would take care of it. "Do you want to go for a walk?"

"...you're sure he'll find it there?" he asks suspiciously. "Yes," he says, firmly.

"Yves will bring it down to him later." Christian nodded knowingly. "Where do you want to go?"

"Good," Perry says, satisfied. He shrugs, distracted by a bright piece of carpet lint.

"Do you want to stay inside, or go out...?"

"Out."

"Alright, let's get you dressed." Christian shoos the naked boy towards his wardrobe, picking out some warm clothes for him.

Perry keeps trying to wander off, but is eventually wrangled by the larger, stronger man. As soon as he's dressed, he materializes by the door, waiting impatiently for Christian to follow.

Christian grabs an overcoat for Perry just in case he gets cold, then follows the impatient boy ... man. "You lead the way." he chuckled.

Having been given his sanction, Perry rushes out of his room like an eager puppy only checking to make sure Christian is following when he reaches the stairs. Satisfied, he zooms down and out a side door that leads to a disused orchard that's been made into a small, private garden for him.

Christian follows at a run, trying not to laugh. "Damn, that boy can move." he mutters, not used to Perry taking off like this. Generally he tired quickly and had to be carried back up the stairs or carted back home in the dog cart. He follows the poet outside, closing the door behind him.

Perry rushes over to a very ordinary looking shrub, staring at it intently. He suddenly turns and looks back at Christian, looking despondent.

"What's wrong? Is the shrub being rude?"

Perry shakes his head, looking bewildered at the guard's statement. "What? No, don't be...I can't find him!" the poet wails, dropping to his knees on the damp grass.

"Find who?" Christian frowns, quickly kneeling next to Perry.

"...my caterpillar!" Perry says, his tone implying that this should be totally obvious. "I've been feeding him every day, and I told him to meet me here. What if he got lost? What if a bird...!" He looks up, squinting, for marauding caterpillar thieves, voice quite shrill.

Christian looked puzzled for a moment, then joined Perry in his search for his caterpillar friend. "I'm sure he just lost track of time. Caterpillars don't own watches, you know." he assured Perry.

Perry nods, calming. "...that's true," he says, nodding at this very reasonable observation. "I'll go get some lettuce. You call out for him and let him know we're here." He starts toward the kitchen, forgetting that he's not allowed, supervised or not, within fifty feet.

"Perry, wait." Christian grabbed his arm gently. "I'll get the lettuce. I'm sure he knows your voice better. You stay here." Christian whistled for Dog and once he could see the mastiff, took off for the kitchen.

Perry nods again, laying full length on the ground, heedless of the damp soaking his clothes, his face just above the grass. "Caterpillar," he says, conversationally, "it's lunch time. I know you don't have a watch, but I'm here, so you don't need one."

***

Jess, having finally put Flour's apron out, is rather frazzled. "...why do you want lettuce, Christian?" he says, a hint of warning in his voice. "...is Yves on a new diet or something?"

"It's for Perry." he sighed. "Please hurry, I think he's probably still laying in the dirt."

The head chef raises an eyebrow, but jerks his head toward a basket of lettuces. "...later. Explain." he growls, heading off to put out some--thankfully metaphorical--fires. "...Steak!"

"Thank you!" Christian grabs a lettuce leaf, heading back upstairs and out to the garden.

Perry is, indeed, still on the ground, having left a little trail around the bush as he slowly moved around it.

Dog is following Perry, snuffling in his hair from time to time and whining. Christian sighs. "I brought lettuce."

"Sit, Dog," Perry says, his tone making it clear this isn't the first time. "Thanks, Christian!" the poet chirps. "Oh! Wait!" Perry has spotted something on his shrub. "That's a funny leaf."

Christian knelt down next to him. "That's not a leaf, Perry, that's a cocoon."

"...what's that?" Perry asks, all wide-eyed innocence.

Christian stood, picking Perry up, wrapping him in his overcoat and sitting them on the stone bench. "Well, when a caterpillar gets to be a year old, they make a cocoon. They sleep through the winter in their cocoon and then in the spring they turn into a butterfly."

Perry squeaks as he's suddenly airborne, looking down at Dog. "...where's my caterpillar!" he shrieks, eyes looking dangerously close to tears.

Christian calmed him down as best he could. "You know how when you're cold in the winter, you wrap yourself up in a blanket?"

"...yes..." Perry says, giving Christian a look.

"Well, the caterpillar's doing just that. But he's wrapped his blanket around himself and he won't come out until spring."

Perry raises an eyebrow, looking incredulous. Luckily for Christian, the poet had missed the part about butterflies. "...so he's in there." He points back toward the shrub.

"Yes. He's going to stay nice and warm through the winter." Christian nodded. "But if you want, we can take him inside and you can keep him in your room."

Perry's eyes widen with delight, and he nods. "...he's inside that funny leaf?" This all seems vaguely familiar, like something he might have dreamt a long time ago.

"Mhm. I'll read you a story about it later, alright? Do you want to take him in with us? You're getting cold, you should have a bath."

"Yes," he says, imperiously. "Does he need the lettuce?"

"Nope, he'll be asleep all winter." Christian chuckled. "But I'll get him a jar and we'll take the stick he's on inside and you can keep an eye on him, alright?"

The poet nods, looking at Christian expectantly, cuddled into the coat. "I'll have it, then."

"You go back to your room, I'll get his house ready. And you undress and get under the blankets, just like the caterpillar, okay?"

Christian went to the shrub and broke the stick with the cocoon on it, taking it inside and going to bother Jess for a jar.

Perry nods and meanders back to his room, crawling into bed fully dressed, leaving his sheets wet and muddy.

Jess hears the important word 'jar', his hands curled into throttling position, and points to the canning area.

Christian gives Jess a wide berth and goes for the jars, picking one that doesn't look very breakable. He goes back upstairs with his jar and the cocoon nestled into it. "Get out of your bed, Perry, you've gotten it all muddy."

Perry gazes at the caterpillar house approvingly. "Give me the lettuce," he demands. "You told me to get into bed."

"I told you to undress first. Your clothes are filthy." Christian sighed, digging the lettuce out of his pocket and luring Perry out of bed with it.

It works; the poet comes over and eats the lettuce, then stands perfectly still, in a rather odd position.

Christian strips the boy naked and scoops him up, heading to the bath. He rinses him off with warm water, then towels him dry.

"No! I can't move! I want to sleep all winter!" Perry protests, to no avail.

"You're not a caterpillar, Perry." Christian tells him. "Only caterpillars make cocoons." he wraps him up in the towel and brings him to bed. "But I can tell you a story about caterpillars for bed tonight, alright?"

"I want to be," the towel cocoon whines. "I hate winter. Where are you from? Yes. A story would be nice. Give me a kiss."

Christian kissed him, tucking the cocoon into bed. "I'll just run to the library and get a book, then I'll be back."

Perry nods. As soon as Christian is gone, he resumes his laying very still. He smiles across the room at the jar. "Do you glow?" he asks the caterpillar. "...or snore? Christian snores."

From Scarletopinions

Our art from Scarletopinions for our Anniversary. Camille and Danton snuggling.

Rainy Day

"Danton," Camille whispered in his lover's ear, "it's s-storming out."

Danton rolls over with a groan. "'s too early, Camille. Don't tell me you're 'fraid of storms?"

"No," the dark haired lawyer says, "but you should be."

"Ignoring you," the larger man says, trying not to rise to the bait. "Sleeping."

"You don't want to know why you sh-should be afraid of storms?" Camille asks innocently.

"...will you let me sleep?"

Camille makes a noise that's neither here nor there and creeps beneath the covers.

"Agh! You're cold and wet! Were you out in the rain?!" Danton asks, incredulously.

"Yes," his lover replies. "I had to make sure it was raining."

Danton places a large hand on Camille's back, pushing him into sitting position. "D'you see that fabric-covered rectangle on the wall over there? It's called a window. It has the magical ability to let you know what's going on outside while you remain inside."

Camille pouts playfully. "Did those p-pigs trample all the f-fun out of you? You're d-dull."

Danton growls into his pillow. "...why should I be afraid of storms, Camille?" he asks, with a sinking feeling that he already knows the answer.

"You'll be stuck ind-doors with me all day," Camille cackles. "And I'm bored."

"I have no idea how you lived to adulthood," Danton groans.

"My p-parents would always just shove a book in my hands."

"I don't suppose that would work if I did it?" Danton asks, without much hope.

"N-no. I've already been reading for hours. Luckily, you have an advantage my p-parents didn't."

"How is it that you can be so quiet when you're creeping about or getting into mischief, yet--oh!" he groans, feeling his lover move under the blankets and wrap his mouth around Danton's cock. "Mmm, that's more like it," he says, reclining.

Camille grins and begins enthusiastically sucking his lover off.

Danton comes quickly and smiles down under the blankets at his little lover. "You should just stay there. It's nice."

"You're too w-warm. And I'm still b-bored," he sighs, creeping out of the covers.

After gathering his energy, Danton rolls out of bed and scoops his naked tormentor up.

Camille squeals with delight, anticipating fun.

Instead, he is dumped, still nude, outside in the rain. Danton leaves him standing there, stunned, and goes back inside, locking the door behind him. He settles himself back under the covers with a happy sigh.

Camille is instantly enraged. He runs around the building to their bedroom window, where he pounds the glass with both hands, screaming his little face off, all traces of his stutter vanished.

Danton wonders, idly, if he'll give up or be arrested first. He hopes the little pest doesn't make himself sick, shouting in the rain.

"Danton! Open this window right now or I will go find a pistol and shoot you!"

All this commotion has drawn a bit of a crowd. They stand and watch the pale man rant and scream and attack the window, before someone sends for Fabré and some clothes.

The artist gathers up his fuming friend, and takes him to a café for some hot coffee, trying very hard not to laugh.

Delay

Danton bent over the sleeping bundle that was Camille, silently watching the boy sleep for a few moments before leaning in for a kiss.

Camille, still half asleep, sits up violently, lashing out with both hands, shrieking something incomprehensible.

Danton sat down on Camille, pinning his hands and sitting up so his face was safe from the spasming beneath him. "Camille, it's me!"

"...ahhh!" Camille finishes, before waking completely. "Mmm, Georges," he says, quite reasonably, as if he hadn't just been trying to kill his lover. "...why are you sitting on me?"

"Because you were slapping me!" Danton roared, laughing and kissing Camille all over.

Camille frowns, trying to escape, but is soon helplessly giggling under the relentless assault. "Alright, alright! I s-surrender! I have n-no idea what you're talking about, th-though," he cries between bursts of laughter and playfully trying to push away his lover's hands.

"I kissed you in your sleep and you mercilessly attacked me!" Danton grinned, letting Camille escape.

Camille insinuates himself into Danton's lap, as is his custom, arranging the larger man to his liking quite shamelessly. He tilts his head back to look up at the rough, scarred face, with his most wide-eyed, innocent expression. "Me? M-merciless?"

"Yes, you." Danton smirked, squeezing Camille tightly to his big hairy chest and pinching his stomach.

Camille rewards him with suitable 'eep'ing noises, then tries to ooze down and out of his lover's arms, snapping at the burly arms.

Danton threw them forward, with Camille under him. He squished his lover, grabbing him around his waist and gnawing on his shoulder.

The black-haired boy kicks his slender feet, hoping to hit something sensitive, trying to work at least one leg between the larger man's.

Danton ground his genitals into the crack of Camille's ass, still biting his little lover.

Camille gasps, raising his hips as much as he can. "D-damn you," he laughs, "and your c-cowardly cock."

"If it were cowardly, it would hardly be rubbing against a volatile man." Danton grinned.

"It's hiding against a--hey!"

Danton laughed, grabbing for the oil they kept near the bed and dripping some into Camille's ass, rubbing more onto his cock.

Camille takes advantage of Danton lifting himself to access his ass to shoot forward like a fish, for no reason but the joy of escaping.

Danton made a sad face. "No fucking?" he whimpered.

"Not until you define 'v-volatile' to my s-satisfaction," Camille says, putting on his sternest face.

"I have a better idea..." Danton smiled, taking off his wig and putting it carefully on the bedside table.

Camille looks confused and a little disappointed--had Danton really changed his mind about sex?

Danton grabbed Camille roughly. "You always complain that I don't take it off for sex!" he grinned, lifting Camille's legs and sliding into him after a moment of adjustment.

Camille gasps, squirming to get comfortable. One of his hands strays to the back of Danton's head, and he looks delighted. "W-wait! Don't move!" He shoves off of Danton's chest, pulling himself free with a groan.

Danton groaned. "What's wrong?"

Tittering to himself, Camille circles his lover, gazing at the close-cropped back of Danton's head with delight.

Danton turned to look at him, scowling. "What?"

Camille turns his lover's head back impatiently. "Hold still...they're simply glorious..." he strokes the back of the larger man's head, blowing softly on it.

Danton spins about, grabs Camille and forces him down, forcing himself back into the other. "You wretch!" he cried.

"Agh!" Camille moans, startled and wonderfully full. Then he laughs. "C-can't I love your head-wrinkles?" he gasps. "I will n-nibble them later," he pronounces.

"Not if I immobilize you with my cock!" Danton chuckles, pounding against Camille's ass hard, pinning his lover's wrists.

For a while, the pale boy is quiet except for sex-noises, but he always needs the last word. "You have to sleep sometime," he says in a rush.

Danton laughs, then moans as he finishes in his lover.

Camille's triumphant laugh is cut off by frantic bucking and yelling as he feels Danton come. He drives his bony hips against his lover until it's almost too much, and then he comes as well. It's the only time he's truly quiet during their lovemaking.

Lydon's Bedtime Story for Perry

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Perry. He lived in a beautiful castle on an island, so that he would always be safe from the dangers of the outside world. He had servants to cook for him, servants to clean for him, servants to play him music, servants to protect him, and servants for everything else he could ever desire. But most important of all, he had a Master named Lydon, to read his poetry, and hold him while he slept, and stroke him when he was sad, and make sure that nothing bad or scary ever happened to him.

The End.

Miguel's Diary

Dear Diary,
Oh! Thanks, sweetie, you look fabulous, too! But today I woke up and I felt like I had a cat on my head (which could totally happen around here) but it turned out that, because I stayed up like all night talking to Diego, I forgot to wash the product out of my hair! I could just die. If I get dandruff, I'm shaving it all off. Anyway. Diego was having some major angst (and, I mean, for anyone else I'd be all, get over it, but that boy has had some serious trauma, so I try and listen). He sobbed in my arms for hours, the poor thing. He totally looked like a drowned raccoon! But I didn't tell him that. I wish I knew what to say so he'd feel better, but I really don't. I offered to make him some cocoa, which just made him cry harder, whoops. So I made him so organic green tea, which he didn't drink, and let him talk. I tried to tell him about this great therapist one of my friends saw when he was having problems, but he looked at me like I'd used mascara on my lips, and said that he didn't think talking to someone in Spain would really help. I said he'd probably fly here, but Diego didn't really talk after that.

Well, night-night diary! (even though it's morning)

Emergency Room

(In which Jehan has a problem or two, and certain historical facts are mostly ignored)

Jehan is sitting in the waiting room of the medical school, looking rather pale and distraught.

Combeferre comes in, distracted from his walking-while-reading by the bright and clashing colours and patterns of Jehan’s clothing. “Jehan?” Ferre asked, pausing by his friend.

“’Ferre!” Jehan exclaims in delight. “I’m glad it’s you. I was worried,” he confides.

“What were you worried about?” he sat down with Jehan.

Jehan opens his coat, revealing a disgruntled looking cat.

Ferre blinks in surprise. “Is that…a cat?”

“Yes, and I’m very displeased with him,” he frowns briefly at the cat, who has the decency to look ashamed for a moment. “He broke my favorite vase this morning, and while I don’t condone such behavior…I’m worried he might have some glass in his paw.” He holds the struggling cat. “Couldn’t we go to a smaller room? I’m afraid he might get away.”

“Ah…” Ferre sighed, resignedly. “Yes, alright.” He takes Jehan to a small exam room and closes the door. “Please hold him still.”

“Thank you!” Jehan puts the cat on the table and gentles him, giving him words of encouragement.

“Ah-choo!” Ferre sneezes, sniffling. “Excuse-moi.” He lifted each paw in turn, handling it and checking for pain. “He seems to be…ah-choo! …fine.” Ferre readjusted his glasses.

“Oh, good.” He kisses the cat, makes sure the door is closed, and releases him, before pulling off his boot and stocking.

Ferre looked confused. “What’s wrong with your foot?”

“Do you have a cold?” Jehan asks, belatedly. “I stepped in the glass when I was cleaning it up.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” Ferre gets out his handkerchief and blows his nose. “I think I’m allergic.” He pushes Jehan onto the exam table, laying him down and running his fingers over the foot.

“That’s too bad. You should get that looked at.” He lays back on the table, suddenly sitting bolt upright with a terrible yelp.

“Stay still, Jehan.” Ferre pushed him back, concentrating now. He took a few pills from a container, giving them to Jehan.

Jehan crunches them, making a face. “Pleh. What’re those for? What’re you doing?” He tries to sit up.

“You’re supposed to swallow without chewing. It’s a pain killer.” Ferre gets his scalpel and tweezers ready.

“Oh.” Jehan watches with wide eyes.

Ferre holds Jehan’s foot still, touching the scalpel to it where he wants to start the cut.

Jehan squirms when he feels the sting, squealing a bit. The cat jumps up and frowns disapprovingly at Combeferre.

Ferre pulls the scalpel away and sneezes violently. After a few sneezes, “The pain killer should be working by now,” Ferre puzzled. He pressed his finger to Jehan’s swollen wound gently.

“Mmm! That hurts!” His expression closely matches the cat’s.

“I’ll…have to…ah-choo!...get my professor. I’ll be right back.” Ferre left in search of the man with the answers.

“Alright!” Jehan pets his cat, and watches the pretty colours of the room.

Professor Montcalme is in his office, planning his next lecture and wishing for more cadavers.

Combeferre knocks shyly, poking his head around the door.

“Ah! Monsieur Combeferre! Come in, come in!”

“Hello professor.” Ferre smiled. “I had a question. It won’t take long.”

“Of course. I’m nearly finished, anyway.” He sets his pen aside, seals his ink and pushes his papers away, showing that his student has his full attention. “How can I help?”

“I was approached by a friend who has a piece of glass in his foot. I gave him some opiates

and they didn't seem to have any effect. I gave him a little more, but he seems immune." Combeferre wrung his hands a little, distressed. "I couldn't think of any reason that they wouldn't work."

Professor Montcalme smiles at his student's distress, trying to hide it. He tries to think of a delicate way to phrase his question. "...how long have you known this friend?"

"Almost as long as I've been in Paris. I suppose about a year?" he's a little surprised at the question.

"Does he often seem distracted, unfocused?"

"Yes, I suppose he does. He wanders away sometimes while he's talking." Ferre admitted. He'd always considered this trait just another poet/musician characteristic. He didn't have many creative friends, but Jehan seemed the way poets should be.

"Does he ever seem withdrawn or depressed? Or sometimes unkempt? Have you noticed him losing weight at all, possibly?"

"He does get withdrawn and he's unkempt whenever I see him in the morning, sometimes in the evening as well. He's always been fairly thin, I haven't noticed any dramatic weight loss." Ferre looked worried. "Is it bad?"

The professor sighs. "Well...I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, but...it seems likely that your friend is an opium user, and a fairly regular one."

Combeferre's jaw dropped. "That's... impossible."

Montcalme shrugs. "It's the only possibility that makes sense, considering what you've told me. Would you mind if I examined him?"

"Of course not, he's waiting in one of the private rooms." Combeferre showed him the way.

Montcalme follows, hoping he hasn't taken some of Combeferre's extremely endearing innocence.

Jehan is sitting on the table with his cat in his lap, inspecting the inside of her ear. He looks up and smiles when they come in. "Hello."

"Hello. I am Professor Montcalme, one of your friend Combeferre's professors. I asked him if I could have a look at you. Would that be alright with you? That's a very fine cat you have."

Combeferre sits in a chair, happy to relinquish the situation to his professor while he gets over the shock of what he's just been told about Jehan.

"Thank you, she is very fine." Jehan agreed. "You can look at me, if you want." His eyes are a tiny bit flirtatious.

Montcalme notices the flirtation, and ignores it, sitting in front of the small blond. "Thank you. Might I have your name? Combeferre was quite concerned for you and didn't have a chance to tell me." He's careful not to undermine his student.

"I'm Jean Prouvaire, but you can call me Jehan." He strokes the cat idly, watching the professor.

"Thank you, Jehan. Firstly, Combeferre gave you some pills, didn't he? Did he tell you what they were for?"

"For pain." he nodded. "And yes, I took them."

"Can you think of any reason why an opium based painkiller wouldn't work for you?" he asks, calmly, glancing at Combeferre to see his reaction.

"Oh, I take a lot of opium." Jehan chuckled, "I need a lot of it for it to work."

Montcalme nods sagely. "That makes sense." He smiles at Jehan. "I'm afraid we don't have a lot of alternatives...we're not exactly prepared for someone who's already accustomed to it. We might simply have to remove the glass with you awake, I'm afraid."

Jehan frowns, but nods. "If you say so," he said meekly.

"Thank you. Excuse us for a moment, Jehan." Montcalme gestures for Combeferre to follow him into the hall.

"Alright."

Combeferre followed his professor out of the room.

"Are you alright?" he asks, kindly. "Can you see the symptoms we've discussed in class, now that I've brought it to your attention?"

"Yes, professor. I'm terribly sorry that I didn't see it before." He seemed unhappy. Failing to identify Jehan's problem as well as the revelation about his friend's drug use was a bit too much for the student.

"That's quite alright, Combeferre. When I had a medical practice, I tried to avoid treating friends or acquaintances--it's often harder to notice problems or changes in people you see regularly, and it's much more difficult to be critical. It's not something you should blame yourself for." He boldly puts a fatherly hand on his student's shoulder. "Now, I was wondering if you would be willing to talk to him and comfort him while I remove the glass; to distract him."

"Of course, I can try. Thank you for your help, sir." Combeferre leaned into the hand gratefully.

"Of course, any time. I am always eager to help a promising student--who shows the same eagerness." He leads them back into the room, where he removes the glass from Jehan's foot with minimal fuss. "There, you should be just fine. If it's alright, I'll let Combeferre take over from here."

Jehan leaned over and kissed the professor on the cheek. "Thank you."

Montcalme carefully removes the blond from himself, without a hint of embarrassment. "Of course. It was a pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Prouvaire." With that, he leaves.

Combeferre blushes, not sure what to think about this 'new' Jehan.

Jehan smiles at Combeferre, getting up and wincing a bit as he steps on his bandage. "Thank you. He was very nice, you're lucky to have him as a professor."

"Yes, he's a wonderful professor." he nodded, his smile a bit forced. "Are you feeling alright?"

"Yes, of course. Well, I suppose I should be on my way," he chirps, "it's almost time to feed the cats." He pulls on his stocking, a little painfully.

"Do you want me to walk you home?" Combeferre offered.

"Sure!" The blond pulls on his boot and grabs the cat, then asks, "Actually, would you mind carrying him?"

"I... of course." Ferre gingerly took the cat, sneezing into his sleeve after the animal ran its tail under his nose.

"Thank you." Jehan gingerly stands, hopping a little oddly for the first few steps, but quickly walking mostly normally. "I don't live far."

(Not really concluded...)

Come By My Flat

Grantaire was hunch over his table in a small cafe, furiously scribbling on a scrap of paper, a coldening mug of coffee beside him.

Enjolras slid onto the chair next to him, reading silently over the shorter man's shoulder. He breathed softly on R's neck.

Grantaire gasps, having been too consumed by his writing to notice the other man's entrance. He shivers at the breath, his neck and arms sprouting goosebumps. "Enjolras..."

"Winecask," he replies, tugging the paper from the other's hands and peering at it. "What is this?"

Grantaire blushes, his hands moving in the direction of the paper, helplessly. "It's...just a little song I've been writing. I've had it in my head all day."

"This isn't...about me, is it?" the blond arched an eyebrow, scowling at Grantaire. His eyes glittered as he tried to conceal a laugh.

Grantaire flushes even more, worried lines appearing between his eyes. He absently takes a swallow of coffee. As it swishes, Enjolras can smell the brandy in it. Grantaire doesn't answer.

Enjolras grabbed the cup, walking to the counter and leaving it there. "Come," he commanded, opening the door to the back room and waiting impatiently to be obeyed.

Grantaire gives a startled, overly loud laugh. "Would you like my clothes next? It's all I've got left." He stands, looking a bit surprised, as though his legs have moved by themselves.

"Then strip." Enjolras gave him a wicked smile.

"Ah...I...what?!" Grantaire clutches his coat closer to him, gaping at the other man, trying to decide if he's joking or not.

"You don't want to?" Enjolras asked quietly. "From the stares you've been giving me, the fawning and now poetry...well, if I was mistaken, please forgive me."

"Gah..." Grantaire says, incoherently and helpfully. Very slowly, watching the blond's face, he undoes the top button of his coat, looking like a baby rabbit being watched by a fox.

Enjolras stepped forward, only a breath away now. He brushed R's fingers away and unbuttoned his shirt himself, gently and slowly pulling it away from the other's shoulders.

Grantaire is shaking by this point, hunched into his shoulders, his eyes watching every movement of Enjolras' hands as if they might bite him.

Enjolras bent his head, leaning even closer until his lips brushed Grantaire's chest, kissing. His fingers found the top of R's pants and started to free him of them.

"Oh, god...Enjolras..." the shorter man breathed, his knees buckling. "I can't..." he falls, his face against Enjolras' chest.

"Undress me," he murmurs, kissing the top of the other man's ear.

Grantaire falls to his knees in front of the blond, hands trailing up and down the long, slender legs, his lips tracing over Enjolras' crotch.

"Ahh...!" Enjolras' knees nearly buckle. The door handle starts turning and he steps back, pulling R to his feet. Embarrassed, he left, but murmured to Grantaire, "Come by my flat after eight."

I'll Tell Everyone We Spent The Night Together

"Camille," Danton growled, lowering himself so their naked chests were pressed together, their bodies meeting all the way down to their groins. He could feel the much smaller man's heart fluttering like a caged bird. "I told you I don't take defeat well." He hissed this right against his lover's ear, blowing a few dark curls away so he can nibble the pale, exposed flesh. "I expect an apology."

"M. D-Danton," Camille gasps, half playful, half nervous. "I w-won that case f-fairly, and you kn-know it..." His eyes are mostly closed, and he's pressing himself against the hairy body above him as much as he can.

"Be that as it may," Danton growls again around a mouthful of Camille ear, "I expect...recompense..."

Camille has figured out the game by now--he has done this a time or two, with other men. "I d-don't know w-what you mean..." he says, black eyes fully open now, full of mischief.

"Oh, I think you do," Danton says, forcing his large hand under Camille's head, grabbing a fistful of curls.

Camille takes advantage of the movement to glance down the line of the larger man's body, and is...intimidated. "I didn't th-think you did this w-with men!" he gasps, eyes closing again at the sensation of his head being controlled.

"Oh, I don't," Danton says with a deep, rolling chuckle. "I-don't-do-this-with-men. Just with my Camille." With that, he props himself up on an elbow and rakes his nails down Camille's soft, pale chest.

"Y-your Cam--oh!" Camille half-shrieks, bucking in Danton's grasp, only to find himself safely held in the powerful, hairy arms.

"Good." Danton kisses him, roughly, on the mouth, his hand still full of Camille's hair, which he tugs whenever the smaller man goes too long without making noises. While he's thus distracted, Danton hastily oils his impressive cock, and grumbles into Camille's ear, "I know it's around here somewhere..."

"You, what? Oh! Maybe we should..." Camille protests.

Danton, of course, has some idea what he's doing, and quickly presses his head to Camille's soft, eager opening. "There...I think that's it..." he says, soothingly, gently stroking the curls and watching the pale face for signs of distress.

Camille is reduced to squirming and moaning.

"'s not so different after all," Danton groans, pleased with himself.

Camille, incorrigible to the last, opens his eyes for an instant to glare, and mutters, "I am not a woman..."

"No, you're not, cher," the larger man growls, adjusting their positions to his liking. With his hand still under Camille's head, he carefully reaches between their legs and grabs Camille's swollen little cock. "Mmm, nope, not a woman."

Before Camille can protest, both his slender wrists have been swept up in one of Danton's paws and forced above his head, and Danton is pressing more aggressively at his opening. Camille bites his lip and relaxes into his lover's control.

"Theeeere you are, cher," Danton says soothingly, groaning a little as he starts to slide inside. "It'll be over before you know it. Just smile and think of England," he says, in English.

Camille's eyes snap open to glare again, which Danton takes advantage of (and had been expecting) to shove his way deeper, until they groan in unison, one high, one low. The large, dark eyes quickly close again, and Danton begins thrusting with a gentle, but relentless, rhythm.

He can tell that something is different when Camille's breathing changes, and he starts making little gasping repetitive "ah" sounds. Concerned, Danton stops thrusting to ask, "Alright?"

"Don't-stop!" Camille shrieks. "Prostate! Good!"

Danton shrugs his massive shoulders and continues, watching the boy under him to make sure he's hitting this 'prostate'. "So...tight..." he groans. "I might...just see you...when I need...to get laid..."

Camille laughs breathily. "Not...tight...long..."

"True...oh...yeah..." At last feeling as glorious as Camille, Danton knows he's close. He pulls roughly out of his lover, eliciting a sharp, displeased sound from the pale boy. He quickly flips Camille onto his front, positions him again, and grabs his bony hips.

Camille buries his face in the bedding, stifling groans as he's quickly entered again, from a sharper angle.

"There, petit, it was just for a moment..." His climax takes them both by surprise, and he comes with a bellow, raking his short, ragged nails down the flawless, pale back presented for him.

Camille's scream is lost in the blankets, his hands scrabbling in Danton's grasp as he, too, comes, then collapses, making little inarticulate noises.

Danton laughs heartily, releasing the boy and rolling him into his embrace, letting the hair spill over his breast. "I think you need another kiss," he murmurs into Camille's forehead, making good his word.

The pale boy grins up at him, looking vulnerable and childlike, unable even to make a witty quip.

"There, petit," Danton says with another kiss, settling them down for sleep. "Now we're even."

***

Before long, they were living together. Well, not together, you understand. Camille still had his flat downstairs, and Danton his above, quite separate and proper, but they spent far more nights together than alone. Occasionally Danton would be driven upstairs by one of Camille's 'moods', and would leave him alone to write or pace or scream. Camille, of course, had no such tact, and would pursue Danton all the more tenaciously if he showed signs of wanting to be left alone, until Danton would relent, roughly gather the giggling boy into his arms, and throw him on the bed to shut him up. In short, they settled into a rhythm, a life, together.

"D-Danton," Camille asked one day, snuggled into the larger man, watching him read and thinking of ways to bring his attention back to where it belonged--himself, Camille.

"Mmm," Danton murmured, turning his page and doing his best to ignore Camille's obvious plan.

"D-do you think there w-will be revolution?" he asked, quite innocently.

Danton put his book beside him on the bed, thinking, with you about, Camille, yes. He realizes he's lost to his small lover. "A revolution, Camille?"

"Yes."

"Mm. I don't know. But I think that my small Camille would enjoy that." He bit the smaller man's lip, quite hard. "I think he's bloodthirsty."

Camille gibbers something, licking at his reddening lip.

"I thought so. You can't even defend yourself." Danton carefully put his book off the bed completely , very slowly and deliberately, to infuriate the dark-haired boy. "Mmm, all this political talk has made me sleepy," he says with a theatrical yawn, watching Camille's reaction out of the corner of his eye.

He's not disappointed. Camille's face goes red with anger, and he starts to sit up. "Fine! You can just go upstairs, then!"

"Ooh, I must've hit a nerve. Your stutter's gone."

This just makes Camille angrier, and he starts trying to push Danton out of the bed, shrieking at him.

Danton yawns again, not budging. "Mm, that's nice, Camille, I'm sore there."

Camille, tired at last, leans against the wall, arms crossed, the picture of a sulking child. "It's not fair to get me all excited and then fall asleep," he whines.

"No, I suppose not. At least you're quiet now. I was afraid my ears would start bleeding."

"...Danton..." Camille says, warningly.

"I feel suddenly invigorated. Where were we? Ah yes...you can't defend yourself." Allowing his desire for his little fuck to show in his eyes, he grabs Camille and throws him face down on the bed, pinning his wrists and forcing his knees wide.

Camille gasps at the sudden attack, struggling happily and completely unsuccessfully. "C-can't defend myself at all..." he coos, relaxing.

"Your stutter's back...good..." Danton growls into his ear, stroking Camille's back with one large hand, exerting pressure occasionally to make his lover groan.

Camille starts to get upset again, but is soon made helpless by Danton's ministrations.

"That's better," he says, releasing Camille's wrists and sitting on his legs, beginning to massage him.

"That's very n-nice, Danton," the Camille-puddle murmurs, "b-but it's not helping my c-cock..."

"Ah, your cock will be fine. It's these knots I'm worried about," and he continues to massage, spreading their oil (usually for other things) over the small, pale back.

Despite the soothing massage, Camille is soon squirming and making little furious, frustrated noises.

Danton is a good enough judge of his lover's tolerance by now to know when he'll explode. Just before that moment is reached, he kisses his way down Camille's spine, enjoying feeling the small body tremble under him, all the way down to his little puckered hole, which receives a brief, exploratory lick.

Camille's eyes snap open in surprised pleasure.

"It's bitter!" Danton says, also surprised. "It doesn't taste like...I thought it would."

"No reason it should," Camille says, sounding sulky but delighted, "you b-bathe me often enough."

"And aren't you glad I do, little Camille," Danton says, his curiosity satisfied for that particular act. He slides a hand between the slender thighs, cupping Camille's little manhood. It occurs to the larger man that he hasn't done much exploration of the little fellow. "Roll over," he commands.

Camille frowns a bit at the pillow, but obeys.

"Mm, not a breast in sight," Danton sighs, looking anguished by Camille's scrawny chest, one hand pressed dramatically to his great, scarred forehead. "I'll have to fatten you up, my chicken." Before Camille can get upset, Danton tweaks his nipples, licking each of them briefly, but wetly, then blowing on them.

Camille makes little indignant noises, but his eyes flutter shut.

Danton kisses his way down his lover's front. He briefly considers taking the little cock in his mouth, but decides this is undignified. Instead, he shoves a hand under Camille's little ass, running a finger along the crack, to elevate his front. For closer inspection. He grasps the cock that's straining up to meet him, watching it go from corpse-pale to seashell pink, giggling at the poetry of it.

"Wha...?" Camille asks, groggily.

"Nothing, petit. You just lie still now." He runs his hand over ever inch of Camille's bits, marveling at the soft flesh, the little spiky hairs, Camille's noises...finally, he's satisfied his curiosity.

Camille squirms harder, trying to thrust into the larger man’s hand or work one of the fingers holding his ass into somewhere more sensitive.

Danton keeps Camille back with his strong hand on Camille’s ass. “Why so restless, petit?”

“You’re still just teasing me! F-fuck me!” He scrabbles for Danton’s cock, trying to pull it into his ass. He grabs his own cock, almost without realizing he’s doing it, and starts frantically jerking off.

Danton swats away Camille’s hand, pinning both the smaller man’s wrists with one hand, his thumb teasing the small, eager pucker where he held Camille’s butt. “F-fuck you?” he teased.

Camille sits up violently, almost dislocating his shoulders as he’s abruptly brought to a halt by his wrists. Sitting up as much as he can, he yells, “At least I wasn’t stupid enough to try to feed a bull my face!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Danton cautioned. “You’re losing your temper!” His face was split with a grin. “Now I won’t even touch your cock, let alone fuck you.” He removed his finger from Camille’s ass, pinning Camille with his legs and starting to jerk himself off on Camille’s belly.

Camille is speechless with surprise, and can only stare in rage and horror at Danton.

Danton grins, his hand moving faster. His hold on Camille’s wrists lessened as he started to cum.

Camille feels the grip loosen, and instantly springs forward. Before either of them know what he’s doing, he’s stuck a finger in Danton’s urethra.

Danton’s hand shifted to Camille’s throat. “What are you doing?!” He backed up his hips to escape Camille’s finger. Cum bubbles out and drips onto Camille.

Camille’s eyes are huge with shock, and he scrabbles at the hand on his throat. “I…I h-have n-no idea!” he cries, then abruptly starts laughing, pulling his finger free. “There you are.”

“Roll over,” says Danton, stone faced.

Camille stops laughing, looking genuinely concerned. “Georges,” he calls him, a sign of his distress, “I’m s-sorry…”

“Not yet you’re not.” Danton smirks, flipping his lover, pouring some oil onto his cock and Camille’s hole and forcing his way in none too slowly.

Camille squirms, jerks and bucks, making little squeaking noises that are eventually muffled as he bites a pillow. “I l-love your s-s-scars. You kn-know that, G-Georges,” he murmurs, hardly audible, between his cries.

“And I love your anger.” Danton held Camille almost tenderly by his hip, the other hand grabbing the reddened cock between Camille’s legs.

“Ah-ah!” he cries, jerking into Danton’s hand, bucking as much as he can under his lover. “I’m close!”

“Viens,” Danton growled into his lover’s neck, his body pressing down against little Camille.

Camille comes screaming, and probably would have hurt himself if he hadn’t been immobilized by Danton. He soon goes limp, panting. “…crushing…”

Danton pulls out, kneeling, and cums over Camille’s butt and back. He then flops next to his boneless lover, panting.

"Agh...how..." Camille mutters quietly. "You...already..." he nestles against Danton, kissing his scar, doing his best to look apologetic.

"You getting all red made me hard again," he chuckled. He pulled his little lover onto his breast. "Je t'aime, my little tyrant."

Camille gasps and gapes at him for a moment, before crying, "Tyrant?!"

"Aren't you?" Danton smiled at him innocently. "Or you prefer terror?"

"You had better mean tyrant in the original Greek sense," Camille mutters, "and I'm ignoring that last part. You had b-better forget about it."

"Whatever you say, little tyrant." Danton kissed Camille to stop any more protests.

Camille makes muffled noises into Danton's lips before finally relenting and kissing back. But he makes sure to pinch his lover's nipples while he's distracted.

Danton growls into the kiss, tweaking Camille's cock and pulling the foreskin over his head.

"Mph!" Camille squeaks, trying to squirm away, only to be pulled short by his lip and cock.

Danton snickers, releasing Camille's lip. "You don't have any string, do you?" he asks, looking curiously down at Camille's cock.

Camille misses his glance, and answers innocently, "S-string? Not here, n-no. Why?" He's busy nursing his lip.

"To tie your cock in, of course!" he grins down at Camille.

"What?! Why would you want to do that?!" he says incredulously, trying to pull his cock free. "You'll b-break it!"

"I will not. It's a hardy little thing," Danton teased.

"Not like yours, it's n-not," he says, grinning despite himself.

"There's a smile." Danton chuckled, releasing Camille's foreskin. "My sweet terror."

"Is that what you were w-waiting for?" he says, grinning harder, before poking hard at Danton's perineum. "Terror, indeed."

"Mhm, tiny terror of a child." He kisses Camille's eyelid.

Camille happy-sulks his way into Danton's arms, cooing softly as he rearranges his lover to his liking.

"What am I, a pile of cushions for you?" Danton laughs.

"Mhm. What else would you be?" he giggles.

"Your dearest, sweetest, most forgiving lover." Danton fluttered his eyelashes, which was odd to see on a large, hairy man like him.

Camille laughs, snuggling closer with a happy yawn. "You're all those things, but that takes far too long to say. I'll call you Danton for short."

"Not 'Georges, please, I love you and your scars!'?"

"What?" he says, the image of hurt innocence.

"You only call me Georges when you think you've hurt my feelings."

"That's...absurd..." he says, averting his gaze. "I call you lots of things. All the t-time."

"Stuttering again?" Why do you call me Danton most of the time?"

"Because it's your n-name, old s-scarface," he says, matter of factly.

Danton frowns, rolling over and pulling Camille under him to crush him. "What was that?"

about Miguel

What can I say about Miguel? If someone had told me that Camaxtli would meet such a person, I would have laughed and told them that I would pray for the man’s soul, as Camaxtli would kill him within an hour, or would at least have fled, being unable to abide his company.

As has been shown, I could not have been more wrong. While puzzled and frequently embarrassed by Miguel, Camaxtli still shows every sign of genuine affection for him. I am constantly astounded by Camaxtli’s patience for him, allowing Miguel to say things that he would never tolerate from anyone else, and even laughing at them. Sometimes I forget how young they both are.

As for myself, my feelings are much the same. He baffles and amuses me with his antics, shocks and horrifies me with his ignorance, his frivolity, his utter lack of common sense—in short, I love him.

While I’m sure none of us will ever fully understand why we all love one another, let no man call the fact of our love into question.

Citizen

Grantaire is curled up on a bench in the shade of a public garden, watching a nearby bird peck stray bread crumbs, scribbling in a notebook.

"Citizen," a soft voice interrupted his scribblings. The bird flew away. "Why are you curled up here?" a tall blond sat with him, looking down at him.

R looks up with a start at the word "citizen", watching the bird fly and shutting his sketchbook with a laughing sigh. "Well, I was drawing that bird..." he looks up, gasping as always when he sees the man he deems Apollo. "Monsieur Enjolras! What a surprise!"

"A good one, I hope," the young student smiles. "I'm sorry to have scared away your subject, though." He raises a pale hand to touch R's sketchbook. "May I see?"

"A good...? Oh! Surprise. Yes." He blusters. R watches the hand's flight as eagerly as the bird's. "Ah...yes...it's not finished yet..." he tentatively hands the sketch book over.

"It's lovely." Enjolras looked at the sketched bird for a few moments. "And I've interrupted." He looked almost shamefaced, biting his lower lip.

Grantaire laughs softly. "Thank you." Enjolras' discomfort has made him bolder. He takes the book back, tucking it into a pocket. "I don't mind. Your company is more rewarding, I'm sure. That is, if you have time to sit for a while?" He inhales deeply, enjoying the garden smells.

"I do. I'm finished classes for today and I thought some fresh air would do me good." Enjolras relaxed against the bench. "How are you?"

R starts at the question. "I'm...well, I'm sitting here, enjoying the sun and the breeze, and all the little noises of a garden. Not a care in the world." He's rather stiff in the godling's company. "And...how art thou?" he says, rather formally.

"I'm well," he chuckled. "Don't be so serious, Grantaire. We do know each other, don't we? We should be friends." The blond touched R's hand.

Grantaire's smile is a little forced. He jumps from the touch as though he's been shocked, then shakes himself, mutters something rapid in Greek, and deliberately lays his large, dark hand on Enjolras' small, pale one. "I should like that very much," he says, quietly and somberly.

"Ah, I have an idea," Enjolras clasped Grantaire's hands with his thin pianist's fingers. "You could draw me!"

"Ah...I don't really draw animals...animate objects! People! You're not an animal...I don't really draw people...Feuilly...you know Feuilly...well, he's much better at drawing people. But he's very busy. We won't bother him," he finishes, looking helpless.

"It was only an idea. Fair trade for scaring away your bird." Enjolras smiled at Grantaire's flustered look.

Grantaire laughs softly, pulling his sketchbook and a disreputable-looking pencil out of the pocket. "Ah, well...you're a law student, aren't you?" He's already sketching, carefully not letting Enjolras see.

Enjolras holds perfectly still, only his hair stirring loose in the breeze. "Yes. This is my first year of school here in Paris." He looked at R, but still did not move, knowing that he was being sketched and fearful of ruining the drawing. "You study architecture, yes?"

In response, Grantaire turns the book so Enjolras can see. There is a rather sketchy, but still perfectly recognizable and detailed drawing of the law school.

Enjolras' face flushed red as he took the sketchbook. "It's very good." He smiled, embarrassed to have assumed. "How long have you been in school?"

"Thank you." Realizing that Enjolras thought he was drawing him, he adds a tiny figure in one window, holding a flag. "And there you are." He glances into Enjolras' eyes for just a moment. "Ah, about two years now."

Enjolras flushed again, but smiled. "And you like it?" He brushed his fingers along R's forearm.

R shivers, eyes closing, teeth clenched with delight. "Oh, yes..." he gasps, then blushes. "I mean, yes, I do."

The blond smiled innocently. "Do you want to get a coffee with me?"

"Um, yes. Sure." Grantaire tries to sound nonchalant, putting his sketching materials back in his pocket. Then he pulls the book out again, flipping through for a moment before showing Enjolras a page. It has a map of the arrondissement they're in, with small coloured stars. "Where?"

"What is this?" he chuckled. "A map of cafes?" He looked through them, then pointed with a single pale finger. "This one."

R nods, pleased. "Colour-coded. Ah, good choice. They're careful to meet the ships at the port so they get the first loads of coffee. Shall we?" He closes the book and puts it away. "They're usually quite empty, too. I'm not sure why."

Enjolras laughed. "Do you know so much about every cafe?"

"Well, not every cafe..." he says modestly. "Only almost every. It helps to write them down." He stands, offering his companion a hand.

Enjolras takes his hand, then kept their fingers entwined as they began to walk.

R takes considerably more pleasure in the touch than two men walking hand in hand ought to.

Enjolras only releases his companion's hand once they reach the cafe. He ordered for both of them, paid, and retreated to the back room with Grantaire.