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Musain Bar and Café is a respectful establishment nine days out of ten, with the tenth day usually being a match day. On that tenth day, the place is packed and busy, full of men cheering on their favourite team. On this particular day, it’s a match between Poland and Italy.
“Hey, look, I’ll be there late because my boss is a fuckwad who can’t operate the new till on his own,” Feuilly’s voice rings out when Bahorel checks his voicemail. “Save me a seat by the bar.”
Shrugging, Bahorel walks into the Musain. It’s only half-full, with an hour left before the match officially starts, and he’s greeted by several familiar faces.
“The usual?” Musichetta asks, nodding at Bahorel when he reaches the bar, hands busy with a Guinness double pour. “Where’s Feuilly?”
“He’s late,” Bahorel says, accepting the perspiring glass of beer. Its cold surface is welcome in the oppressive heat of the place. “Thanks, Chetta.”
The bar is full, so he wanders about in search of a place for him and Feuilly. A few patrons stop him to chat about the likelihood of Poland’s win, and the odds of them scoring against the Italian team. By the time he’s found a table, there’s twenty minutes to the start of the match and no sight of Feuilly.
He’s on the way to get another beer when he spots a familiar and very out of place face.
“Combeferre?”
The bespectacled man in question raises his head at hearing his name. He’s sitting at a table on his own at the very back of the room, several books spread open in front of him, along with a couple of glass cases with dead moths inside and a huge, Musain-issue mug of what seems to be coffee.
“What are you doing here, man?” Bahorel asks. He pulls out the chair opposing Combeferre’s and straddles it backwards. “Not really your scene.”
Combeferre adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Well, no, but the library is closed this weekend and I’ve been sexiled. Enjolras and Grantaire defy even the best of ear plugs.”
Bahorel guffaws. “Nice to know my boy’s getting some,” he leers, sending Combeferre a lecherous wink. “You’d have better luck studying in your apartment, though. It’s game night. Poland versus Italy, this place is going to be rowdy as fuck.”
Whatever reply Combeferre has is cut off by the arrival of someone obviously drunk. The man, eyes bright and cheeks flushed with intoxication, pounds his fist on the table, making the glass cases jump and coffee slosh over the sides of Combeferre’s mug. “The fuck is this?” he asks, picking up one of the cases. He shakes it a little. “Why the fuck you bringin’ mosquitoes into a bar, man?”
Combeferre’s tone is dry, expression mild. “That’s not Culicidae, it’s Opodiphthera eucalypti, commonly known as Emperor Gum Moth.”
The man stares at Combeferre for a moment as Bahorel bites back a smile; Combeferre’s ever-calm demeanor never ceases to amuse.
“Now, I can understand why you would be confused,” continues Combeferre, tone generally pleasant as though he deals with this kind of idiocy on a daily basis. Which is probable – the man does live with Courfeyrac, Bahorel reasons. “Both moths and mosquitoes are flying insects, which as far as the common man is concerned, in this case: you, they’re both the same.”
The man flushes an angry red in response, rotund body seeming to jiggle with rage. His hand balls into a fist, but loosens at a warning look from Bahorel. “Are you calling me stupid?”
Bahorel snorts. “Combeferre is too nice to call you that outright, shitface. Now put the case down and fuck off.”
“Now, Bahorel, don’t be mean to the drunk man. He’s just confused, is all.” Combeferre adjusts his glasses once more, his eyebrow raising. “Do put Opodiphthera eucalypti down, it’s worth more than your entire yearly salary.”
“Fuck you,” the man slurs, “what are you, a pair of homos?”
Which, really? That’s one of the least imaginative insults anyone’s hurled at him. Bahorel’s almost offended.
Standing up, he makes sure to flex his arms, knowing how his biceps look in the half-sleeve shirt he’s wearing. He smiles menacingly at the man, all teeth. “That’s the best you can come up with?”
“You – he - ” the man splutters, eyeing Bahorel warily. “What’s your problem, man? Friendly banter, s’all.”
Combeferre smirks at that. “I’m sure that somewhere in that inebriated brain of yours you think that it’s okay to use sexual preference as an insult then try to pass it off as a joke, but my advice for you is that you go home, hydrate and take an asprin. When you wake up, re-evaluate your life choices which led you to spending Sunday night shitfaced in a bar.”
Stunned, the man blinks once, twice, before spluttering some more. After a moment or two with nothing said, he turns around and walks out of the bar, a contemplative expression painted on his face.
“Fuck me sideways,” Bahorel breathes, ignoring Combeferre’s nose wrinkling in distaste even as a wry smile curls his lips. “I think he actually listened to you, ‘Ferre.”
Combeferre sniffs delicately. “It just goes to show that violence isn’t necessarily the answer.”
Bahorel can’t help but guffaw at that. He has the fucking weirdest friends, that’s for sure. “But my way’s more fun,” he grins cheekily, before patting Combeferre on the shoulder. “Have fun with your Lepidoptera.”
If Combeferre is surprised that Bahorel knows the scientific classification of moths, he hides it well.