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The patrons of the café Musain had become used to Courfeyrac’s tales of his houseguest’s many eccentricities. “You will never believe what Monsieur Pontmercy did today,” Courfeyrac would announce, draping himself dramatically on top of a chair and waiting for anyone within ear distance to turn to him.
More often than not, they did — Courfeyrac was many things, including an excellent storyteller, and his stories of Marius in particular inspired gales of laughter that would subside only at Enjolras’s most stern gaze (and more often than not, would resume when said houseguest appeared in the café, and cause said houseguest to blush furiously until the laughter again ceased).
“Did you tell everyone?” Marius would oft ask, in an exasperated but fond way.
Courfeyrac would just smile and pat Marius’s hand. “Marius, my dear man,” he would proclaim, “you are the muse that inspires my most humorous tales, and it would criminal to withhold said tales from so attentive an audience.”
And as if to prove his point, more often than not, Courfeyrac would wink, slip an arm around whatever handsome young man or giggling young lady was waiting to accompany him to his quarters, and saunter away, presumably to share more stories (at least, until the point when stories were no longer required).
Marius did not mind, truly, because he had learned long ago that without laughing at himself, there would be little enough to laugh at in his life, and besides, Courfeyrac did not mean ill (and Marius owed him so much, after all, that he would not take this little piece of happiness from him).
But one evening, Courfeyrac did not arrive at his usual time with his usual grin. Instead, Courfeyrac and Marius rushed in after the meeting had already begun, both flushed, both with ruffled hair, and both avoiding each other’s gaze. Courfeyrac kept his eyes down and made his way to his usual seat on Enjolras’s left, while Marius hovered awkward in the doorway for a moment before taking the empty seat at the table where Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire sat.
Combeferre leaned back in his chair to hiss at Courfeyrac behind Enjolras’s back, “Where in the world have you been?”
Courfeyrac waved a dismissive hand. “Nowhere,” he muttered, looking desperately at the table in front of him. “Is there no wine?”
Marius, in the meantime, was repeatedly turning down Grantaire’s increasingly-insistent offer of wine, looking pale and a little miserable. “Do you remember before, when I told you it looked as though you has seen a ghost?” Grantaire asked.
“I suppose I look much the same?” Marius asked without smiling.
Grantaire considered it for a moment. “No,” he decided. “You look as if someone has kicked your puppy, which is an odd metaphor, considering normally you look a bit like a puppy.” He leaned forward. “Did someone kick you, Marius? And need you we kick him back?”
Now Marius did crack a smile. “No kicking occurred, and—” He glanced up, caught Courfeyrac’s eye and instantly looked back at the table, his smile disappearing. “And nothing happened.”
As soon as the meeting was over, Marius fled, as quickly as he had the last time Enjolras had devoted the better part of an evening to yelling at him, and Combeferre turned to Courfeyrac. “I believe you may have broken the boy,” he said evenly.
“I did no such thing,” Courfeyrac protested. When Combeferre merely looked at him, Courfeyrac sighed and relented, “Fine, I may have contributed to his already fragile psyche, but I promise that was not my intent.”
“Then if I may ask, what was your intent?” Courfeyrac did not reply and Combeferre propped his chin on his hand. “Come, my good man, whatever you may have done, I am sure it is not as bad as all that. Tell me, and perhaps I can help put your mind at ease.”
Courfeyrac hesitated. “You’ll mock me,” he hedged.
Combeferre rolled his eyes. “Undoubtedly. I mock you constantly. And yet you’ve never once let that stop your natural storytelling instinct.”
“Fine,” Courfeyrac sighed. “It all began this afternoon…”
Courfeyrac burst through the door of their chamber at the hotel de la Porte-Saint-Jacques, practically beaming. “Marius, my dear man,” he practically trilled, “I’ve had the most wonderful—” He broke off, staring at his roommate, who was staring back at him, horrified. “Marius, may I inquire as to what you are doing?”
Though Courfeyrac phrased the question politely, Marius still flushed an almost apoplectic shade of purple. “Um,” he said, particularly ineloquent, even for him, and he slowly set the pillow he had previously been assaulting with his mouth back on the bed. “Um, I was, um — that is — um, see, well, um—”
“Please, take a moment to properly articulate your thoughts before responding,” Courfeyrac said pleasantly, taking a seat on his own bed. “I am certain whatever explanation you offer will be not only satisfactory but endlessly amusing.”
Marius swallowed, hard. “I am not as experienced as you,” he blurted.
Courfeyrac blinked. “In almost all aspects, yes,” he said, a little surprised. “But I am afraid you will have to be more specific.”
If possible, Marius’s blush deepened. “I am not as experienced with...with women.”
“Certainly not,” Courfeyrac agreed, waiting for Marius to continue.
“Or with the men,” Marius answered quickly. “With anyone, really. With any person or not person — not that I am insinuating that you have done anything with a not-person, which is to say, I’m not even sure what a not-person would be in this instance, but—”
“Marius,” Courfeyrac interrupted patiently, “you’re rambling.”
Marius broke off. “You’re right,” he muttered. “I am.”
“So,” Courfeyrac said, brushing invisible lint from his trousers, “you are less experienced than I in the area romance. Which is to say, I assume that’s what you’re inferring from your long-winded ramble. And I certainly have no intention of refuting said fact. Indeed, I am far more experienced than you, or else you must call most of my stories lies.”
“Which I would never once do,” Marius said loyally.
Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at him. “Nonetheless,” he said, choosing to ignore that comment, “I have yet to see what my experience and your relative lack thereof has to do with the physical assault you were just committing on the finest goosedown money can buy.”
Marius swallowed, hard. “Well, firstly,” he said, trying to keep his voice even, “I highly doubt that this pillow is the finest money can buy. And secondly…” He trailed off. “Secondly, I was trying to make up for my lack of experience with...practice.”
“Practice,” Courfeyrac repeated blankly, his face suddenly lighting up when he realized to what Marius referred. “You mean...you were...practicing.”
Marius nodded once, his eyes again wide with something like horror. “And I know it was foolish,” he said quickly, “and that you would most likely advise a different method, such as finding some grisette and practicing on her, but you know that I am foolishly loyal to the woman of my dreams and I cannot help but feel that practicing on another woman is unfair.”
Courfeyrac held up both hands to stop Marius from once again tumbling into a lengthy ramble. “Marius,” he said carefully, “are you trying to tell me you do not know how to kiss?”
“Yes,” Marius said, looking almost surprised by his answer, “I am.”
“And you endeavored to fix this by practicing your kissing on a pillow?”
Marius shrugged. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Now Marius looked confused. “I thought it seemed only right that when, eventually, I meet the woman I love, that I am able to bestow upon her a kiss worth all these months of waiting.”
Courfeyrac waved a dismissve hand. “No, not that,” he said. “I mean, why did you imagine kissing a pillow would be your best method of practice?”
“I already told you,” Marius said, his voice strained, “I could not imagine choosing another woman—”
“And who said anything about another woman?” Courfeyrac asked lightly.
Marius stared at him. “Do you mean...another man?” he asked blankly. “But...who?” Courfeyrac merely looked at him and Marius’s blush returned and his voice went up half an octave as he squeaked, “You?”
Courfeyrac snorted. “I’ll pretend not to be insulted at the tone of your voice,” he said. “And would it be such a bad thing? I am, after all, as you yourself have made note, quite experienced in this manner. Besides which, such encounters are not uncommon among young men to...practice their skills, as you put it, though admittedly, such encounters normally begin at a much younger age than us. But then, you are a bit stunted.”
“Now I believe it’s my turn not to be insulted,” Marius said, trying to pout but failing. “So you would...you would be willing to help me...practice?”
“Marius, Marius, Marius,” Courfeyrac sighed, shaking his head. “When have you known me to refuse a friend in his darkest hour? Of course I will help you practice, and bestow upon you the benefits of my vast experience.”
Marius looked as though he wasn’t sure if he was meant to be grateful or insulted. “Thank you,” he said, a little stiffly, and took a deep breath before asking, “Then where do we begin?”
Courfeyrac patted the bed next to him. “To begin, we must normally be seated much closer.” Marius hesitated before standing and sitting on Courfeyrac’s bed, a few feet from him. “Closer, my dear man, unless you wish to injure your body as well as your pride.” Marius colored but scooted closer to him, and when he drew nearer, Courfeyrac reached out and wrapped an arm around Marius’s waist, pulling him even closer until their thighs just touched. “There.”
Though the two had sat closely together many times previously, there was a current of tension that seemed to run between them that made this time so much different than any previous. “What now?” Marius asked, swallowing hard and unable to meet Courfeyrac’s eye.
Courfeyrac reached out to tilt Marius’s chin up with two fingers so that he finally looked at him. “Eye contact is vital for this to be the most optimal experience,” he said lightly. “Though I recommend closing your eyes when finally your lips touch. It allows you to feel it more deeply, to lose yourself in the sensation of lips touching.”
“Right,” Marius said, licking his lips and blushing slightly when Courfeyrac tracked the movement with his eyes. “So then—”
As if to answer Marius’s unspoken question, Courfeyrac reached out and cupped Marius’s cheek, running his thumb across his cheekbone. “Do not rush it,” he advised. “Let the anticipation coil in your stomach — it will make it all the more worth it.”
Marius swallowed again. “And then?”
“And then,” Courfeyrac said softly, “then, you tilt your head ever so slightly, like this—” Marius mirrored Courfeyrac’s motion and Courfeyrac laughed lightly. “No, no, you must tilt the other way.” Marius quickly did, and Courfeyrac brushed his cheek again. “And then, finally, you lean in, and—”
Their lips met lightly, Marius’s pursed a little too tightly, and Courfeyrac pulled back after a brief moment. “Relax,” he ordered. “This is meant to be fun.”
“Right,” Marius said, licking his lips again, and he took another deep breath before letting it out slowly. “Fun.” He smiled at Courfeyrac. “You and I always have fun.”
“Precisely,” Courfeyrac said, smiling as well, and again he closed the space between them. This time, Marius’s lips were pursed the perfect amount, and when Courfeyrac maintained the kiss, Marius sighed, opening his mouth against Courfeyrac’s.
Courfeyrac’s eyes widened in surprise, but he did not break the kiss, instead sliding his hand down Marius’s cheek to rest it possessively against the side of Marius’s neck, reaching up with his other hand to tangle his fingers in Marius’s hair.
Now Marius was kissing him in earnest, resting his hands against Courfeyrac’s chest, and for the first time during the kiss, Marius opened his eyes...
Combeferre blinked as Courfeyrac’s story came to a rapid and unsatisfactory ending. “And then what?” he demanded, sitting back in his chair. “You were kissing, and then…”
“And then nothing,” Courfeyrac said, though he suddenly seemed no longer able to meet Combeferre’s eyes. “Then I realized what hour it was and that we were to be late, so I insisted we end our practice session and adjourn to the Musain.”
“And yet that does not explain either Marius’s manner or yours during the course of the meeting,” Combeferre pointed out. “Come, there must be more to this tale.” He leaned forward. “Did you — or did he — perhaps enjoy the kissing a little too much, if you understand my meaning?”
Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “You have the subtlety of a crowing rooster,” he snapped. “Of course I understand your meaning, and no, that is not what happened. Neither of us got any more rise from the occasion than was to be expected.”
“Any more rise…” Combeferre repeated, confused, before brightening. “Oh, I see. That is clever.”
“Which is why we generally leave the innuendo to me,” Courfeyrac said.
Combeferre scowled. “So if not that, then what?” Courfeyrac merely shook his head and Combeferre’s expression softened. “Did you realize that you have amorous feelings for your houseguest? I admit I would not be surprised if you confessed as such. You two have always been close, and I confess I assumed it was only a matter of time…”
Courfeyrac waved his hand dismissively. “Of course not,” he scoffed. “I knew long ago that I had feelings for the young whelp. You know I cannot resist a puppy in distress, and oh, he perpetually lives in distress, bless him.”
Courfeyrac’s tone was fond, and a little wistful, and Combeferre frowned. “So then you do have feelings for him.”
“Yes, but they were not the cause of whatever you believe to have witnessed earlier,” Courfeyrac said. “I have come to terms with my feelings long ago — though, perhaps if you were to ask Marius, he would be having more difficulty. I admit I do not know the depth of his own feelings and it is possible, though I would guess unlikely, that he is looking at me in a new light.”
“Unlikely?” Combeferre asked.
“My dear Combeferre, if he has not fallen in love with me at least a little before this day, you know as well as I that I have not been doing my job right,” Courfeyrac said patiently.
For a moment, it seemed as though Combeferre would rise to the bait of that statement, but he instead shook his head and chose to ignore the comment. “Then if it was not the realization of your feelings, what was it? And do not bother insisting that it was nothing, because I know better.”
“Fine,” Courfeyrac snapped, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “It was...something.”
“Yes!” Combeferre crowed, sounding a little too triumphant, and he quickly rearranged his face into a more sympathetic expression. “Then what was it, mon ami? Tell me so that I may help.”
Courfeyrac took a deep breath before sighing heavily. “It’s just—” he hedged, before blurting, “I fear that he may be a better kisser than I.”
Combeferre stared at him blankly, silence stretching between them, before abruptly dissolving into gales of laughter. Courfeyrac looked offended. “I do not see why this is a source of such mirth for you,” he sniffed.
“No,” Combeferre said, composing himself just for a moment before breaking into laughter again. “No, I imagine you do not.”