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Bahorel knew, when he got to boxing class just as the storm started, that he would end up drenched that day. He certainly could have brought an umbrella with him when he’d noticed the weather turning greyer by the minute, but Bahorel really isn’t that sensible of a person, and he even makes a particular point not to be. Besides, he doesn’t even own one — “we die like men”, he told Grantaire one time while they ran under the rain, rushing to reach the nearest Metro station.
Unsurprisingly, when he finishes his boxing session, all hell has broken loose outside. From the dark clouds, one might think it’s evening. The raindrops are large and heavy; Bahorel will be soaked in a matter of seconds. It’s pouring so much that he would have considered asking Grantaire to split the cost of a taxi, had Grantaire not ran off early —“museum date with Enjolras. See you tomorrow, dude.” Young love , he thinks.
Bahorel is thus ready for an unwelcome second shower when he opens the door, scowling as he goes. He braces himself at the doorway and looks up before stopping in his tracks. There is Jehan, on the sidewalk, a vision in garish colours, odd and contradicting patterns, holding a large, bright yellow umbrella over their head, and they are so damn lovely , Bahorel could kiss them. And so he does; he bends almost in half to dive under their umbrella and crash his lips into theirs; he licks aggressively into their mouth, and the small surprised yet contented little noise they make spurs him on further. When Bahorel draws back, Jehan looks thoroughly ravished and a little startled.
“Hello to you, too!” They give a breathless chuckle. “I should come and get you from your class more often!”
“You really should, especially if you bear umbrellas with you.”
“Ah, I see. You only want me for my rain shielding abilities,” Jehan hums, though their smile betrays their fondness.
“That, and your kisses.”
“I’ll take it; I love a man who has his priorities right.”
Bahorel laughs and reaches for Jehan’s hand, engulfing it with his own much larger hand. “Not that I’m not grateful for your timely saving, but any particular reason you’re here?”
“Nah, just timely saving,” they say. “That, and I just got this new umbrella. It’s so lovely that I wanted to use it as soon as possible. But mostly I know you’re too stubborn to get one yourself, and you always wear your old hoodie when you go boxing. It’s so full of holes, you might as well use it as a sieve.”
Bahorel, who is still crouched down to fit under their yellow shelter, head hovering just a hair away from Jehan’s face, kisses them once more. “You know me well.”
“I like to think I do.” They grin. “Shall we? I’m freezing and I was in the middle of a book, so I want to finish it.”
“Riveting poems?” Bahorel snorts, pulling on Jehan’s hand to set them both into motion.
“Very!” Jehan says, completely oblivious to Bahorel’s teasing. “Did you know Lizzie Doten claimed that Edgar Allan Poe’s spirit visited her and told her some of the poems that feature in Poems from the Inner Life ?” Bahorel did not; he shakes his head as well as he can. He is still under Jehan’s umbrella as they hold it above both their heads. It’s large, but their height difference is significant, and one of the metal ribs almost pokes Bahorel in the nose.
By his side, Jehan prattles on about Modern Spiritualism and “the ocean of Truth” and loss of individuality, and Bahorel would listen, he really would —he is getting quite well-versed in poetry himself, though he still fails to see its appeal as a genre— but he is starting to get a crick in his neck from hunching down. It’s getting increasingly hard to focus on Jehan’s lovely, low, yet passionate voice.
“ From the unseen throne of the Great Unknown, From the Soul of All, I came. ” Jehan starts declaiming solemnly. Poetry animates them like nothing else, and they drop Bahorel’s hand, gesturing with both arms, a quiet punctuation and show of passion. “ Not with the rock of the earthquake’s shock, And not with the wasting flame. ” Jehan’s umbrella does hit Bahorel in the brow this time, narrowly missing his eye.
Bahorel stops suddenly. Jehan takes a second more to come to a halt, the yellow canopy catches the back of Bahorel’s head and tangles in his hair.
“Jehan, babe, my dove, my love,” he starts. He may not be a poet, but he sure likes dramatics.
“Nice rhyme,” Jehan interjects with a proud smile. “Everything okay?”
“Can I please hold the umbrella? I don’t think I’ll make it home alive, otherwise.”
It’s a simple enough request, one Bahorel assumed would be accepted without a thought. He knows he would have, were the situation reversed; he really hates carrying an umbrella. Bahorel, however, should also know better than to assume anything, where Jehan is concerned. His lover is nothing if not unpredictable.
Jehan pouts, looking up at Bahorel with sad eyes. “I just… It’s so pretty, all yellow with all the blue swirls, and I wanted to carry it since it’s the first time I’ve used it…”
“Can’t you carry it next time? I’m gonna lose an eye, babe.”
“I guess…” Jehan says, with a small, heartbreaking voice.
Bahorel huffs, silently cursing himself for being so impossibly smitten. “Alright.” He turns his back to Jehan and squats down. “Climb on,” Bahorel says.
“What?” Jehan asks, confused.
“Climb on. It’s raining too much, I don’t want to walk in the rain. So climb on, you’ll carry the damned thing for the both of us and I’ll get us home with both my eyeballs still intact.”
Jehan jumps on expertly —this certainly isn’t their first rodeo; piggyback rides occur invariably each time the two of them get drunk— and wraps one arm around Bahorel’s neck with the other one propped on his shoulder and holding the umbrella over their heads. Bahorel grabs their thighs, but not before giving Jehan’s butt a pinch; they squirm and laugh, but they don’t try to bat his hand away.
“Hyah!” Jehan exclaims, gifting Bahorel a peck to his temple in lieu of a kick to the side.
Bahorel laughs and sets to walk at a good pace. Carrying Jehan also allows him to walk faster. His legs are indeed much longer, his strides much wider, but Jehan simply refuses to be rushed because of their height. As the weather is getting increasingly worse around them, Bahorel welcomes the opportunity to hurry. Jehan picks up where they’d left off, resuming their declaiming of Doten’s poem —their memory never fails to astonish Bahorel, who struggles to remember what he’s eaten for breakfast, unless breakfast was Jehan themself.
Halfway home, Bahorel’s breathing gets quicker, sweat beading on his forehead, under his hoodie on his back and chest. He already showered after boxing, but, from the look of it, he’ll have to take another shower when he gets home. Jehan’s form is petite; they don’t weigh much more than what Bahorel is known to bench press at the gym, but Bahorel doesn’t make a habit of giving piggyback rides to his lifting weights through half of Paris, and inebriety rarely allows him to realise the strain Jehan’s weight might create. He looks up as best as he can and, sure enough, Jehan’s head is propped on his left shoulder, halfway through a third poem they are reciting right into Bahorel’s ear, proudly clutching their ugly umbrella. Bahorel readjusts them without a word, refraining a wince when sweat sticks his hoodie against his back. It’s hardly pleasant, but he doesn’t mind too much, not when Jehan goes off on a tangent about Doten's many references to religion, holding onto Bahorel with complete trust, the umbrella a colourful roof to their peculiar tower. He’d known he’d end up drenched that day, after all, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.