Archive of Our Own

“Don’t be alarmed, but there is a gentleman at the table three behind you who has been watching us for the past thirty minutes.”

Courfeyrac hadn’t been sure when he’d first noticed the young man with the striking figure and carefully-styled hair sidle up to one of the desks in the Diamond Law Library, but he is certain that he doesn’t recognize them from campus, and no single page of anything is interesting enough to spend twenty minutes staring at.

Ever a man of action, Marius swivels at the waist to look behind himself before turning back to the several open books in front of him, whispering, “Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“He’s on his phone now, and I knew you would look.”

Marius gives a bashful shrug but seems otherwise undiscouraged. “Do you know him?”

“Not well,” frowns Courfeyrac. “We went to high school together. I don’t imagine he recognizes me since I looked rather different back then, but his name is Théodule.”

“Théodule,” repeats Marius. “I have a cousin named Théodule.”

“Is that him?”

“I’ve no idea, I’ve never seen him. My aunt talks about him a lot though. I think he joined the Coast Guard when I was still in high school.”

While Marius resumes his reading, Courfeyrac pulls out his phone. Marius’s grandfather and spinster aunt are dinosaurs who may have, in this Lord’s year of 2022, been introduced to facebook on desktop, but he’d be amazed if soccer team benchwarmer Théodule Gillenormand didn’t at least have an insta.

Two quick searches reveals that Marius’s Theodule is indeed their spy: besides a family photo containing both Théodule and The Marius Pontmercy in novelty holiday sweaters dated two years ago, there’s also a post from earlier today of him standing at rest in full military regalia beside an Auntie G smiling wider than he’d ever thought capable captioned, “Nothing like visiting my favorite aunt!” followed by three appropriately affectionate emojis.

“Your aunt sent him to spy on us,” Courfeyrac concludes, tucking his phone back away and returning to the case file he’s meant to be reading. It’s a shame: Théodule had never seemed like much of a bootlicker, but Courfeyrac supposes that the military changes people.

It’s also a shame, because this case file is quite boring, and he’d been hoping for an explanation with a bit more intrigue.

“Why? To what end?”

“Uncovering scandal, I’m sure,” sighs Courfeyrac. City housing codes did not deserve their own week.

“I’m probably the least scandalous person in this library.”

Given that Courfeyrac witnessed the head librarian doing body shots off of the head of the swim team at the Arts and Crafts Beer Parlor last Tuesday, this may very well be true. “Don’t sell yourself short: you could always climb on a table and begin speechifying about Obama.”

“My politics are old news by now,” Marius huffs.

Without looking up, Courfeyrac waves a dismissive hand. “Your aunt seems easily enough scandalized. Have you considered exposing your kneecaps? Dancing with the same lady three times in one night with no intent to marry? Adopting a cat?”

A gasp. “Courfeyrac, I know what we need to do.”

“I am not adopting a cat,” he immediately rebuffs. “They shed everywhere, and I have too strong a propensity toward strays to look after one for even an afternoon, it seems.” He shoots Marius a meaningful look that is totally lost on him.

“We should pretend to date! At least until Théodule leaves.”

Not that Courfeyrac is against shenanigans as a rule — far from it — but this is Marius Pontmercy suggesting shenanigans and is thus worthy of at least token wariness. “Why?”

“Can you imagine my aunt and grandfather’s reactions when they hear that I am cavorting with homosexuals?”

Courfeyrac frowns. “Marius, aren’t you actually bi?”

“Exactly!” His eyes are gleaming in that way they do when he, for better or worse (often worse), has a plan. “All of the benefits of coming out to my grandfather without having to say a single word to him!”

Glancing out of the floor-length window to his right, Courfeyrac sighs. All said, Marius has had worse ideas; this one, at least, seems fun. “All right," he says, turning back to face Marius, "but you’ll need to follow my lead.”

“Of course,” Marius quickly agrees. “You’re the expert here.”

He is indeed. “Move your bag.”

They’ve both been sitting in the chairs closest to the window and stowing their things in the outer ones, but now Courfeyrac closes his book, sliding it into his messenger bag as Marius’s backpack is shifted to the floor. He makes his way around the table to the now-free seat and pulls it up close to Marius so that both of their backs are to the spy — not ideal, but better than allowing Théodule to see their faces while Marius acclimates to the change in atmosphere. Courfeyrac has done this once with Joly, twice with Bossuet, and on a revolving door basis with Bahorel, but they’re all much better with improvisation than Marius Pontmercy.

“Laugh and put your arm around me,” Courfeyrac whispers, and Marius does so without hesitation. “Here, I still remember these cases from when I took this class, so I’ll talk you through them, but you need to seem absolutely enamored with me while I do.”

“What does that look like in this scenario?” asks Marius intently.

“Staring at my exquisite face instead of your notes from time to time, keeping your arm around my waist; perhaps the occasional graze of hands from as though it is impossible to keep your mind from what else these fingers are capable of,” adds Courfeyrac with a lascivious waggle of eyebrows and fingers.

Marius’s countenance pinkens, but he nods determinedly. “I can do that.”

The case Marius is studying is at least 50% more interesting than the one Courfeyrac has put off for another day (or never), and he gets so caught up in explaining one especially contentious judge’s opinion and how it changed the course of all relevant legislation that followed that when Marius’s hand drifts to his, he’s genuinely caught by surprise.

“Was that okay?” asks Marius in an undertone.

“Yes.” Courfeyrac stares at their hands, brows furrowing as he does. “Perfect, actually.”

“You gave very good instructions.”

“I am an excellent instruction-giver,” he assents.

“And once I set my mind to it, it ended up being very intuitive after all.” The hand around his waist gives a squeeze. “Sorry, continue, please? You’re much more helpful than the study groups I’ve attended.”

“Yes, well, I’ve been trained by a long line of older, underachieving lawyers before me — honestly, if you ever need anything explained, Bossuet and Bahorel have been wandering in and out of these halls for years.”

“Noted,” nods Marius, leaning back in against Courfeyrac expectantly.

Courfeyrac finishes his explanation because he is nothing if not a dedicated friend, and once it’s done, he pulls back and cups a hand to Marius’s cheek, smiling softly. While his thumb brushes over Marius’s cheekbone (it’s a glorious cheekbone that is utterly wasted on him and his ineptitude), he uses the pretense to check to see if Théodule has taken his leave yet.

He hasn’t.

“It’s getting late, Dear: are you hungry?”

Marius grins. “Famished.”

There is a lovely Greek place not four blocks away that Courfeyrac has waited far too long to return to, and now seems as good a time as any.

“Have you ever been here before?” asks Courfeyrac when they arrive, still hand-in-hand with Théodule trailing a half-block behind across the street.

Marius shakes his head. “I don’t eat out very often.”

“It isn’t every day that one is stalked off-campus with their fake boyfriend to a romantic venue,” agrees Courfeyrac. “May as well make a day of it. Shall we?” He gestures toward the entrance.

“We shall.”

Within seconds of entering, Courfeyrac hears a warm, familiar voice call his name.

“Tasos!” he answers, letting go of Marius’s hand to embrace the owner and kiss him on both cheeks. “How have you been?”

“Good, good! You haven’t been around lately.”

“Between school and internships” and plots to potentially overthrow the government “there hasn’t been time! I’ve been missing your gyros.”

“We’ve been missing your face,” answers Tasos before sizing up the situation. “And who is this?”

Tasos has seen Courfeyrac with a rotating cast of arm candy since undergrad, so he doesn’t hesitate at all to say, “Tasos, allow me to introduce you to Mister Marius Pontmercy, my date for the evening.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sir.” Marius offers his hand awkwardly to shake, and Tasos accepts it, shaking it vigorously enough that Marius resembles a flag fluttering in a breeze.

“Marius — that’s Latin, you know, from the Roman god Mars, the one we call ‘Ares.’ God of courage, war.” He gives a light, friendly punch to Marius’s arm, and Marius flinches. “Is that you?”

“I do not love war for the sake of war,” says Marius carefully, “nor do I oppose it. What I am opposed to, is a dumb war. What I am opposed to, is a rash war.”

Tasos stares at him for a beat before breaking into a broad grin and looking at Courfeyrac. “I like this one. Try to hold onto him.”

They follow Tasos to Courfeyrac’s usual booth, and Courfeyrac leans toward Marius. “Nice answer.”

“Thanks,” Marius whispers back. “It was an Obama quote.”

Of course it was.

They take their seats across from one another at the bright blue booth, and Tasos leaves them with two menus and a knowing smile.

“Oh, sorry,” says Marius, withdrawing his feet from where Courfeyrac’s brushed his.

“Marius, it’s footsie, go with it.”

His eyes widen. “Oh, right.” Marius glances around the restaurant before asking in an undertone, “Did Théodule really follow us in?”

“He’s in the bathroom right now.” Courfeyrac had eavesdropped as their spy had asked the hostess during their conversation with Tasos. “He might leave, but he’ll probably stick around given that he’s followed us all the way here.”

“Right, right.” Marius looks down at his menu, and Courfeyrac thinks that that’ll be it until he hears Marius say, “There is he now.”

Courfeyrac knows that if he tells Marius not to stare, it’ll only cause more of a scene the staring itself, so instead he asks, “Have you made up your mind what you’re getting?”

“Oh, um.” Marius flips through a couple of the laminated pages haphazardly before looking back at Courfeyrac. “What do you recommend?”

Well, that settles it. “Let’s split a large sampler with a side of saganaki and get some baklava for dessert.”

Marius nods. “And I’ll pay — this was, of course, my idea.”

“But of course.”

This is the part of the date that Courfeyrac would normally start asking questions about his partner, but it’s Marius, and such pretenses feel silly with him. He nudges Marius’s foot with his own again, grinning when Marius pushes back this time.

“How does footsie even work?” Marius asks, leaning forward as he whispers. It’d look suspicious except that they’re two young grad students ostensibly on a date, so instead it comes off as cozy.

“Pretty much like this,” Courfeyrac shrugs, testing the force behind Marius’s nudge. “It’s mostly an excuse to touch, but it can become a game, too. A battle for dominance.” With that, Courfeyrac withdraws his foot’s pressure, sweeping it behind Marius’s and forcing his knee up into the table with a clatter.

Once Marius realizes what has happened, Courfeyrac expects him to fumble, but instead his expression takes on a calculating glint as he braces himself against the tabletop, engaging both of his legs and, to Courfeyrac’s dire miscalculation, their full length as well.

Despite Courfeyrac’s best efforts, he quickly finds his feet crowded back and forced into retreat, tugging them up under himself when Marius’s freakishly long legs prove merely pressing them back against the leg rest to be inadequate. They’re both breathing hard by the time this truce is called, Marius’s mouth open in a half-smile and Courfeyrac on the brink of laughter. Something in Marius seems to tense a moment, and his eyes land on Courfeyrac as if in search of reassurance; Courfeyrac nods, a chuckle spilling out as he affirms, “‘God of War’ indeed.”

This seems to be the response Marius was hoping for, because his face splits into a broad grin just in time for Tasos to return with two waters. “Have you decided what you’d like?”

Before Courfeyrac can say anything, Marius answers in an utterly incomprehensible yet somewhat musical garble of sounds.

Courfeyrac prepares to apologize to Tasos for his friend, but when he looks over, Tasos appears delighted and is answering in similar-sounding terms. Ah, right, Marius knows Greek. It’s one of those tidbits Courfeyrac had been technically aware of but had never dreamed of being relevant outside of whatever old money circles the Gillenormands move in.

He watches as the two go back and forth until apparently their conversation comes to a close; before Tasos leaves, he swats twice at Courfeyrac’s shoulder with their menus, saying through his teeth loudly enough for Marius to hear, “I like him.”

“Trying to steal my Greek grandpa from me, are we?” says Courfeyrac once Tasos has disappeared into the kitchen. “I see what you’re doing, Pontmercy, and it won’t work: I’m simply too charming.”

“I would never dream of it.” Marius’s cheeks are still pink with exertion and something like bashful pride. God, he’d be so much fun to deflower. “I was nervous when we came in, so I kind of forgot —”

“That you speak an entire language?”

Marius gives an embarrassed shrug. “He seems important to you, I wanted to make a good impression.”

“You quoted our 44th president to him.”

“And he liked it!” Marius exclaims a little more loudly than an indoor voice but still glowing with triumph.

Courfeyrac stands suddenly, and Marius pales. Leaning over to Marius’s ear, he whispers, “Count to ninety, then meet me in the bathroom. Try to act subtle.”

With that, he straightens and heads to the back corner of the restaurant, trying the handle to the unisex restroom and letting himself in.

Ninety seconds, of course, always feels like a long time when he’s actually looking to break some sexual tension, but it also seems to take an eternity even knowing that his liaison will be entirely and disappointingly honorable. If only Marius’s type wasn’t distinguished dilfs and fourteen year-old goth girls.

Maybe ninety seconds is just a genuinely long time.

When the knock comes at the door, Courfeyrac quickly opens, closes, shoves Pontmercy against, and locks it in one smooth, calculated motion. Courfeyrac is shorter than him, but like this, with Marius crowded against the door and his breathing heavy, the difference doesn’t seem so great. His clothes smell like Marius uses too much powder detergent, and under it all lies the scent of the deodorant Courfeyrac had provided during the short period they’d lived together before Marius had found the Gorbeau tenement.

Courfeyrac steps back, and it takes another full second for Marius to untense. “Sorry, it needed to seem convincingly passionate to anyone who may have been paying attention.”

“Oh, um, yes, of course.” Marius’s hands jam into his front jean pockets as his head tips back against the bathroom door, and it sounds like he’s doing his breathing methods. Courfeyrac feels a pang of guilt for scaring his friend. “And, uh, what are we convincing people of again?”

Courfeyrac pushes himself up onto the ledge of the sink. “That we’re having a hot makeout sesh. Maybe some heavy petting, who’s to say?”

“Oh. Okay.” Several beats later, when Marius’s breath has finally evened out, he adds, “So do we just … wait here?”

“I mean, not under normal circumstances. But today, yes. We’re pretty hot and heavy for one another, I’d say, so let’s give it —” Courfeyrac checks his phone. “Eight minutes? We don’t want our food getting cold if it arrives while we’re here.”

“Right, right. That makes sense.”

Eight minutes is also a long time. Ninety seconds five times, according to his calculator app.

After the first ninety seconds, Courfeyrac pushes himself to his feet. “Here, lean forward.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

This is apparently explanation enough. Marius’s hands finally leave his pockets, and he leans forward at the waist. It isn’t until Courfeyrac is running his hands through Marius’s hair that it even appears to occur to him that he’d been asked to lean forward for a reason.

“What are you doing?”

“Ah, it’s no good,” tuts Courfeyrac. “Your hair’s too short around the back and sides to muss, and you’re too tall for me to hypothetically be grabbing the top of your head unless you were giving me bathroom head.”

Marius shrugs, slightly pinker around the collar than when this conversation had started but impressively unmoved otherwise. “I mean, scandal is what we’re going for today.”

“Yes, scandal, not trash.” Courfeyrac pats Marius twice on the cheek. “Well, there’s nothing to be done for it: how attached are you to this shirt?”

“The one I’m wearing?” He glances down at the terrible black button-down that he thinks makes him look distinguished and conveys mourning but mostly makes him look like he got lost on the way to concert band. “I only have two.”

Courfeyrac sighs. “Are you at least wearing a shirt under it?”

“Well, yes, but —”

“Perfect, let’s do that.” Courfeyrac waits expectantly for several seconds before realizing that Marius is still lost. “Take off your shirt, come on!”

“Oh, oh, well —” Marius’s fingers move to fumble with his buttons, and Courfeyrac wishes he could just do it himself, because at least ninety seconds have to have passed already.

“There,” announces Pontmercy when he finally emerges from his ill-fitted button-down, and okay, rude, who gave him the right to look fit under all of that?

Courfeyrac is a professional, so he ignores this, of course. “Untuck your t-shirt from your jeans, and —” Do they even need to stretch out the collar? The button-down being removed feels like enough. “Yeah, actually, that’s probably fine.”

“What about you?”

“Hm?”

Marius had straightened back to his full height to remove his button-down, and he looks down quizzically at Courfeyrac. “Aren’t we going to make you look debauched, too?”

“Honey, I always look debauched,” answers Courfeyrac with a roll of his eyes and a smile; nevertheless, he approaches the mirror to do just that.

Ugh. He hates intentionally mussing his hair, but there’s not much to be done about it. Closing his eyes, Courfeyrac tries to remember how this usually works. Lips touch, bodies press, yes, yes, yes, but where do the hands go? His ass is the usual hot spot, frankly, but … trailing up between his shoulder blades? Over and around the back? But the back is so hard to style. Maybe this makeout session was respectful of his hair.

“I could help.”

Courfeyrac opens his eyes with an annoyed huff. He allows himself a full second to appreciate Marius’s arms in a fitted black tee before returning to the point. “Yes, thank you, that’d be great.”

Marius closes the distance and then stops expectantly, hands hovering on either side of Courfeyrac’s face. “So just … whatever I’d do if we were kissing, basically?”

‘Kissing’ is such a juvenile, sweet way to describe ravaging someone in a restaurant bathroom, and Courfeyrac doesn’t have the heart to correct him. “Yes, just so. Don’t be afraid to get into it, we need to really sell this.”

When Marius’s hands finally do come in contact with Courfeyrac, it isn’t with his hair or clothes as he’d expected: it’s his face. Fingertips trace over his cheek and down along his jaw as Marius carefully, almost seriously, watches him. It’s a strangely intimate moment, and if Courfeyrac truly suspected that anything might come of it, he would maintain the eye-contact; instead, he allows his eyes to fall shut and focuses on the feeling of his face being tenderly mapped by touch alone.

In what is probably fewer than ninety seconds, if Courfeyrac had to guess, one hand has traveled up and around into Courfeyrac’s hair, long fingers cupping gently around the back of his head. The other hand cautiously descends to rest on his chest and over where Courfeyrac’s heart stutters slightly in its pace.

It's a little tender for a bathroom makeout, and Courfeyrac says as much, more to break the moment than anything.

“Oh, sorry. Here, let me try … ?”

It was both the right and wrong thing to say. Right, because Courfeyrac is definitely going to look properly debauched after this, excellent commitment to accuracy Pontmercy; wrong, because it should be illegal to slide one’s hand from another’s beating heart down and around to their waist and pull their body against another's, yanking the latter person’s head upward by their hair and spinning them around to press them up against the door without doing anything about it.

“Was that okay?”

No, no it absolutely was not, he needs a cold shower and a cigarette at the same time. Courfeyrac, a gentleman, obviously does not say this, however. Instead, he takes a deep breath (someone needs to teach this child how to do laundry, honest to God, this is wasteful), opens his eyes, and walks with great composure to the sink mirror once more.

Well, he can’t argue with the results. “Yes, Marius, that was perfect.” He checks his phone and sees that they’re right on schedule. “Okay, you go ahead, I’ll count to ninety and follow.”

Marius’s head cocks. “Even though I was the last one in —”

“Yes, Marius.”

He shrugs. “All right then, I’ll see you soon.”

The door shuts, and Courfeyrac takes a deep breath. Fuck, okay. He revisits his visage in the mirror and sighs, doing as much damage control on the hair as can reasonably be done. Fortunately, Courfeyrac is incredibly good-looking regardless of the state of his hair, but yeah, Marius certainly did commit. His clothes are just the right amount of disheveled, he decides, and with twenty seconds left on the clock, he decides to splash some water over his face. Realistically, he probably should make his lips look a bit more kiss-bitten, but there’s only so much he can do in a Greek restaurant bathroom with his platonic friend of questionable sexual taste and a spy in the lobby.

An eternity passes, and Courfeyrac emerges from the bathroom with irreproachable poise. From the corner of his eye, he catches Théodule’s booth and sees that he has a coke and a small plate of some phyllo dessert — kataifi, maybe? Ahead of him, he sees Marius looking, against all odds, a little unsure of himself.

“You okay?” he asks, sliding back into his side of the booth.

“Those girls keep looking over and laughing at me,” he confides. “I look silly, I should put my button-down back on.”

“Don’t you dare touch your backpack.” Courfeyrac glances over at the girls in question and recognizes almost all of them from various frat events he’s gone to throughout the years. Jen’s attention turns (likely returns) to Marius’s direction, and Courfeyrac immediately understands what is happening. “Hey, Marius, do you want me to introduce you to any of them?”

Marius looks almost appalled at this question. “I — no? Why would I want that?”

He shrugs. “They’re all very attractive women. Very witty, lots of fun.”

“That may be so, but what does that have to do with me?”

There’s no use dancing around it. “They want to fuck you, Marius. That’s why they keep looking at you.”

Marius blinks blankly. “They don’t even know me.”

“You don’t have to know someone to want them, Pontmercy.” This point is embellished with a playful push of his foot against Marius’s.

Marius doesn’t budge. “Well I don’t want that — not for myself. I … I want someone who is upright and loyal and kind and … and who makes me feel like I can be comfortable in my skin but also want to be better than who I am, and take chances, and push my boundaries.”

Gag, boring. “Well, they could be that: you’ll never know if you don’t take the chance to get to know them.”

At this, Marius sighs heavily. “Yeah, maybe. But right now, I’m on a date with you, and I’d much rather focus on that than some girls who I don’t know laughing about … about my body.”

“In a good way.”

“In any way.”

“Coming up!” hearkens a familiar voice from the direction of the kitchen.

Courfeyrac can’t see it, but he knows when Marius does because his eyes widen as large as saucers. “Courf — Courfeyrac, it’s on fire.”

“I know.”

“The — the plate is on fire!”

“I know,” Courfeyrac repeats, smiling. He’d ordered it because everyone deserves to experience saganaki in its full glory at least once, but he’d also ordered it because he’d strongly suspected that Marius would like it.

Courfeyrac and Marius both give the dish a wide berth as Tasos places it on the table, another server who Courfeyrac doesn’t recall ever seeing before following close behind with their sampler platter. He’ll have to get the new server’s name later (and perhaps their number), but for now, he satisfies himself with flaming cheese and a wink.

Tasos is still smiling widely until his eyes fall on Courfeyrac’s hair and his expression turns unimpressed.

“What?”

The expression intensifies, as if to say, Six sets of ninety seconds, I left you alone.

“You told me to hold onto him.”

Tasos cracks a smile. “I hope you’re half as good as you think.”

“Better, even,” volunteers Marius in what Courfeyrac is certain is intended to be a helpful gesture.

Well, what Marius doesn’t know won’t hurt him. “See? I’ve got this one,” Courfeyrac tells Tasos with a wink.

Tasos puts up his hands in show of desistance, and he grins all the way back to the kitchen.

“Will that be a problem?” asks Marius.

“Hm?”

“Next time you come in and —” Marius’s voice drops to a whisper “— we’re not together anymore?”

“Eh, Tasos has been disappointed by grad students before,” Courfeyrac dismisses. “I’ll make sure he knows that I wasn’t kind enough of heart to hold you down.” Marius laughs at that, like Courfeyrac has told some kind of joke. “Hm?”

“Oh, just.” Marius shakes his head. “Tasos would never believe that.”

“What, that you’d break up with me?”

“No, I’d break up with you in a second: you’re a rake and a scoundrel, and everybody knows it.” Well, hard to argue with that. “Tasos would never believe that anyone broke up with you because your heart wasn’t kind enough. You’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever met.”

“You know your family and Ivy League law students: the bar isn’t very high.”

“True,” says Marius thoughtfully as the saganaki finally begins to burn out, “but you’ve also set a very high bar for other people I meet. Those girls over there? What are the odds that any of them will be able to hold a candle to the heart of my best friend?”

Most of the ice in Courfeyrac’s glass has melted by now, but he takes a deep sip of his water anyway. “Well Marius, I don’t know how to tell you this, but that is very homoromantic of you.”

Marius shrugs, picking up his glass. “I suppose I’m really diving into the role.”

Courfeyrac takes another sip of his water before sitting up and retrieving his cutlery. “What say we dive into this cheese?”

“And you’re sure he’s still following us?”

“I am looking at him, Pontmercy.”

Neither of them had said it, but the unspoken assumption had been that after the bathroom scene, after dinner, Théodule would leave them alone.

No such luck.

“We could … we could go somewhere else. Where else would scandalize my grandfather, do you think?”

“Where you live?” Not that Grandpa G is deserving of defense, but Courfeyrac also is not exactly enthusiastic about Marius’s Washington Heights residence.

“We could go clubbing.” Marius looks up at Courfeyrac, eyes bright. “We should go clubbing. Courfeyrac, let’s go clubbing.”

This is ordinarily a suggestion that Courfeyrac would pounce on with all of the enthusiasm of a cat on yarn, but under the current conditions — “Have you ever been clubbing before?”

“I went with Bahorel that one time!”

Oh, that time. “Marius, you hated that club. You spent more time hiding in the bathrooms and getting fresh air outside than you did in the club itself.”

“Yeah, but that was when I didn’t know anyone and was really nervous about making myself look like an idiot.”

“And now?”

“And now,” says Marius, excitement shining in his eyes, “I have a very well-versed, experienced date accompanying me.”

Well, Courfeyrac is something of an expert.

“Fine,” he assents. “Once we cross the street up here, hang a left, I know a place.” It’s beginning to get dark now, so by the time they catch the 1 down, it should be open. “And you’re sure?”

Marius smiles at him, reaching out to take Courfeyrac by the hand. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

It’s been a while since Courfeyrac has bothered going this far south for anything, much less for a club, and this club in particular has an annoyingly narrow entrance that they very nearly pass; fortunately, Courfeyrac is nothing if not a professional.

Part of him had been hoping that Théodule wouldn’t be bold enough to follow them onto the bus, or at least that they’d get the satisfaction of watching him run to keep up, but he had indeed made it on in such a way that even Marius had needed Théodule pointed out (though that perhaps said more about Marius's powers of perception than Théodule's stealth).

They pay their cover fees, enter the club, check their bags, and immediately find their way to the bar.

“Would you like anything?” asks Courfeyrac. It’s still early in the evening, but even so, people are already beginning to fill the dance floor.

“I believe that’s my question for you.”

“Ah-ah,” Courfeyrac tells him, waving down the bartender with a charming grin. “You treated me for dinner, it’s only fair that I’m allowed to treat you now.” He also has his doubts about Marius’s savings, even if he didn’t seem all that worried about dinner.

Marius orders a Shirley Temple, which he seems to enjoy. Courfeyrac orders a whiskey, which he also enjoys.

“Do you see him?”

Courfeyrac does a scan. Théodule isn’t immediately visible, but he knows he saw their spy pay the entrance fee. The overhead lights have been turned down low, though, and the strobe lights are making it hard to see. With the music having also dramatically increased in volume, conversation has become significantly harder. Courfeyrac reluctantly shakes his head before adding, “But he’s still here.”

Marius nods, and Courfeyrac thinks that that’ll be it, but then he stands up, takes Courfeyrac by the hand, and pulls him in the direction of the dance floor.

Now, he’s still Marius Pontmercy, which means that rather than being in the thick of things, they do remain on the edge of the dance floor; it’s such a dramatic change from the usual that it doesn’t occur to Courfeyrac for a second to suggest any changes until Marius leans down to his ear.

“We stand out!”

Courfeyrac looks around: lots of details jump out to him, but it’s nothing he imagines Marius sees.

“We’re the only couple who aren’t touching each other!”

Ah, so he’s noticed. “It’s fine, I think Théodule gets the idea.” Marius has probably done more touching today than the rest of his life combined, and even just coming here is more than Courfeyrac had ever expected of Marius Pontmercy. “We don’t have to do this.”

“How exactly did you think this worked?” shouts Marius over the music, grinning before leaning in to declare more firmly into Courfeyrac’s ear, “I’m all in, Coco.”

Sultry chills aside, Courfeyrac feels his whole body alight with the thrill of the challenge. “All right then,” he says, dancing forward and forcing his way into Marius’s space. “The first step is getting much, much closer.”

He’d expected Marius to get nervous and back out, but instead he still has that same determined smile on from the bathroom and the library. His hands slide to Courfeyrac’s waist, and he repeats, “Closer.” Their eyes meet, and Marius’s hands are fire dancing over Courfeyrac's skin as they move to the heavy bass of the music. “What’s the second step?”

“Trying not to blow your load on the dancefloor," says Courfeyrac with a wink before whirling around so that his back is to Marius’s front. "I have faith in you, young grasshopper."

They begin with room for Jesus, but as the songs begin to blur into one another and the dancefloor continues to fill, Courfeyrac and Marius continue dancing more and more closely until Courfeyrac can feel the heat from Marius’s body radiating off of him. The hands that had started almost chastely at his waist have begun to wander (possibly due in part to the general motion of Courfeyrac’s dancing, possibly due in part to the club’s overall increase in randiness, possibly due in part to the fact that Marius Pontmercy actually seems to be getting into this), and by the time that Marius’s lips are dragging against the bare, exposed skin of Courfeyrac’s collarbone and neck, he is simply impressed with how quick of a study his friend has proven.

(They’re also close enough for Courfeyrac to feel Marius’s hard-on through his jeans, and Courfeyrac elects not to tease him about it because Really, it must be awfully difficult having a penis and dancing with someone as sexy as Courfeyrac.)

His mouth is dragging near to Courfeyrac’s ear when Courfeyrac finally hears, “I think I’m ready to leave.”

All said, they spent an hour and a half at the club, which is one hundred sets of ninety seconds aka ninety-seven more sets than Courfeyrac had anticipated Marius wanting to stay.

Courfeyrac isn’t even surprised anymore when, at the last second before the northbound 1 takes off, they acquire a final passenger.

Courfeyrac’s stop is before Marius’s, but in favor of ostensibly keeping up the ruse and mostly making sure that Marius makes it to his flat all right, he decides to bypass it and ride the 1 the rest of the way to Washington Heights.

“You didn’t have to,” Marius insists as they make the final five-minute trek to the Gorbeau tenement building.

“It’s nothing. Besides, what kind of date would I be if I let you walk home alone?”

Really, Courfeyrac isn’t even that bothered by the area so much as the specific building Marius lives in. It’s falling apart, for one thing, and if that wasn’t enough, he knows for a fact that the only other tenants in the building are a family led by a husband-wife pair of thieves, liars, and cons, often all at once. Courfeyrac knows how to keep his wits about him, especially regarding people, but Marius Pontmercy — blessed Marius Pontmercy — is given to daydreaming and philosophizing and soliloquying and getting robbed right out from under his nose.

No, it simply would not do to abandon his Dear Marius this close to the end of their date.

“Ah, that’s right, it’s after 6,” says Marius, fumbling in his backpack for his keys. “Mrs. Burgon always locks the lobby after 6.” There’s five keys on Marius’s keyring, including one to Courfeyrac’s flat should he ever need it, but the one he selects for this particular door looks brassy and ordinary, quelling some of Courfeyrac’s fears about how easily its lock could be picked.

Courfeyrac checks that it locks behind them, and they head up the creaking stairs of the building and down to the second-to-last room in the hall. It takes until they’re standing in front of Marius’s door for Courfeyrac to realize that they haven’t released one another’s hands since leaving the club.

“I, um.” Marius swallows. “This was fun, today. Thank you for humoring me.”

“It was nothing at all, the honor was all mine.”

“No, really —”

“The honor was both of ours,” Courfeyrac amends.

Marius squeezes his hand and smiles. The uncharacteristic boldness in the club seems to have exhausted him, and he looks waun and tired but no less deliriously happy for it. He's adorable. “I’m really glad it was you with me today. I’m not sure how things might have played out if it was anyone else.”

“Oh, I’m sure they would have supported you in your shenanigans, too.”

“I’m sure, but … I keep thinking about what Tasos said earlier. ‘God of Courage.’” He swallows. “Courfeyrac, you make me feel courageous. You make me want to try flaming cheese and dance in clubs and — and date men for the sole purpose of scandalizing my relatives. And — and I —”

Their faces are close enough that Courfeyrac’s breath intermingles with Marius’s, and something in Courfeyrac’s stomach lunges, pushing him to take what he knows Marius isn’t offering.

“Hey, Marius?” Courfeyrac whispers. “Théodule isn’t here anymore.”

“Uh-huh?” Marius’s eyes are half-lidded, and no part of his brain seems to have registered what Courfeyrac just said.

Courfeyrac takes a full step back, grinning. “So I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Huh?” Marius repeats, brows furrowing as he shakes his head.

“Théodule isn’t here anymore,” Courfeyrac repeats.

Marius looks around. “Really?”

Courfeyrac nods. “He didn’t get off of the bus with us, but I wanted to be sure before I said anything. I didn’t notice him the whole walk here, and he definitely didn’t get through the lobby.”

“Oh, well.” Marius licks his lips. “That’s good news.”

“Excellent news,” Courfeyrac agrees. “So, tomorrow? Library? I can call in the Lad Legal Task Force.”

“Yeah, yes, that’d be, um, great.” Marius blinks. “Are you going home?”

Courfeyrac shrugs. “I can’t very well stay here.”

“You could stay in my room, if you wanted. It’s … I mean, I never really planned for guests, but —”

Courfeyrac has seen Marius’s bed, and it is not suitable for sharing — nor is any part of the room, frankly. “That’s all right, I think I’ll be much more comfortable staying at my place tonight.”

“Well at least let me call you an Uber,” Marius quickly says. “It’s late, and the next bus won’t be for another hour. Plus,” he adds wryly, “if Théodule did manage to elude you, he can’t very well climb into your Uber with you.”

It’s too generous an offer to refuse, so Courfeyrac doesn’t. “Thank you, Marius.”

Marius’s eyes then fall to Courfeyrac’s sweat-stale clothes. “You’re cold.”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Please, I insist,”says Marius, twisting the steel key in his door. “One last scandal for the night.”

At Marius's indication, Courfeyrac follows him into the room, already anticipating the fresh undershirt that is thrown his way after a moment of rifling through one of the two drawers in the flat — a black stretch tee much like the one he wore today that smells like too much detergent; Courfeyrac is slightly slower on the green sweatshirt that follows. It's a moment before Courfeyrac recognizes it as the cast-off he’d given to Marius years ago during the short time they’d stayed together.

“It took me a while to save for anything warmer,” shrugs Marius. “I’ve been meaning to return it anyway.”

Marius politely turns the other way while Courfeyrac changes shirts despite that there’s really nothing to see before accompanying him back down to the lobby to await the Uber.

The car ride home smells like car freshener and too much detergent as Courfeyrac texts Bossuet and Bahorel about tomorrow. On a whim, he checks instagram and finds a new post on Théodule Gillenormand’s page: a photo of him in a distinctly familiar nightclub surrounded by a whole host of queens and queers sipping a fruity-looking beverage with an umbrella captioned, “Making the most of my last night before shipping out again tomorrow” followed by five emojis that end on an American flag.

“Morningside Heights?” the driver checks.

“That’s me.” Courfeyrac jams a fiver into the tip box, and the driver nods in the rearview mirror.

“You have a good night now.”

Courfeyrac steps into the crisp evening air of the night and inhales. I already did.