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Valjean’s gaze trailed after his granddaughter as she took yet another turn about the room, heedless of the other couples crowding the polished tile floor as he watched Fantine swung gaily about in the arms of her groom. She was beaming and radiant in a muted grey satin so pale it was nearly white, shimmering and resplendent with woven patterns of silvering thread throughout; lit by the glitter of fairy lights and the flicker of candles spaced evenly across the little tables clustered around the dance floor.
Valjean blinked rapidly, overjoyed once again to see Cosette’s eldest—his cherished and only granddaughter—so entirely happy, so utterly lovely and utterly in love as she spun and danced her way through the evening. He discreetly dashed one knuckle under his eyes, rubbing away the last few lingering droplets of moisture clinging to his lashes, and felt as much as heard the rumbling, amused huff of laughter beside him; Javert’s arm shifting against his own as he chuckled. His gruff baritone was laced with fondness as he said, “Pay up. I knew you wouldn’t be stopped at just the vows.”
“A few stray tears is hardly sobbing,” Valjean sniffed, a little more wetly than he would have liked to prove his point to his husband. “I seem to recall the wager was for three separate, solid cries before the night was up. I’ve seen you tear up more when you forget to take your allergy medicine.”
“I was already ignoring the fact you got started before we even reached the venue!” Javert protested, turning around more fully to face the other man. The creases of his stern face had deepened in consternation, though the glimmer in his eye belied any real suggestion of affront. Valjean observed, with the same quiet amusement that he had for some two decades now, that Javert enjoyed a good debate far too much for a man who had largely done only as he was told to do for the first fifty-odd years of his life.
“Which is just as you ought,” Valjean said, leaning more heavily against where Javert’s arm nudged his own, “Because we expressly agreed that the conditions of the wager would only apply to events during the wedding itself.”
“I am beginning to think I was had,” the other man grumbled. “It doesn’t count before the wedding, it doesn’t count if it’s only a few tears… tell me you’re not going to pretend you didn’t go through half the box of tissues when she first walked down the aisle.”
Valjean shook his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he demurred, “Especially not when you went through the other half during the vows.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Javert muttered as his cheeks flushed that faint, dusky red that gave his bronze skin a warm glow, and which Valjean had found fetching long before he knew all the many ways he could encourage its reappearance. “I’m surprised you could see anything at all, all things considered.”
Valjean gestured to the collar of his rented tuxedo, which bore a fading blotch of discoloration from where the fabric had been soaked through when Javert buried his face against Valjean’s neck. “There’s still a damp patch,” Valjean explained, and then, in an undertone, “And you were making that sound you do, dear heart. That little honk—”
“I absolutely do not—honk,” Javert said quickly, with a touch more vehement denial than necessary. Valjean’s smile stretched further as he took a broad, age-spotted hand and soothingly patted Javert’s larger one where it rested atop the tablecloth.
“Right, of course, my mistake. It was only a stray goose that had gotten into the church.” Valjean nodded thoughtfully. “I think I heard that same goose again during the speeches a little while ago, too.”
Whatever rejoinder Javert might have intended for that was interrupted by the scattered applause that followed as the song drew to a close, and the gathered dancers collapsed against one another to catch their breath in the scant moments before the band started back up again. Fantine saw where her grandfathers sat huddled together at their table and waved at them cheerfully, her cheeks pink with exertion, her other hand still entwined with her husband’s. Valjean and Javert each gave a small wave in return, matching wrinkles fanning across their faces as they smiled back at their granddaughter, and Valjean observed Javert blinking rather quickly himself this time, only to scoff when Valjean raised an eyebrow in his direction.
“A few tears don’t count,” Javert reminded him primly.
“So we are in agreement, then?” Valjean countered, with a pleased hum, followed by a soft exclamation of delight as the live band Fantine had hired for the evening struck up the first few notes of a melody that had been popular when Valjean was a young man. “Oh, listen,” Valjean said, “Oh, it’s one of my favorites.”
“I am familiar,” Javert said indulgently, his voice dropping an octave. His broad chin rested on his palm, elbow leaning against the table as he regarded the man beside him. “It was the first song at our wedding.”
“I remember,” Valjean sighed wistfully, eyes growing distant as the well-known strains washed over them. He looked out onto the polished dance floor, the crush of bodies swirling across it, and thought of another room—dark wood instead of light; rich jewel tones accenting the tables and the windows, rather than the desaturated hues Fantine had chosen for her big day. A smaller room, a quieter affair, their granddaughter a babe on Cosette’s knee as she wiped away her own tears when Valjean had taken Javert by the hand and led him shyly out onto the floor for the first dance.
They had neither of them been very skilled, despite several sessions with an instructor so strict and foreboding she had made Javert at his fiercest look positively docile. But Valjean had been lost in the warmth of Javert’s gaze, the press of Javert’s hand in his, the dip of Javert’s waist beneath Valjean’s palm as Valjean wheeled them around the room. It had hardly mattered where they stumbled, or moved too stiffly—it had been only the Pontmercys, and the Gillenormands, and themselves: the little family they were creating there, between promises given and vows exchanged, and Valjean could not have imagined nor wished for a more perfect night.
Valjean was brought back to the present as Javert’s shoulder bumped against his again; he thought of all the times Cosette had gently teased them for being ever-attached at the hip, unwilling to stray any further from each other’s orbit than absolutely necessary. Valjean’s fingers curled around the thin, dry skin of Javert’s hand where Valjean’s still covered it upon the table, Javert’s fingers tangling with his own with all the ease of long familiarity. He tilted his head toward Valjean; his expression soft and relaxed despite the quizzical knit of his brow, and Valjean squeezed the hand enfolded within his own as he asked, “Would you care for a dance, my dear?”
Javert startled, his eyes darting around reflexively—as if expecting someone to have overheard Valjean’s suggestion and object uproariously.
“Two old men with four left feet?” Javert quipped, his thin lips quirking upward at the corners; crow’s feet crinkling at his temples as he grinned at his own joke. “Are you trying to embarrass Fantine in front of her new in-laws?”
Valjean nodded toward one such in-law, who was currently moving in a deliberately jerky, robotic fashion despite the smooth and sultry notes of the old love song drifting through the air. “I believe they are far ahead of us on that score,” Valjean said dryly.
Javert snorted his agreement, his fingers clasping tightly at Valjean’s as he said, “If you really want us to make fools of ourselves, you know I will follow you anywhere, Jean.” His lips broadened into a true smile, all teeth and gums and the harsh lines set into his face by time. “Even if it is to trip and land on our backsides in front of our entire family, and all of their extended relations, friends, acquaintances, and coworkers.”
Valjean was edging his chair away from the table one-handed, as reluctant to release Javert as Fantine had been to let go of her own bridegroom; but he paused as he stood to opine: “I don’t know; I think we have some moves left in these old bones that could show the children a thing or two.”
“That may be, but they’ve never been dance moves,” Javert grunted under his breath as Valjean coaxed him upright, Valjean’s formidable strength still impressive even after all these years. Valjean shook his head in amusement as he tugged Javert toward the dance floor, one arm sliding around Javert’s waist to hug the other man closer to him, the other raising their joined hands to shoulder height—just as he had done all those many years before.
They were honestly no more talented than they had been those twenty years ago, nor during any of the scarce few other times they had made similar attempts. But Valjean could still hear the final few notes of a well-loved song tripping around the room, and spy the dear faces of Cosette and her children—all busy with their own partners, or devouring slice after slice of wedding cake, or diverted by any of the other activities that had been prepared for the evening. He felt the press of Javert’s body aligned with his own, secure and beloved and wholly Valjean’s to have and to hold, and thought their poor footwork and awkward movements were of little notice and even less concern. Indeed, Valjean wondered if they might not have improved a little, after all.
He pulled Javert another few centimeters closer, cheek pressed to the other man’s; inhaling the combination of sandalwood aftershave and the vanilla body wash Cosette had hooked him on years ago, that Valjean would have recognized anywhere.
Javert looped his long, lanky arms around Valjean’s back and laid his head atop Valjean’s while they pivoted in another slow, sedate circle; Valjean’s grip on Javert tightening briefly as he said, “See, we don’t do too badly for two elderly gentlemen.” He turned to buss a kiss against Javert’s cheek. “I’m looking forward to seeing if we get any better over the next twenty years.”
“The next!” Javert’s laughter ruffled through Valjean’s soft white curls. “Does it count as dancing if we’re shuffling around on our walkers?” He paced through a few more turns with Valjean, his laughter quieting as he admitted, “Though I would hardly object at the opportunity to find out. I do believe you would be even more handsome at 104.”
The strains of their old wedding song had transitioned into a more contemporary ballad neither of them cared for very much, which now faded into some other song Valjean had never heard before at all; and still Valjean clutched his husband to him, heedless of their graceless trundling or their missteps or Fantine’s in-laws, who were by this point dancing in the sort of way Valjean was not certain was actually still dancing. “I think we would be the talk of the nursing home, as long as I have you as my dance partner,” Valjean murmured. “Thank you for agreeing to take a turn around the room with me, my dear. I love you.”
“And I you, my Jean,” Javert said quietly, his lips warm where they brushed along Valjean’s scalp. He made a snuffling sort of noise, burrowing more closely in Valjean’s embrace, against the thick muscle of Valjean’s chest—softened with age and regular mealtimes, but still firm and solid and stocky and something Javert never tired of pressing up against—and Valjean would have almost sworn he felt something drip onto his head, almost as if…
“Javert, husband mine,” Valjean asked, torn between the burst of affection swelling beneath his breast, and the not-inconsiderable smugness of victory dangling within his grasp. “Are you cr—”
“A few tears don’t count,” Javert repeated into Valjean’s hair, the words thick in the back of his throat. Valjean felt a burble of laughter spill past his lips, his arms tensing and his back bending as he lifted the taller man off the ground, spinning Javert in a dizzying circle to rival the most enthusiastic of the younger dancers’. Javert sputtered as he was whirled about the dance floor, his body borne by Valjean’s arms as though Javert weighed nothing at all.
(He set Javert back down onto his feet, Valjean’s own eyes suspiciously bleary as he beamed up at the other man. He could still see the damp tracks where a tear or three or five had wound their way into the thick bristle of Javert’s sideburns—but honestly, by that point, the bet really was a draw.)