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The Corinthe is crowded, packed with the usual rabble of university students out for a Friday night reprieve from their studies, and the ABC are no exception.
Joly counts his friends to make sure they’re all safe, eyes sweeping across the bar. Enjolras is first, because he’s always easiest to spot; hardly drinking, and still in the same chair he started in. Unsurprisingly, he’s engaged in some kind of argument with Grantaire. Grantaire seems to be passionately - drunkenly - ranting about something Joly can’t quite make out, as he counts a list on his fingers. Enjolras just watches on, fond, if not slightly exasperated. Joly can never tell which of their arguments are real these days.
Combeferre sits on Enjolras’ right side, reclined in his chair but just as sober, as he watches everyone with a measured gaze. Joly catches his eye and smiles, receiving a nod in return. The rest of his friends are a little harder to spot, spread around the bar.
Jehan is easy, but only because their metallic crop top shimmers so brightly in the dim light, he’s practically a mirrorball. Faux leather pants and a mesh kimono later, they’re obviously the best dressed here, and Joly takes a moment to admire everything about them. Jehan is gorgeous, and deserves all the attention he gets.
That’s four of nine. Marius has already left, citing some nonsense about waiting at the library for something or other. Maybe it was someone. Joly can’t remember.
He finds Courfeyrac sitting at the bar, his hand on a stranger’s knee as they whisper in his ear. Joly watches for a moment with interest; he’s never had the courage to do something like that, but Courfeyrac seems to pick up strangers as easy as breathing. He seems safe, the interaction consensual, so Joly keeps seeking out their friends.
He can hear Bahorel and Feuilly’s laughs from somewhere out of sight. More likely than not, they’ve found other people they know and have joined another table. They’re together, probably only a stone’s throw away, and it’s enough for Joly.
That just leaves Bossuet. Joly shifts slightly so their thighs touch, smiling at him tiredly. It’s only nine; the night has only really just started, but Joly’s ready to call it.
“Sleepy?” Bossuet asks softly, and his warm palm feels so good against Joly’s back. He leans into it, nodding, “We can go, if you want?”
“Not if you’re having a good time,” Joly protests, “I’m happy to stay-”
“Nah,” Bossuet says, running a gentle hand over Joly’s hair, mussing it up as he leans in to press a soft kiss to the apple of his cheek, “I’d rather get you home and rested. I heard it was gonna rain this weekend, so the more you can stay off your leg…”
Joly nods, sighing as his leg twinges just at the thought of it. There’s no real scientific proof that weather makes any kind of difference on chronic pain, but Joly would go on trial as a primary witness that it did.
Bossuet stands, ready to start making the rounds and say their goodbyes, when suddenly he stops. He’s so rigid that Joly thinks something’s actually wrong with him, glancing up to see what’s happened.
He doesn’t seem injured, so Joly follows his gaze to the stage where he spots the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.
She steps out of a side room: a vision in a form-fitting, deep emerald dress. Intricate, embroidered patterns and beads adorn the fabric, weaving a tapestry of elegance that Joly can’t seem to look away from. Her hair, black at the roots and bleached auburn on top, cascades in loose curls interwoven with strands of pearls. She has twisted gold bangles on her forearms and matching earrings that sway and catch the light as she walks. There's a subtle edge to her beauty; Joly’s sure he can see the hint of additional piercings up her ears and in her nose, and the hint of tattoos beneath the sleeves of her dress.
She moves into the spotlight at the piano. Joly’s near breathless as she takes her seat and smiles winningly at her audience.
“Hi,” she beams, cheeks dented with the sweetest dimples Joly’s ever seen. Her voice is bright and cheery, and Joly can’t help but grin back at her, “My name’s Musichetta, and if you like what you hear tonight, you can find me on all the regular social media. Don’t forget to tip your bartenders!”
Bossuet hasn’t sat down yet, and Joly tugs gently at his sleeve. He goes easily, both of them transfixed as she begins to play.
“Musichetta,” Bossuet mumbles under his breath, and Joly’s mouth twitches into a half-smile. They’ve always been on the same wavelength, for as long as they’ve known each other.
Joly can't tear his eyes away from her, drawn in like a moth to the flame. Her fingers dance over the piano keys, and when she opens her mouth, her voice is rich and full of raw emotion. She plays covers of popular mainstream songs that have the bar cheering and whooping once she’s done. They’re just songs; well-known songs that Joly’s heard in the background a thousand times. It shouldn’t be like hearing them all again for the first time. She slips in an oldies medley as well, and nearly half an hour later, she addresses the crowd almost sheepishly.
“Alright, alright. You’ve been an amazing audience, but I’m gonna go for a quick break after this last song. I’m going to play one of my originals for you, if you’ll indulge me?”
The resounding cheer somehow makes her smile even prettier. Joly’s pretty sure Bossuet cheers the loudest.
Joly isn’t a huge music fan. It’s distracting when he’s working and studying, and the only time he truly appreciates a tune is when they’re cleaning, or when he hears Bossuet humming from the shower. But Muschietta’s voice is different; alluring and sweet and playful and joyful, painting vivid stories with her words and the emotion she pours into each line.
He forgets everything as she sings, transfixed until the bar erupts into enthusiastic applause. He’s on his feet faster than he really should be, unable to help himself as his hands go numb from clapping.
Musichetta laughs and thanks the crowd breathlessly as she rises from the piano bench. Joly half-wonders if she noticed him, but stamps down on the thought almost immediately. Of course she didn’t. She leaves out of the same door she came from, offering the bar one last sweeping glance before she’s gone.
Joly feels like a part of him left with her. He blinks confusedly as he sinks back into his chair, then glances at Bossuet. His expression seems mirrored there, a deep frown on his face.
“... she was really good,” Joly starts quietly.
“Incredibly good.” Bossuet murmurs. “And she was beautiful.”
“Just gorgeous.”
Joly watches him curiously in his peripherals. He and Bossuet have been friends since they were children; had grown up together and shared everything with each other. Arguments rarely came between them, and never lasted when they did. Usually, they felt the same about everything.
“Um,” Joly starts carefully, “Do you maybe want to stay for the rest of her set?”
Bossuet’s nodding before he finishes the question, and they order a round of water for the table, for when their friends inevitably wander back. Nobody else from their group seems to have even noticed Musichetta. Joly wants to talk about her, to gush about her hair and her face and her lips and her voice and her dimples, but it feels rude to openly admire her like that in front of his boyfriend. They do it all the time about other men, a smash or pass that’s based on objectification and nothing else.
It feels different this time, somehow.
The speakers are playing someone’s crappy playlist now, but Joly just wants to hear her voice again.
“Hey,” Bossuet says gently, and Joly glances over to find him with his phone out. Musichetta’s sweet face smiles at them from an Instagram grid; a photoshoot promoting the release of her single, the original song she’d played for them tonight. She hasn’t got too many followers; enough that she’s clearly got some kind of fanbase, but Joly doesn’t feel weird that he’s never heard of her before.
“Her Instagram?” Joly asks curiously, and Bossuet nods, scrolling down the main page at the different photos.
Most of them are professionally shot, a few candids here and there. Joly pulls his own phone out and they follow her at the same time.
“She’s got a private account too,” Bossuet says, his search page open to her name. There’s a list of accounts and fan accounts with her name, but only one of them has a more casual picture of her.
Joly itches to request a follow, but he holds back.
It’s a moment later that Bossuet’s thumbs are working again, “She lives here,” he declares brightly, thumbing through articles, “Born and raised. Studied for a little, before she dropped out to chase her music dream. She’s- uh, she’s playing here tonight, obviously. And then she’s playing across the city - another bar situation.”
Their calendar is free; it’s a Saturday night. There’s no ABC meeting, no other plans. Just the threat of bad weather.
Joly realises then that Bossuet wasn’t asking if they should go - had just been reading from her website.
“We should go, maybe?” Bossuet says knowingly, and Joly sags with relief. He can’t help the slightly unhinged laugh that falls from his lips.
“Is this real?” he can’t help but ask, and he stops wondering whether or not he should feel strange about wanting to know her more.
“I’m starting to wonder if she is. Look at her, Joly…”
The tension broken, the two of them discuss her like it’s an olympic sport. They dissect every inch of her; the colour of her dress contrasting against her skin, the way her hair flows down her body like a waterfall. And yes, Bossuet had seen the septum piercing too. Her angelic voice, her dimples, her bright beautiful smile. And those eyes.
Fifteen minutes takes far too long, both of them practically vibrating as they keep their eye on the side door. When she returns, Joly and Bossuet are her biggest fans, to the amusement of their friends. Another half-hour passes, in much the same way as the first, and it only fuels their sudden obsession with her.
“Should we- should we go up to her? After her set?” Bossuet’s voice in his ear suddenly shocks Joly back to reality.
“And do what?” Joly asks, turning his head lightly, before shaking his head, “No,” he murmurs, though his heart hurts, “No, she’s- not here to get harassed,” he murmurs, stroking his arm lightly.
“I wasn’t going to harass her,” Bossuet protests lightly, but it’s clear he’s given it more than two seconds of thought, pulling himself back from the post-show frenzy, “I just- wanted to meet her.”
Joly nods quietly. He wants to meet her too, and he has no idea why, why in this bar on this night, he feels like his entire soul is reaching out to her. He wonders what sort of poetry Jehan might write about this moment, this strange longing and yearning for her. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s something else. But whatever it is, Musichetta shouldn’t have to deal with it when she’s just here to play her music.
So her set ends, and Bossuet and Joly cheer for her, and then they let her go. When they turn back to the other end of the table, Combeferre, Enjolras and Grantaire watch them with bemused smiles.
“Fans of Musichetta?” Grantaire asks, quirking an eyebrow.
“We are now,” Bossuet says, not inviting any further comment as he gets up, draining the last of the water in his glass, “That’s it for us, though.”
Joly pulls himself to his feet beside Bossuet, unhooking his cane from under the table and tucking his chair in, “We’ll see everyone on Wednesday?”
Enjolras nods, “Six-thirty. Text the groupchat when you’re home safe. Are you driving?”
“No, we caught the bus today,” Joly says. He never expected Enjolras to be the mom-friend too, but it’s a good look for him, “But I think we might get an uber tonight. My leg’s a little sore.”
He both loves and hates the sympathetic smiles and nods he gets, giving them all a little wave before he links arms with Bossuet and lets him lead as they exit. They walk in silence to the taxi-ranks, and Bossuet pulls out his phone again to request a driver.
Joly’s ears are ringing. He really shouldn’t listen to music that loud, or that close. He really should be investing in some good quality ear plugs before he gets hearing loss, if he hasn’t already gotten it. He’s definitely going to get some before Musichetta’s next show.
Out here, away from the bar atmosphere, everything feels more reasonable and he’s almost embarrassed about their behaviour in the bar, even if they didn’t do anything wrong. Mostly, he’s just curious.
“So…” Joly murmurs softly, easing himself onto one of the aluminium benches, stretching out his leg.
“So,” Bossuet echoes, distracted as he orders the car. When it’s done, he flops down next to Joly, reaching for his hand and messing about with the corded bracelets on his wrist.
“What was that about in there?” Joly asks softly, gazing down and watching Bossuet’s fingers, “With Musichetta?”
Bossuet pauses, his eyebrows drawing together with worry for just a moment until Joly leans forward, pressing a kiss to his cheek, “No, no,” he soothed, “I felt it too. I just- I don’t understand why… why we both acted like that.”
Bossuet’s worry is gone, and he shrugs lightly, “... maybe she was just cute. Maybe she was just… both of our types.”
“I didn’t know I had a type when it came to women,” Joly admits, “... it felt like more than that, though. I don’t know how to explain it. Is that crazy?”
Bossuet shakes his head, “No. You’re not crazy. Or, maybe we both are?”
Joly laughs, running both hands through his hair before he glances at the time, “Do you still want to go to her show tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” he says immediately, “If that’s okay. I think I would like to, a lot.”
Joly manages a small smile, nodding, “At least then we can maybe see if it was just- the alcohol, or whatever.”
Bossuet nods, before he pauses, “And what if it isn’t the alcohol?”
“Then…well, Musichetta just got herself two new fans.”
At the conclusion of the next show, it’s immediately clear to both of them that it wasn’t the alcohol. Musichetta dazzles in sapphire blue tonight, and her hair is pulled up into an intricate braid that spills over one shoulder. The light catches on her eyeshadow when she looks down at the keys, and every note she sings pierces through Joly’s chest like the words are aimed just at him and Bossuet.
She doesn’t see them, though.
Her eyes scan the crowd as she sings, never focusing on anyone, never really seeing them. Maybe the lights are too bright up there; maybe she can’t see anything anyway.
Again, he wants to wait for her, to meet her at the stage and tell her how great she was… but there’s an ulterior motive there; he can feel it. He doesn’t just want to compliment her; he wants to know her. He wants to bring her into their circle and-
It startles him to realise just how much he wants her. Surely it isn’t healthy; surely it’s not real. It’s got to just be desire. Desire for a woman is new, though. And like the other night… when he’s honest with himself, it’s so much more than that. He doesn’t (just) want her in his bed; he wants her spirit, and he wants to learn how to make those dimples appear for real, instead of the smile she puts on when she’s in front of a crowd.
A small part of him wants to leave her behind and never see her again, afraid of the consequences of a thousand missteps. A larger part of him can’t bear to leave her now they’ve found her. The feelings are too intense when he’s only ever seen her across a crowded room. Now he knows how Marius feels.
After the show, when Joly’s hands hurt from clapping and when they’re both back home, laying side by side in their bed with the lights off, they talk about it again.
“Do you feel the same way you did last night?” Joly checks.
Bossuet sighs, like he’s upset about it, “If anything, I think it got worse.”
Joly giggles softly, rolling onto his side and pressing his face into Bossuet’s arm, “This is worse than a high school crush,” he says.
“A crush!” Bossuet laments, “Just my luck…” he hums softly, rolling onto his side so they face each other, throwing one arm over Joly’s waist, “I don’t really know what’s going on. But… I love you. That hasn’t changed, and isn’t going to.”
Joly doesn’t need the confirmation, but it warms his heart and his insides twist with fondness, and he just nods, “I know,” he tells Bossuet, leaning forward to press a chaste kiss against his lips, “And I love you too. Same goes for me.”
Bossuet nods, satisfied, and he’s quiet for a long moment before he speaks again, “Her music is great, and we really like her. Let’s just…” he shrugs, “Let’s just support her, and be her biggest fans. That’s all she’s asking for right now, and we can give it to her.”
Joly nods in agreement, turning his face away to yawn as his eyes start to droop, “Yeah. We can figure out where she’s playing, and if it’s convenient, we’ll show up.”
‘If it’s convenient’ turns into ‘every single show, despite the two trains and a bus it takes to get there sometimes’.
Joly’s life becomes a strange conglomeration of studying, being at shows, or thinking about the next show. He memorises her original song, learns the covers she prefers so he can sing along with her, and starts a little prediction with himself about which outfit she might wear for which show. The intensity of their feelings settle, if only slightly. Neither of them suggest going up to meet her again, and they get to a point where they don’t really want to, anymore. It’s just fun, and they use the nights out as date nights, treating each other where they can.
After eight shows, their streak comes to an end when Joly’s body fails him.
He limps home from class, leaning heavily on his cane and wondering why the world has to be against him. Bossuet meets him at the door, having already received his SOS text, and pulls the other man into his arms, holding him tight.
“You can go without me,” Joly murmurs miserably, collapsing onto the couch and rubbing gently at his knee, hoping it’ll relieve the discomfort.
“Nonsense,” Bossuet walks into the side of the couch as he crosses to the kitchen, barely reacting as he corrects his path and pauses at the fridge, “Heat or cold?”
“Cold,” Joly mumbles, sullen and sulky. He hates it. He hates the pain, hates these days he can’t control when all their plans go out the window because he can’t make it across the house without breaking down. And he wants to go out tonight; wants to see Musichetta and wants to listen and drink and have fun.
He hears a plastic cup hit the ground and a soft ‘whoops’ from Bossuet, and it makes him smile despite his foul mood.
“How was the rest of your day?” Bossuet asks from the kitchen, and Joly knows it’s a distraction but he leans into it, thinking for a moment. .
“It was alright. Aimee asked some silly questions today that made it clear that she had not finished the readings. The lecturer didn’t seem to know how to move on.”
His tall, indulgent boyfriend carefully puts the plastic cup, now full, onto the coffee table with two anti-inflammatories and sits beside him, gently easing Joly’s leg up onto his lap and placing a cold pack over his knee.
"Thanks," he says, already feeling a little better, "It wasn’t all bad though,” he admits, “There were some good things," he begins, a hint of enthusiasm creeping into his voice, "I had a great conversation with Professor Durand after class. We talked about that new study on genetic predispositions to chronic illnesses. It's fascinating stuff."
Bossuet nods, "Oh yeah? That sounds interesting," he indulges, though he’s pre-law and Joly knows he has no idea if it does or not.
Joly’s smile widens as he continues, "And then, during lunch break, I bumped into Grantaire. We ended up chatting for ages about that new art exhibition downtown. He said he can probably get us some tickets if we want to go - he knows a guy, apparently.”
He watches as Bossuet's face lights up with genuine interest this time, “Ooh, that does sound fun. Can we go with him or Jehan though? As much as I like modern art, I like hearing about it. Or listening to Jehan interpret.”
Joly nods, glancing at the time and pouting when he realises it’s too late to leave now. His knee still aches and he couldn’t have gone anyway, but he feels bad for keeping Bossuet home, “I was serious, you know. You can go see her. I promise I won’t be jealous,” he says, batting his eyelashes.
Bossuet laughs, squeezing his ankle and shaking his head, “Nah. As much as I like being there, it’d be pretty boring without you enjoying it by my side.”
Joly all but melts, making grabby hands and realising that maybe the world isn’t totally out to get him when he has a boyfriend like Bossuet to take care of him.
The next show is outdoors. Joly and Bossuet sit at a dressed-up picnic table under a large umbrella, tilted to face the elevated state at the back of the venue. She’s only supposed to be background music this time, playing quiet, classy instrumentals while food is delivered to the tables. It’s a little classier than her other venues, but Joly and Bossuet don’t mind splurging, especially since they missed her last show.
While nothing like the electric half-hours at the bars, full of singing and laughing and cheering, seeing her is still just as good. As the evening winds down and most of the patrons leave, she’s allowed to sing too, though it’s not the kind of venue where she’s trying to draw in the crowd and keep them entertained. Joly and Bossuet still clap, a little less enthusiastically than they usually would, but still as genuinely.
Everything is gearing up to be a nice, normal night. The entertainment has finished; Musichetta’s packing up, it’s late, and it’s about time that they should be going too. That is, until Bossuet pauses with his drink halfway to his mouth.
“Joly,” he murmurs, so low and frantic that Joly immediately looks up from the packet of peanuts he’s been wrestling with.
He looks up, only to find Musichetta down from her stage and walking towards them.
She’s probably just passing. Heading to the bar, the bathroom, the exit; anywhere that isn’t their table. Joly glances away so he doesn’t gawk, but then Bossuet squeaks under his breath and he looks up again.
She’s standing right there.
There, she leans at the end of the table, giving them both an amused little smile, “Hi.”
Joly can feel his heart ricocheting in his chest. His pulse is frantic, he feels a little faint. It’s nerves, excitement, or it’s a heart attack. He’s pretty sure it’s the two former but it could also be the latter and for a moment he’s worried about it, until he realises that he nor Bossuet have said a word, and have just been staring at her.
“Hello, hi,” Joly barks out, “Um, hi,” he says, floundering for a topic like he was the one who initiated the conversation.
Musichetta laughs softly, and it truly is like a melody, no matter how cliche Joly thinks that is, “I missed you at my last show,” she says, “Which is funny, because at the show before that, I was half-wondering if it was too soon in my career to need a restraining order.”
Bossuet pales beside him, and Joly’s eyebrows hit his hairline, “Oh, no. Hey, no. I’m sorry,” he says immediately, and he no longer feels faint but now sick and hot, certain that his face is bright red, “Oh no,” he huffs, “We- we’re just big fans of your music. I- we didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
He’s blathering, stumbling over his words to try and reassure her while getting to his feet, ready to leave. He wants to go, to get out of there, to leave and never-
“Hey,” she interrupts him, bemused, “I was kidding, honey. About the restraining order, at least. I really did miss you both last show.”
Bossuet finally manages to find his voice, “You’ve…seen us?”
Musichetta's smile softens, her eyes holding a warmth that sends a shiver down Joly's spine. "Of course," she replies, sincere, "Ever since your first, at the Corinthe. Your support means the world to me, I wanted to make sure you knew."
Joly lets out a sudden laugh, giddy, “Oh, wow,” he whispers, “It’s so nice of you to come and say hello. I’m Joly, and this is Bossuet. Would you… um, would you like to join us for a drink?”
Musichetta hesitates, taken aback. Her gaze flits between Bossuet and Joly for a moment, and Joly regrets asking; wishes he could take back the words and crawl in a hole and just die. So much for her joking about the restraining order. Joly may as well file one for himself.
“Yeah, sure,” she says after another beat, in which Joly convinces himself to move to Canada to escape the shame.
Bossuet grins and Joly can feel him relax, which is all well and good for him, but Joly still feels like a wreck.
They order her a drink; a Moscow Mule, which Joly hasn’t even heard of. She’s a bartender and a barista, they learn, in between gigs. As they chat, Joly can't shake the feeling of being out of his depth. He watches Bossuet effortlessly engage Musichetta in conversation, his words flowing with ease and charm. Meanwhile, Joly struggles to find the right words, his attempts at humour falling flat even though she laughs, and his anecdotes feel forced. He wants desperately to impress her, to show her that he's more than just a bundle of nerves and awkwardness, but it seems like every word out of his mouth only serves to reinforce that impression. Yet, despite his self-doubt, he can't tear his gaze away from her, captivated by her effortless grace and magnetic presence.
Meeting her is dangerous, and all of the intensity of those first two nights is back like a roaring flame. She’s wonderful, and interesting, and when Joly goes on a tangent she listens instead of redirecting him. When Joly wipes the table down for the fourth time since she’s been there, she just passes him more napkins and pulls a travel bottle of sanitiser from her purse for him to wash his hands with.
Bossuet draws her back into a conversation about her music, and Joly immediately loses interest. He tries to fake it, nodding along with several strategically placed “mhms” along the way, but really he just uses the conversation as an opportunity to sneak glances at her. Up close, she’s even more beautiful. Her eyes, a rich, warm brown, twinkle with mischief. Her skin is smooth and golden, kissed by the sun, with just a hint of freckles dusting her nose and cheeks. Her smile is infectious, lighting up her face, and those dimples seem even deeper when her smile is natural.
He finds himself utterly mesmerised by her, and despite his lack of understanding of the topic, Joly finds comfort in the rhythmic cadence of their voices, the easy camaraderie that flows between them. He’s sitting at the table with his boyfriend, and with Muschietta, and everything is good.
Good, until Bossuet spills his water with a particularly enthusiastic gesture, swearing as it splashes across the table and onto Musichetta's lap. Musichetta jumps back with a gasp, her eyes widening in surprise as the cold water soaks through her dress.
"Oh, fuck, I'm so sorry Musichetta," Bossuet stammers, his face turning crimson, "I didn't mean to—I’m such a klutz, I’m so sorry-"
"It's alright, it's alright," Musichetta reassures him, although her voice carries a hint of amusement as she tries to dab at the spreading wet patch on her dress with another handful of napkins, “No harm done, it’s just a bit of water.”
She’s so nice. Joly and Bossuet’s idiosyncrasies have been on full display and she’s still smiling, laughing, and hasn’t seemed like she wants to leave. Joly helps them clean up the table when he hears the bell for last call. They have maybe half an hour left with her… and though he knows they’ll see her again, at another show, he doesn’t want the night to end.
Musichetta looks up when she hears the bell, frowning slightly, before she seems to make a decision, “Hey… this might be a little crazy, given we’ve known each other a couple of hours, can I offer you guys a lift home?” Musichetta asks, chewing her lower lip as she waits for their answer.
It’s an adorable behaviour, though Joly worries for her lip health. He and Bossuet don’t have to look at each other for confirmation before they’re both nodding in unison.
“That would be great,” Bossuet says.
“Thank you,” Joly adds, and she’s right - it is crazy. But he’s willing to indulge crazy a little longer, as long as they’re all crazy together.
“You live together, right?” she checks, fishing her keys from her bag as they finish up their drinks and head to the entrance.
The cool night air greets them as they step outside, and Joly shivers slightly, wrapping his arms around himself for warmth. Bossuet steps in close, wrapping his arm around Joly’s side, careful not to get in the way of his cane as they walk.
“Yeah. Pretty much from the second we graduated high school,” Bossuet explains fondly.
Luckily, Musichetta parked in the visitor parking, so they don’t have to go too far. It's a modest vehicle, but well-maintained and clearly loved.
“Sit in the font,” Musichetta tells Joly, the exact moment that Bossuet tells him the same thing.
They look at each other with a laugh, and Joly looks between them, “Oh yeah? Why?”
“Extra leg room,” they both say, before the three of them burst into laughter.
Once they're all settled inside, Musichetta starts the engine and they pull out of the parking lot. Joly directs her between their scattered conversations, because Bossuet is terrible with directions and will get them lost, though he almost considers steering her the wrong way, just for a couple of extra minutes with her.
As they drive through the night, Joly can't help but feel a sense of contentment settle over him, listening to her and Bossuet chat like old friends. The soft glow of the streetlights illuminates their path, casting gentle shadows across Musichetta's face as she navigates the streets.
The familiar sights of their neighbourhood pass by in a blur, and Joly finds himself lost in the warmth of their shared laughter and companionship. Despite the late hour and the exhaustion weighing heavily on his shoulders, he feels more alive than he has in a long time.
As they approach their apartment building, Joly directs Musichetta to the visitor’s parking area. With a grateful smile, he thanks her for the ride, feeling a pang of reluctance at the thought of saying goodbye.
“Fuck,” Bossuet murmurs under his breath, before he addresses her, “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but… do you want to come up for a coffee?”
She glances at the time on the dash. It’s nearing two in the morning.
“A little late for a coffee, sweetheart,” she tells him gently. Joly wants to reach through the seat and squeeze Bossuet’s hand, to soothe the embarrassment, but Musichetta soothes it for him, “But I’ll come up for a glass of wine, if you’ve got it?”
Bossuet seems to sigh with relief, laughing, “Yeah, we’ve got wine,” he says, and it’s easy to lead her up to their small, one-bedroom apartment.
It’s immaculate, because that’s who Joly is. Everything has a place, because if it doesn’t, Bossuet trips over it. Her eyes sweep over the artwork, mostly pieces from Grantaire they’ve stolen over the years. She smiles at the little knick knacks and figurines dotted about their apartment, and admires the framed x-ray from when Bossuet fell downstairs and broke his arm in three places.
Bossuet gets them a glass of wine each and they sit on the couch, Musichetta in the middle, and talk.
Musichetta's presence fills the space with a comforting energy, inspiring more laughter and more joy. They talk about everything and nothing, sharing stories and jokes as they sip their wine and lose track of time.
Joly startles when he hears the birds outside; it’s nearing dawn, and somehow they haven’t run out of conversation. Musichetta looks to the window, where the first few rays of the sun are starting to light up the room, and she chuckles quietly.
“Guess time really got away from us,” she says, covering her mouth as she yawns, “I guess I better get out of your hair and let you sleep.”
“What?!” Joly says in alarm, shaking his head, “You can’t go,” he says, before his brain catches up with his mouth and he realises explanation is needed, “I mean. Of course you can go, but- it’s- you haven’t slept. And people die on the roads all the time when they drive tired. I- it wouldn’t feel right letting you go.”
Musichetta’s gaze softens and she chuckles, reaching for his hand and squeezing it. Her hands are so soft, and tiny in comparison to his, “Thank you,” she says gently, “For caring like that. That’s so sweet of you.”
“You can take the bed,” Bossuet tells her, and she scoffs.
“Absolutely not. You boys are tired too, and I’d be robbing both of you of a good sleep. The couch is fine, it’s very comfortable.”
Bossuet tries to protest, but she puts a finger to his lips, “Shh, now; do you have a spare pillow?”
They relent, and get to work making up a bed for her, with sheets and a pillow and their favourite blanket. Joly makes her drink a whole glass of water, and puts another full glass on the coffee table in front of her. Joly finds a pair of pyjama pants that fit her, though his shirts are a little snug. One of Bossuet’s does the trick though, so at least she doesn’t have to sleep in her dress. They find her some baby wipes for her makeup, and Joly even manages to find a hair tie from when he used to grow his hair long.
“If you need anything, feel free to come get us. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, and…” Joly hesitates, but he’s said enough things that would be considered inappropriate for having just met someone tonight, more couldn’t hurt, “If we’re not awake and you need to go, come get us before you leave, alright?”
Musichetta's grin is warm and genuine, her fatigue evident in the softness of her expression. "I will. Thank you both, for tonight. I’ve had… such a good time," she says around another yawn,
With a final exchange of goodnights, Joly and Bossuet retreat to their bedroom, leaving Musichetta to settle in for the night. They get dressed into their own pyjamas, sleepily going through the motions. As they lie in bed, the events of the evening replay in Joly's mind, his thoughts a whirlwind of excitement and nervous anticipation.
Despite the lateness of the hour, sleep eludes him as he goes over their conversations, the sound of Musichetta's laughter echoing in his mind. He can't shake the feeling of warmth and connection that had enveloped them throughout the night, leaving him with a lingering sense of contentment.
“This is nuts, right?” Bossuet whispers to him, and Joly rolls onto his side, draping himself over Bossuet’s chest and nodding.
“Totally nuts. But in a good way," Joly agrees, pressing a kiss to Bossuet's neck. He hesitates for a moment, before he closes his eyes to ask, “I wasn’t too weird tonight, was I? She doesn’t think I’m a total dork or anything?”
Bossuet chuckles softly, “You were brilliant, my love. No weirdness detected. And if she thinks you’re a dork, it’s because you are one, and it’s incredibly endearing.”
Joly smiles against his skin, pressing a soft kiss there again, “Good,” he whispers softly.
Bossuet pulls him closer, “The feelings are still the same, right?”
“Right,” Joly says, yawning again, “Nothing’s changed for me.”
“Me either,” Bossuet says, and he almost sounds pleased.
If sleep eluded him before, finding out that he and Bossuet were still on the same page seems to have been the missing piece of the puzzle for falling asleep. Almost immediately his eyes droop and they’re incapable of opening again.
Within minutes, he sleeps peacefully.
The harsh, mid-morning light filters through the curtains as Joly stirs from sleep, his mind groggy and his body reluctant to leave the warmth of the bed. He blinks blearily, momentarily disoriented when he twists and finds that Bossuet isn’t beside him. Then, the aroma of sizzling eggs and fresh coffee reaches him, dispelling the remnants of sleep.
Worry gnaws at him for just a moment—Bossuet's culinary endeavours are notorious for their lack of success. He worries for their kitchen, scrambling to his feet and padding out to the main room. Instead of Bossuet, he finds Musichetta at the stove, expertly flipping an omelette in the skillet.
A smile tugs at the corners of his lips as he takes in the scene, the sight of her cooking filling him with a strange fondness in his chest. She’s still wearing their clothes, looking comfortable and right in her element, "Morning," he greets her, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.
Bossuet sits at the island on a barstool, looking lovestruck as he watches her, a coffee cup in his hands. It’s clear he hasn’t been awake long either, and he pours a cup of coffee for Joly.
“Mornin’,” she hums, moving around the kitchen like she’s done it a thousand times, “Did you sleep well?”
“Hey, I slept in my bed last night. I should be asking you that question,” Joly protests, talking to her like he’s known her all his life, instead of only scratching the surface for the past twelve hours.
She gives him a fond little smile, “Like I said last night, your couch is very comfortable. I slept wonderfully.”
"Glad to hear it," he replies, pressing a soft kiss to Bossuet’s bald head.
He watches her as she expertly plates the omelette and pours fresh coffee into their mugs. It's a simple gesture, but one that speaks volumes all the same, "You didn’t have to do any of this…”
“Save it, I already told her off,” Bossuet hums softly, wrapping his arm around Joly’s waist.
“It’s the least I can do,” she assures them, pushing a plate each their way and grinning.
“Well, we appreciate it," Joly says sincerely, picking up his fork and digging into the omelette. It’s delicious, which is no surprise. Musichetta seems full to the brim of hidden talents and skills. He wants to know them all.
Beside him, Bossuet nods in agreement, his mouth full of food but his eyes reflecting the same sentiment. After their enthusiastic appreciation for her food, they eat in contented silence, enjoying the simple pleasure of good food and even better company. Occasionally Joly glances up, catching Musichetta, or Bossuet’s eyes, and giving them a giddy, near shy grin.
It’s ridiculous, but they’re all ridiculous together. Joly can’t explain it, and if he thinks about it too much he’ll start to question it, and he’s not ready for that yet.
When breakfast is over, and they’ve bullied her out of her insistence on doing the dishes, there’s really no excuse for her to stay anymore.
They exchange numbers, and they let her keep the borrowed clothes to go home in, rather than get back into her dress. They stall, lingering in the kitchen as if time itself might slow down if they just delay her departure a little longer.
When the inevitable moment arrives, they walk her to the door, offering heartfelt thanks and promises to keep in touch, to see her at the next show. Musichetta hugs them both tightly, her warmth and affection palpable even in the brief embrace.
As she steps out into the morning sunlight, Joly and Bossuet linger in the doorway, watching her go longingly. The door doesn’t close until they hear her car start downstairs, and Joly feels overcome with a profound sense of loss.
“Did that really just happen?” Bossuet mumbles, sounding dazed.
Joly leans against the closed door, his heart heavy, "I think it did," he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper. He can still feel the warmth of Musichetta's hug lingering on his skin, the stale scent of morning-after perfume; a tangible reminder of the connection they shared.
Bossuet runs a hand over his head, a gesture of uncertainty, "I mean, she just... fit," he says, his words trailing off as he struggles to articulate the whirlwind of emotions coursing through him.
"Yeah," Joly agrees softly, and Bossuet looks relieved that he agrees, "She really did…” he says, before glancing up, “...and I didn’t think that was something we needed or wanted, until we met her.”
Bossuet looks up at him, nodding emphatically, “Do… you think she feels the same way?”
Joly’s heart twists anxiously for a moment and he doesn’t answer. He’s been in a committed relationship with another man for nearly five years. He shouldn’t have butterflies and anxiety over whether a girl might like him or not. But Musichetta isn't just any girl. She's different. She's stirred something within him that he didn’t know existed, and isn’t sure how to navigate.
Bossuet takes a deep breath, his gaze meeting Joly's with unwavering sincerity, "I really like her, Joly. I love you with all my heart, that’s never going to change… and I know we kind of talked about this when it was still just a dumb crush, but… I’m honestly open to seeing what happens with her. Being open to whatever it is, if it’s anything. But I don’t want to even entertain the thought of it unless you agree, unless you want to as well. I don’t- I don’t even want to, you know, date her separately if you don’t want to. It’s all of us, or just the two of us."
Joly listens intently, waiting for him to finish. His own heart pounds with excitement, a smile pulling at the corner of his lips. "I feel the same way," he tells Bossuet firmly, reaching out to grasp his boyfriend's hand reassuringly, “Maybe it’s too early to be even entertaining the idea of… dating,” he murmurs, giggling into his hand for a moment, “But if it happens… I want to.”
Bossuet's expression softens with relief as he squeezes Joly's hand in return, a gentle smile spreading across his face, "I'm so glad you get me," he says, his voice tinged with gratitude as he pulls Joly against his body, peppering his forehead with kisses, "And you're right, maybe it is a bit early to be thinking about dating, but... I just wanted to put it out there properly."
Joly nods, leaning into Bossuet’s chest and closing his eyes, just taking a moment. Despite how easy it was to talk about it, and to come to a decision together, he still feels drained. In all honesty, they could probably go back to bed; they don’t have plans for the rest of the day.
Bossuet huffs out a laugh, exasperated, “I can’t believe I miss her. Do you think she’s thinking about us, too?”
All of a sudden, their phones ring simultaneously, both of their ringtones blaring from the bedroom. Usually, both of their phones ringing means an ABC crisis, and they move with urgency to check the caller ID.
Musichetta’s name shows up on both of their phones; a conference call to the both of them, even though she must know they’re in the same room.
Joly just laughs delightedly.