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Feuilly gave the CD player a final shake and pushed play again, tossing it back onto the table with a frustrated noise when the only sound it made was a series of pathetic clicks.
Don’t buy electronics from Goodwill. They are made of five-dollar lies and will still somehow manage to be too advanced for you or any of your other electronically-minded friends to fix. Yes, even the one majoring in engineering.
Feuilly scowled at the dead player as if it were doing this on purpose.
Usually this wouldn’t be a big deal. Most of Feuilly’s belongings were second- or third- or fourth-hand and held together with duct tape and curse words; he wasn’t exactly disused to things breaking. It was just that on top of the day he’d had, which rivaled some of Bossuet’s, he’d at least been hoping to play the newest mix CD from Eponine while he fought through his homework.
His day had started off bad when he woke up late for work, overtired because he’d been up late working on his honors application. It had gone further downhill just by being at work, where all the customers were on edge (Christmas spirit, Feuilly thought sourly, did not apply to retail) and the misgendering was near constant (is that your real name? did you switch tags with someone?, snickers and speculations when they thought he wasn’t listening, and of course, the ever-present ma’am). When his shift finally ended his manager was slow to close his register, and so when the bus showed up five minutes early (and it should be illegal for buses to be early) it left without Feuilly on it, leaving him six miles from school with a class starting in twenty minutes and oh, also, it had begun to rain. So when he finally did make it to campus he spent the money he’d been saving for a new pack of cigarettes on overpriced coffee, because he was cold and wet and didn’t think he could make it through a lecture without falling dead asleep. On the walk home he’d realized that he couldn’t remember if he’d stopped to eat that day, but judging by the way his hands were shaking now over his calculus homework his guess was no. Although that might have been due to the subsequent pot of coffee he’d consumed upon arriving home, determined to work his way through the homework that had been steadily piling up since he’d started taking on more shifts for the holiday season.
He’d had worse days in his life, far worse days, definitely. But that didn’t mean that he was enjoying this day much.
He blamed his next actions on the coffee entirely. Bahorel must have gotten home and Feuilly didn’t hear him come in, because when a pair of hands landed lightly on his shoulders, Feuilly reacted on instinct and the twitchy hyperactivity that the caffeine was giving him: he whirled around in his chair and punched Bahorel in the face.
“All right, I’m fairly sure I haven’t done anything to deserve that lately,” Bahorel said, blinking and rubbing at his jaw. He seemed more amused than anything, but then, that was Bahorel. “But if I have, we can certainly take this outside and fight to the death or the first broken nose, whichever comes first.”
“No, sorry— shit,” Feuilly muttered, shaking out his fist and then biting down on the knuckle of his first finger, a nervous habit common enough that there were almost always faint red marks there. “It’s just…” He waved an arm expansively and shrugged.
Bahorel’s eyes swept over the almost empty coffee pot, the piles of homework, and the abandoned CD player, took in his muddy clothes in the hamper and the still-damp shoes by the door, before coming to rest on Feuilly again as he sat down at the table.
“Worst,” he said sympathetically, with a touch of his natural joviality but no pity or condescension whatsoever, and that together with his superior aplomb in taking an undeserved punch made him literally the only person Feuilly would want to see right now.
“Not quite, but still not great,” he agreed, looking back at his homework with reluctance, because he loved learning but damn if these general ed classes weren’t going to be the death of him then nothing would.
Bahorel got up without another word, switching his MP3 player on and leaving it on the table as he went to rustle around in the kitchen, humming quietly with the music. Feuilly picked up his pencil again with a sigh, and was somewhere between absorbed in his work and simply zoning out, so when Bahorel plopped a plate of grilled cheese and a coffee mug of tomato soup in front of him, he could only stare in vague surprise.
“If you don’t eat it you’ll hurt my feelings and also probably die,” Bahorel called over his shoulder as he went back to retrieve his own plate and sit down. Feuilly made a face.
“I won’t die…”
“You will, because I’ll kill you,” Bahorel interrupted cheerfully, and the food really did look fantastic, and oh god Feuilly gave an involuntary moan around the first bite because that was bacon in the center...
Bahorel looked altogether far too satisfied with himself but Feuilly couldn’t bring himself to care.
“You,” he said accusingly, already finishing the last bites, “are a terror. A seductive food-god of terror.” Bahorel snorted.
“And you are clearly delirious because that barely made sense even to me,” he said, reaching over to tug Feuilly up by the hand. Feuilly gave a little whine of protest but allowed himself to be pulled along, and if he leaned into Bahorel’s side when he was standing it was certainly everything to do with the fact that he was exhausted and nothing at all to do with the fact that Bahorel was solid and warm and putting an arm around his shoulders that was making Feuilly feel disproportionately comforted. Bahorel guided him to the door and Feuilly made a face, but instead of pulling away he tucked himself closer into Bahorel’s side.
“You have got to be kidding me,” he complained, burying his face petulantly in Bahorel’s shoulder. “Dammit, it’s cold…”
But then Bahorel’s fingers were under his chin, tipping his face up, and Feuilly caught a glimpse of his grin before suddenly he was popping a cigarette between Feuilly’s lips, stopping him mid-protest.
If Feuilly had moaned around the sandwich, the sound he made now was positively orgasmic. He had a brief thought of thanking Bahorel right away but discarded it in favor of closing his eyes and sucking in a deep breath.
“I take it all back,” he said on the exhale, eyes still closed in bliss. “You are a saint.”
“I know,” Bahorel said, sounding pleased. “I’ve got a halo and everything. Think I lost it in that barfight last Saturday, though…”
“Saints don’t wear halos until they’ve been canonised, I don’t think,” Feuilly said absently, feeling his muscles un-knot themselves as he leaned his whole weight into Bahorel. “I haven’t put in your application yet. Expect a congratulatory letter from the Pope in the next week or so, though.”
“Ah, no, if it’s him we’re waiting on I’m doomed to remain an exceedingly virtuous mortal. You know how he and I disagree.”
Feuilly laughed quietly and blew a smoke ring up at Bahorel, who tried to catch it in his mouth but missed and wrinkled his nose as the smoke hit his eyes instead. His arm was warm over Feuilly’s shoulders and his chin came to rest comfortably on the top of Feuilly’s head. Feuilly tipped it back to nudge Bahorel’s neck.
“Sorry about the punch,” he murmured.
“Nah,” Bahorel responded with a one-armed shrug. “Sometimes you just have to punch someone. Better me than someone who could get you fired. Or arrested.”
“Mmm. Unfortunately, those are usually the ones I want to punch most.”
“I could do it for you, if you like.” And Feuilly laughed— not because the offer wasn’t meant seriously, but because it was.
“As tempting as that is, it might not look very good on your application for sainthood.” Feuilly finished the cigarette and flicked it away, and his hand brushed Bahorel’s as they went back inside.