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Bossuet wasn’t used to luck, so, in a way, he should have known to expect that.
Jehan had brought up the possibility of it being some sort of curse once, back in his medieval studies days, when he spent far too much time on folk tales. Combeferre and him had spent weeks debating the issue back and forth, which exasperated Enjolras to no end, and the experiment only ended because Jehan, used to wandering through meadows and fields, fell asleep under an old oak tree and woke up to a cow ripping off a page of the folktale book he was studying on the matter.
After that there were justified concerns that meddling with the issue might make it contagious.
He didn’t care much, knowing ill-luck to be always around the corner, Bossuet, more than anyone, had learned to enjoy whatever stroke of fortune came about. That afternoon, for example, both his classes and Joly’s had been dismissed early, and, not wanting to subject his friend to a long walk that might aggravate his bad leg, they decided to camp at the Musain and wait for the others there. It should be one hour, more or less, but he didn’t mind the wait one bit.
“There you go.” Bossuet held the door open for Joly to go into the back room, watching the man’s face carefully for any sign of pain.
“Thank you, dear.” Joly gave the chairs a grave look and Bossuet took the bench, more solid and, thus, less likely to fall apart underneath him. “Must the seating here be so dreadful?”
The plain wood was to Enjolras’ spartan taste, but not anyone else’s. Grantaire found the chairs luxurious, but he traded punches for fun and slept on the floor after a night of drinking, and Feuilly didn’t care one way or another, but the rest of the Amis only tolerated the situation out of a dignified sense of self-sacrifice.
Bossuet held out his arms and Joly approached, hooking his cane on the back of a nearby chair and straddling his thighs.
“Better?” He asked, running his fingertips down his friend’s spine.
“Better.” Joly’s smile displayed a captivating gap between his front teeth.
“Good.” He smiled back and that smile was met with the silken touch of his friend’s lips.
It was just his luck that he happened to be classical in his preferences, but, by stroke of fortune, so was Joly.
Bossuet savoured the kiss with languid excitement. Most days they had to wait until evening to give themselves over to that urge of a deeper connection that their friendship entailed, he felt extravagant to be witnessing Joly’s usually pale face take up colour like that, in the light of day which came in through the ventilation windows near the ceiling.
“We’re early.” Joly pointed out, flustered like a maiden, smiling like a sinner.
“By one hour, I’d say.” Bossuet traced the buttons of his vest.
Joly hummed and he pulled him back by the scarf, letting the other man undo the buttons himself lest he accidentally pop one, and preoccupying himself instead with kissing that fresh, sweet, mouth.
“You must stop drinking coffee, Lègle, haven’t I already told you how much it excites the heart?”
“You excite my heart far more.” Bossuet smiled between kisses, moving down from Joly’s mouth to his neck, hastily pulling the scarf out of the way.
“Don’t play with these things, dear, you leave the most unhygienic life, some day you’ll end up sick, don’t tell me then I didn’t warn you.”
Bossuet tugged at the scarf and the sound of fabric ripping echoed in the room.
“Don’t mind it.” Joly dismissed, moving slowly on his lap.
“At least you know I’ll never have lice.” He joked, trailing kisses down his friend’s neck to his clavicles and chest through the slit of the shirt.
“Everything I say is a joke to you.” Joly squirmed, already sounding breathless.
“Of course not.” He held the man firmly against his hips, caressing his thighs at the same time as he pressed open-mouth kisses to his chest. “You know how strong my heart is, let me have my coffee, Jolllly.”
“You do everything opposite of what I tell you to.” Joly nibbled his ear and Bossuet suppressed a sound deep in his throat.
His palms found his friend’s plump rear and Bossuet pressed him closer, getting up from the bench to deposit Joly on the large table.
“Then tell me to stop kissing you.” He teased.
“Lègle!”
Bossuet buried his nose into Joly’s hair behind his ear, moving his hips between the other man’s thighs to resume their dancing.
“Please?” He pleaded, reaching down between them to relieve his friend. “Will you let me have my coffee?”
Joly stuttered his reply to incomprehensiveness and Bossuet resumed the kissing of his neck, taking time to savour the Adam’s apple and all the sweet sounds his friend made when his hand found its way into his pants.
Mindful of his comfort, Bossuet put a hand on Joly’s back, guiding him to lie back, so the pressure on his bad leg would be lessened.
He looked like a banquet, flushed and breathless. A banquet that was entirely for that poor starving eagle. He was plagued by ill-luck in all things but one, but that one thing made all the rest seem meaningless.
Bossuet dove back into the kiss, pressing Joly to the table with his weight.
“HOW DARE YOU?”
Joly gasped, and Bossuet straightened his back so fast he almost lost his balance.
Enjolras was at the door, looking like he might conjure storms with one word alone. Bossuet opened his mouth and then closed it again upon realizing he had been kissing Joly on Enjolras’ table.
“Enjolras.” Joly pleaded.
“Is this what you do to our cause? To France?” Enjolras thundered, breaking out of his shocked position to run a hand down his chin. “How long have you been traitors to the Revolution?”
“This has nothing to do with the Revolution.” Bossuet pointed out, raising one of his hands and realising that the other was still trapped inside Joly’s pants.
Enjolras realised the same thing and his face twisted further.
“You—”
“What’s happened?” Courfeyrac rushed in. “I heard you…”
The rest of the sentence faded as he took in the scene. Bossuet carefully extracted his hand from Joly’s pants.
“Oh.” Combeferre looked at them over Courfeyrac’s shoulder.
“What you are witnessing here is the decay of the noble cause, infected by the licentiousness of this regime—” Enjolras started, pointing at them like he was talking to a crowd of thousands.
“Stop that, this has nothing to do with the cause.” Bossuet stepped in front of Joly, who seemed to have somewhat regained his senses and was sitting up, trying to fix his clothes.
“Behold corruption in which all the marking of rule of the self-proclaimed aristocrats can be seen!” Enjolras declared. “It’s hedonistic, it’s cynical, it mocks the purpose of men!”
“All pleasure is hedonistic to you, Enjolras.” Courfeyrac intervened before Bossuet could say anything in their defence. “There’s hardly a less aristocratic way to go about it.”
“Is this a laughing matter to you?” Enjolras turned his fury onto his oldest friend, but it was Combeferre who responded.
“It’s immensely funny, you’ll have to forgive me for agreeing with him.” The scholar hesitated before a chair, turning to Bossuet. “Is this one safe?”
“Combeferre!” Enjolras looked from one comrade to another, seemingly at a loss.
“What is the purpose of men, Enjolras?” Combeferre decided to take the risk and sat down, crossing one leg over the other.
“Freedom!”
“Then let them be free.” He waved a hand, pulling a seat for Courfeyrac.
“Licentiousness, is not the same thing as freedom, it’s… counterrevolutionary!”
“Why?” Courfeyrac sprawled down on his seat, seeming to be thoroughly enjoying the situation.
“It’s medieval!”
“It’s Greek, ask Jehan.” Combeferre drawled. “Courfeyrac is right, you condemn all pleasures but not every man can live on the love of Revolution alone, some of us need something a little warmer at night.”
“My word…” Enjolras paced, restless.
“If it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll have some cognac.” Joly whispered, flustered, stepping down from the table and rushing out, passing Grantaire on the way.
“Superb.” The newcomer approved. “Unusual, coming from you, what are we celebrating?”
“This shall be a memorial toast, I find that all my friends are in support of the utter perversion of men!” Enjolras proclaimed. “Men who were supposed to uphold the legacy of the Revolution!”
Courfeyrac explained.
“Joly was entertaining Bossuet on the table.”
Grantaire scoffed, a small smile appearing on his face.
“It’s Joly and this is the Musain. He’s probably the cleanest thing that’s ever been on that table.”
“Absurd.” Enjolras snapped.
“Is that religious dogma I’m detecting, Enjolras?” Grantaire drawled.
“You—” Enjolras pinned a finger to his chest and then turned to look at the others. “All of you!”
Finding no support there, he marched out, and Grantaire started following.
“He’s going into one of his moods.” Courfeyrac reached for his sleeve.
“It’ll speed the process if he has someone to yell at, you know how he loves to yell at me.” Grantaire shrugged with a sad smile, following Enjolras out.
Joly came back with the cognac as he was leaving.
“I’m saving you some.” He raised the glass, walking to the chair Bossuet had lined with his folded coat to make more comfortable.
For a moment, none of them talked, too busy pouring the drinks.
Courfeyrac looked into his cup, watching the amber liquid swirl.
“Do you think we should tell him?”
Combeferre let out a low laugh.
“Another day, perhaps.” He suggested. “Bossuet, what terrible luck you have.”
Bossuet raised his cup, acknowledging the comment, but his gaze fell onto Joly’s face, pale once more, but with a hint of colour underneath, and he smiled.
He didn’t think so, not at all.