Work Text:
Jean-Andoche Junot was disappointing to the emperor, he was insane and clingy, desperate for the man’s attention. No matter the kind of attention. Napoleon had hated Junot for a while, but it had truly set in when Junot had cost the French such a defeat at Smolensk. Oh, how Napoleon took that as a personal insult when the general lost that battle, slamming a palm down on the table when Junot was mid-sentence, blaming another for his own fault. That truly enraged Napoleon, and his view on Andoche had changed forever after that.
Though the emperor was not too fond of Junot, the general was still obsessed with the man whom he adored in his twenties. When Napoleon wore his hair long and flowing, and his limbs were slim and gangly, when he and Junot and Marmont all shared a bed in a flat that Junot had gladly shared with the two of them. It was almost sad how often and how fondly Junot remembered him and Napoleon’s hushed words in the curtain of the dark. Junot wanted so badly to be young again with Napoleon, to be back at Toulon, leading men with that man who was now a busy emperor, with no time for his past connections. Except perhaps, for brief tea, brief tea and nothing else Napoleon hoped. So while the emperor believed the meeting would span no more than thirty minutes and minimal words would be shared, Junot believed that tea was a front for the emperor’s latest scandal. It was certainly a sight to see the orange haired man practically skipping down the street, nearly laughing with every step he was so giddy. Oh, to see the emperor again! Again! Oh just like their youth! Junot was simply elated, he couldn’t believe that the emperor wanted to see him, to see him alone and share tea like they were lovers! Poor Junot didn’t realize Napoleon had summoned him to merely make nasty comments and cruel digs to see just how far his old friend’s admiration would truly go. It was truly a sick game in the emperor’s mind. What kind of person toys with a man whom he knows loves him, and has loved him for years upon years? Napoleon, of course, a rotten, pot-bellied man who would be nothing without his ambition.
Alas Junot did not see how horrible the emperor was, or rather, he chose not to see the man all of Europe knew and instead saw the man who led men back in Egypt and was hopeful, and loved Junot. That's truly all the man wanted. Napoleon’s love, so much so he would just take attention, though it didn’t matter what kind, he would take Napoleon pulling on his hair so he bled, and calling him ugly, or writing a letter of disgust and disappointment, because at least it meant the emperor had thought of the poor man. So when Junot arrived at the emperor’s palace and climbed the steps, his feet ached from the long walk but he did not mind, for it was a small price to pay to have tea with the man he loved so dearly. Junot giggled softly as he imagined the emperor holding him as he used to when they shared a flat, his slim fingers tangling through Junot’s hair. Well, now Napoleon was not so slim, and Junot doubted he would touch his orange hair without pulling on it to make him bleed. Junot decided he didn’t mind if that man made him bleed, he would be happy to bleed for Bonaparte again and again and again, just like he had for every day he served under Napoleon, and every day he would continue to serve under Napoleon.
Oh it must’ve been the most wonderful feeling for poor Junot to be standing in the tall doorframe, with Napoleon sitting on a beautiful sofa, two teacups on a table before him, waiting. Waiting for Junot, for Junot and Junot alone. The sight nearly made him cry out from joy, but he knew the emperor would not be pleased with such a display, so he grinned at him as he stood.
“Oh, Napole–”
“Sire” he was cut off as quickly as he started speaking, corrected by a man whom he had known for over a decade, whom he had welcomed into his home all those years ago and housed him. Though, if sire was what his best friend wished to be called, then sire is what he would be called by Junot. Even if the general knew Napoleon did not make Jean Lannes call him that before he died, and he did not make Joachim Murat call him that either. Nor Ney. Nor Davout–though Davout tended to call the emperor sire without having been told–Nor anybody else Napoleon had known for as long as he knew Junot.
“Hello Sire.” He corrected himself politely, smiling a little less but still smiling nonetheless. The man carefully stepped into the room looking between the two couches that were on either side of the tea table.
“Hello Junot.” Napoleon replied, smiling politely and somewhat mockingly of the man who was grinning like a child in front of him. It was almost like the emperor could see Jean’s thoughts, he could tell the orange-haired man was deciding which sofa to sit on, and cruelly the emperor patted the cushioned seat beside him. Junot’s pale-blue eyes widened and fluttered a little at the offer, his smile only growing as he–without hesitation or a second though–quickly made his way to the couch, sitting down beside Napoleon eagerly. The furniture creaked under his weight which made him cringe outwardly, and the emperor smirked at that, looking down at his lap and trying not to laugh outwardly, for inwardly would be more cruel, no? It was all strategy for the emperor, calculating in which way he could hurt Junot the most, offend him and scar him. It was rather hypocritical, for Napoleon was nowhere near slim, he had lost his hair and with it his defining features, rounding off all the intimidating sharp accents he used to possess.
“Thank you for inviting me here, sire” Junot said softly, reaching for his tea and saucer before fixing his eyes on Napoleon. The man was staring, whether he was trying to or not the emperor couldn’t tell. He frowned–noticing how Junot was just like a dog, doing whatever he said and still coming back for more and more and more! Napoleon, of course, had taken advantage of this, and would continue to do so. Turning his head toward Junot and studying his round face with a desperate expression displayed on it, his eyes fixated on a scar above his nose and the one on his cheek. The man knew that these scars disfigured Andoche’s face, and he knew that the poor man had received them under his command.
“My, Junot! Have I seen these scars before?” He in fact had seen those scars before, and he had made fun of them several times, to the point where Junot went home crying to his wife about it. The ginger-haired man’s expression fell, his eyes cast to the side as he anxiously chewed the inner flesh of his lower lip. The emperor took a hand to Junot’s hair, grabbing it and pulling his face closer so he could examine said scars. His fat fingers felt around the other man’s scalp, tracing the sabre scars a little too roughly. The act made poor Andoche’s breath stutter, his glassy blue eyes overcome with fear as his emperor examined his old scars with a hand too roughly tangled in his hair. “My! Junot, oh you’ve become so daft looking! These wounds have made you disfigured and ugly!” the emperor laughed cruelly, his pale blue-green eyes peering sharply–coldly–into the ones filled with betrayal. Junot laughed nervously along and gasped sharply as the emperor’s hand tightened around the fistfull of hair he had, pain ricocheting from his head and shivering down his body as Napoleon so roughly handled him.
“Let's drink our tea, shall we?” Junot asked, it was a desperate attempt to get Bonaparte to let go, which worked. For a bit, at least. The general took a sip of his tea, his adrenaline coming down from when he was being grabbed so roughly by the man who he loved so dearly. Napoleon obliged, taking his tea and saucer and sipping the hot beverage. The two men didn’t say much for a minute or two, and after setting his tea back on the table Junot scootched a little closer to his emperor, trying to be discreet about it and failing rather miserably. He scooted across the fabric of the sofa until his thigh was pressed to Napoleon’s and of course the emperor noticed this, smirking because Junot was truly like a dog, begging for attention despite the mean things the pot-bellied man had said to him.
They struck up a light conversation, speaking of the wives—though Junot didn’t want to—and making small talk. It was strange to see friends of nearly twenty years talking like they were just meeting for the first time. Junot wanted to talk about how amazing Napoleon was, wanted to talk about how much he had missed just being around him, to tell him how deeply he was admired in Junot’s eyes. So that’s what he tried to do,
“Do you remember when we were young, sire? When we shared a flat, me, you, and Marmont?” he asked, turning to face the emperor and slowly beginning to lean towards the other man. Napoleon, of course remembered this, and of course he noticed what the general was doing. Although he was rather disgusted by how close they were, Napoleon did not push him away or pull back. Moves and countermoves.
“Do you remember Smolensk, Junot?” the emperor replied, turning his head to look at the red-haired man who was now completely leaning on Bonaparte. Guilt flushed poor Andoche’s cheeks, and he pressed a little closer to Napoleon, eyeing him guiltily and nodding wearily as Napoleon cruelly smiled at him. “Good, I hope you never forget the defeat you cost not only France, but me.” the emperor added cruelly, the venom in his words dripping harshly onto the general’s soul.
“It was not my fault Napoleon, I’ve said that already.” Junot mumbled, swallowing awkwardly and with it the bad taste in his mouth.
“Sire, Junot. that is what you are to call me.” Napoleon replied, disregarding what Junot said entirely just to correct the man in a mocking manner. Oh, how deeply that hurt Andoche, poor, poor Andoche who only wanted Bonaparte’s love, and at the very least his attention. It was attention, so Junot was, to say the most, happy.
“I apologize, sire, forgive me.” The general apologized, bowing his head slightly in shame before snaking an arm around the fat, balding man whom he held so dearly. When Napoleon did not immediately peel him away he wrapped his other arm around the emperor, hugging him tighter with every second that passed. Bonaparte merely laughed bitterly, taking a hand and gently tangling it through the general’s hair like he used to when they were young. Junot’s eyes fluttered closed and he sighed as he felt the man’s hands in his hair again, but this time in a kinder, gentler way. The general turned his head so his face was pressed against the warmth of his emperor’s arm and he gently pressed a kiss to the spot where his lips were pressed. Even through the fabric of his jacket he could feel the kiss, and it truly disgusted the rotten man. Junot then smiled, nuzzling his face into the other man’s arm and breathing in deeply. Napoleon smelled of too much cologne and unwashed sweat, a rather foul scent, sure, but the general quite liked it—for it belonged to Napoleon!
As Andoche tried to inhale again, his superior took a fistful of his hair from when he was gently combing through Junot’s hair and he tugged. He tugged Junot away hard, making the man cry out in agony as saber wounds were reopened. Tears prickled at the corners of the general’s eyes, the pain from those wounds like needles being pushed deep into his scalp as they were reopened. It hurt like a bitch and Napoleon knew it. The emperor smiled wildly, maliciously, he was being cruel and he knew it very well.
“Wh-what are you doing Napoleon!” He cried, his hands scrambling from the other man’s body and to his hair which was still being held painfully tight and roughly. Junot tried to grab his hair from the roots so it wouldn’t be pulled on, but Napoleon had it in such a tight grasp he feared he’d actually rip his scalp off if he grabbed his hair. Hot, sticky blood dripped from the general’s hair, spilling into his eyes as the man whom all of Europe feared and admired watched with filthy joy.
“Do you remember what you cost me at Smolensk? Do you? Hm?” One would’ve guessed that Napoleon was the insane one, rather than the man who was bleeding from his head. Junot rapidly nodded at the man who still had an iron grip on his hair, whimpering as his superior gave his head another sharp tug, pulling him closer again before jerking him back by the hair like a play thing.
“Please—Napoleon! Stop this madness!” He cried, blood streaming from his forehead and getting in his eyes so all he could see was red. The thick red liquid got all over Napoleon’s fingers and when he finally released the poor man’s hair he looked at his hand with the blood coated on it. “Thank you sire, oh thank you…” Junot sighed, hands gingerly tangling in his own hair because it hurt so much.
“Know that all the pain you will ever feel will be none in comparison to what you cost us—cost me—at Smolensk” the emperor said cruelly, sneering at the pathetic sight before him that was Jean-Andoche Junot, bleeding and wounded. That was too much for the general, tears spilled over his eyes and went lazily down his cheeks, turning pink over the blood.
“Please forgive me, sire.” He mustered out, swallowing hard as he took his hands from his hair and wiped his cheek with the back of his hand. Napoleon took a handkerchief from his pocket, offering it to the man whom he just abused, watching as a false light illuminated the general’s eyes. Jean took the cloth gently, beginning to wipe at his face and hair all the while his eyes were fixed on Napoleon with gratitude. “Sire… my oldest friend… allow me to call you Napoleon, for I love you. I love you Napoleon.” Junot whispered, his tone hushed as he once again scooted closer to his emperor. Napoleon took on a look of disgust as the man he had known for nearly 20 years got closer again, his eyes full of admiration, asking for something so simple.
“You should be honored to call me anything at all, Andoche, especially after all you have done. You’ve led defeat after defeat, any other general would be court marshaled with behavior like your own, you should find yourself lucky to even be here today. If I were you I would be on my knees, thanking my emperor, apologizing for being so… disgraceful.” Napoleon told him, frowning as Junot kept getting closer. The man with red hair wished Napoleon would stop bringing up Smolensk and every other defeat he ever had in his career, for he had won a great number too… had he not? The emperor stood without another word, looking down at pathetic Junot who was obviously trying his hardest not to cry.
“I apologize sire, truly, sincerely, it is of the greatest honor to serve you, to acquire such wounds and scars when serving you, to even sit with you now. I love you, sire, and my gratitude for you is immeasurable.” Junot replied, bowing his head in respect, which caused a few drops of blood to fling off his scalp and onto his trousers. Napoleon smirked an evil, horrible smirk and peered down at the man before him.
“Good.” The emperor peered at the clock. It had already been over fifteen minutes, and Napoleon didn’t care to ‘waste’ another second on a man he merely thought of as a general. He was truly nothing more than that to Napoleon. Nothing.
“I must go now, Junot. Know you are disgraceful, know you are only a general from my kindness, know that you are a pathetic man. Farewell now, Andoche.” Napoleon bid the man a cruel farewell, smiling as if he was saying the truth, a truth in which Napoleon was a saint and was kind for allowing Jean to be in the position he was in. Junot looked up and smiled gratefully, his pale blue eyes filled with adoration.
“Thank you… sire.” He replied, watching as Napoleon nodded once then turned to leave, his teacup only halfway drank. He sighed when his emperor left, then he smiled, standing and smoothing out his bloody hair. At least Napoleon was thinking about poor Andoche. And was that all the general truly wanted?