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Bahorel blew a bubble in his gum and cracked it with a loud snap. “You look bored,” Grantaire remarked, leaning against the counter.
“I am bored,” Bahorel returned without looking up from the magazine he was reading. He propped his elbow against the shop counter, rested his chin on his hand, and glanced up at Grantaire. “But not as bored as you, who for some reason is hanging around here watching me being bored.”
Grantaire didn’t even bother trying to deny it, merely giving Bahorel the finger and slumping over to disorganized bookshelf against the far wall, which had a boldly painted “REVOLUTION” sign that Grantaire had made himself one day while spectacularly drunk. Bahorel sighed and glanced down at the magazine he was half-heartedly flipping through. “You know, I still don’t understand why you bother working here,” Grantaire called, grabbing a book at random off the shelf and thumbing through it. “Seeing as how you, you know, you hate books.”
Bahorel shrugged. “I don’t hate books, they’re just not my thing,” he told Grantaire. “Besides, this job has its perks.”
“Like what?” Grantaire asked skeptically.
Just then, the door to the bookshop clattered open and Bahorel glanced up, his expression instantly brightening. “Hey!” he called, ducking under the counter to greet the red-haired man who had just walked in. “Isn’t tomorrow the 30th? I didn’t expect you back until then.”
The red-haired man smiled, the smile mitigating the dark circles around his eyes. “Tomorrow’s Saturday,” he told Bahorel in a low voice. “We get paid on Friday when the end of month is on a weekend.”
“Fair enough,” Bahorel said easily, his smile widening. “Look what I saved for you.”
He grabbed a massive black-and-red book off of the counter and the red-head’s eyes lit up. “Is that Vol. 2 of The Sandman Omnibus?” he breathed. “I’ve been waiting forever for that!” He snatched it from Bahorel and pored over it, his eyes gleaming. But then his smile faltered and he glanced up at Bahorel. “You know I can’t afford this. This has to cost, like, over a hundred bucks.”
Bahorel waved a dismissive hand. “The leather on the back cover was damaged during shipping,” he said. “I talked to my manager and he said I can sell it to you for $25.”
The smile he received in response was dazzling. “Are you serious?” the red-head practically gasped. “Thank you so much!”
“For you, Feuilly, anything,” Bahorel said with a smirk. “Now go check out the clearance racks at the back -- there were a couple limited run Sci-Fi paperbacks that I hid in the usual spot.”
Again, Feuilly gave him a big grin before turning to head to the back of the store. Bahorel watched him go, his own smile soft, and started when he heard what sounded like a hastily smothered snigger. “What?” he asked a little defensively.
Grantaire may have stifled his snicker, but he couldn’t contain his grin. “That cover wasn’t really damaged, was it?” Bahorel shrugged and Grantaire’s grin widened. “So I guess there are some perks to this job after all.”
“Oh, shut up,” Bahorel said, without much heat, and when he threw a book at Grantaire’s head to try to wipe the smug smirk off of his face, he missed on purpose -- mostly. Because while Grantaire was insufferable on most days, he was doubly so when he was right.
Bahorel had been working at the bookstore for six weeks when Feuilly first came in. His reason for working there was simple enough -- it was the only place hiring with flexible hours, and since Bahorel was still technically a law student when he deigned to be, flexibility was the biggest thing he needed.
It was an easy job, all things considered -- stock books when they came in, sell books to the handful of people still buying printed books from independent bookstores, and try not to look too bored when standing around doing nothing for hours on end.
Bahorel was struggling with the last one when the door banged open late on the 15th of the month, and Bahorel automatically looked over at who came in and tried not to let his jaw drop. The red-headed guy was hot as hell, shorter than Bahorel and muscled in all the right places, and Bahorel tried not to drool.
“Hi there,” Bahorel said, mentally cursing himself for not having a better opening.
The red-head looked over and smiled, and Bahorel no longer cared that he hadn’t found something better to say. “Hi,” he said, heading towards Bahorel. “Can you point me in the direction of the fantasy section?”
Ordinarily, a question of this nature would have merited little more than a handwave and grunt towards the right section. But Bahorel wasn’t going to just ignore this opportunity. He strolled around the counter, trying his best to look casual. “Third stack over,” he told the guy. “Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“Well, I just finished reading Harry Potter--” the guy started, and Bahorel couldn’t help interrupting him.
“For the first time?” he asked, aghast, because even he as a bibliophobe had read the Harry Potter books.
The redhead scowled at him. “What’s it to you?” he asked defensively.
Bahorel held up his hands. “Sorry, man, I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, like, yeah, I am surprised there was someone under the age of 30 who hadn’t read Harry Potter, but like, not in a judgmental kind of way.”
Though the redhead was still looking at Bahorel suspiciously, he seemed to relax slightly. “Not your fault,” he said, a little gruffly. “It’s been a long week at work so my temper’s running a little high.”
For a moment, there was an awkward silence as the redhead pointedly stared at the bookshelf and Bahorel bounced on the balls of his feet, but then Bahorel blurted, “I’m Bahorel, by the way. And normally better mannered.”
The redhead managed a smile. “Feuilly,” he said, reaching out to shake Bahorel’s hand. “And really, you’re fine.”
There were a dozen questions Bahorel wanted to ask, but he figured he had pushed the boundaries of his luck enough for one day -- at this rate, Feuilly would never come back. “Well, if you finished Harry Potter and enjoyed it, I’d recommend trying The Magicians by Lev Grossman,” he said briskly. “It’s a bit of a darker take on magical education.”
Feuilly located the book and pulled it off the shelf, drinking in the synopsis on the back with eager eyes. “Thanks,” he said, sounding genuinely grateful. He looked back up at Bahorel. “So you’ve read it, then?”
Bahorel hesitated. “Well, I’ve read the reviews,” he hedged, and Feuilly laughed. “Truth be told, books aren’t really my thing.”
“And yet you work in a bookstore,” Feuilly said, sounding a little surprised.
Shrugging, Bahorel leaned against the bookshelf. “It pays the rent.” He raised an eyebrow at Feuilly. “What do you do?”
Feuilly shrugged as well. “I work in a factory,” he told Bahorel before adding, “It pays the rent. Not really my thing either. But you know what the say about beggars not being choosers.” Bahorel wasn’t really sure how to respond to that and Feuilly held up the book. “I’ll take this,” he said decisively.
“Sure,” Bahorel said automatically, turning to head back to the counter. “And if, when you finish it, you need more recommendations…”
“I imagine there’ll be some more reviews you’ve read that could help me out,” Feuilly finished, smirking. He gave Bahorel a twenty, waited for his change, then used the book to fire off a sarcastic salute. “I’m sure I’ll be back at some point.”
“Well, I’m sure I’ll be here!” Bahorel called after him, watching him leave before slumping to forward to hit his head against the counter with the solid thump. “Not one of my more witty comebacks,” he muttered to no one in particular, and took a moment before picking himself up.
At least there was very little chance of him having to see Feuilly again.
But to Bahorel’s surprise, Feuilly did come back on the 31st of that same month. Their conversation that day was smoother, in part because it was much shorter. After greeting each other with nods of recognition, Feuilly told Bahorel, “I finished The Magicians and apparently, there’s a sequel?”
Bahorel nodded towards the stacks, Feuilly located the book, bought it, and left. Bahorel spent the rest of the day convincing himself that the disappointment he felt was silly.
When Feuilly came back the third time, Bahorel was prepared. “Not that I’m not enjoying this becoming a regular thing,” he told Feuilly when he walked in, “and this is probably a stupid question, but have you considered getting a library card? That way you wouldn’t have to buy so many books.”
Feuilly froze for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I like owning books,” he told Bahorel after a long moment. “Besides, I’m not eligible for a library card.”
“Oh,” Bahorel said, a little surprised. “Not a resident of the city?”
Feuilly shrugged, sliding The Magician’s Land up on the counter. “Something like that,” he said evasively. Bahorel nodded, ready to drop the topic, but Feuilly continued, in a low voice, “Not really a resident of anywhere, at the moment. I’m...in between places. Staying with a friend. But to get a library card, you have to have proof of current residence. And anyway…” He trailed off before smiling again, a genuine smile. “I like owning books.”
It became far too comfortable a routine after that, Feuilly coming in every payday to spend $20 or so of his hard-earned paycheck on a new book or books. He was a voracious reader, and Bahorel found himself spending an honestly absurd amount of time researching books that he thought Feuilly would enjoy. Besides just SciFi and fantasy, Feuilly enjoyed books on social justice and revolution (Bahorel brought Enjolras in to provide him with more recommendations than he was pretty sure anyone could read in a lifetime, and spent the entire evening sulking and swallowing his jealousy at the way Feuilly seemed to hang on every word), biographies, how-to guides and even travel guides.
And every time Feuilly would come in, he and Bahorel would chat for fifteen or so minutes, talking about their days and swapping stories and jokes like old friends.
Still, it took almost six months for Bahorel to ask Feuilly the question he’d been dying to ask. “So why do you love owning books so much?” he finally managed, still grinning from the story Feuilly had just told him. “I mean, I get the reading thing, but…”
Feuilly shrugged. “It’s a bit stupid,” he admitted.
Bahorel raised an eyebrow. “Dude. Try me.”
“Well, you know how I didn’t learn to read until I was twenty-two?” Bahorel nodded; this had been an entire evening’s conversation, causing Bahorel to stay at the bookstore well past closing, listening with fascination and a massive amount of respect as Feuilly told him all about how he had dropped out school after the eighth grade to go to work and had been functionally illiterate until he had literally taught himself to read at nights after backbreaking shifts at the factory. “Well, ever since then, reading’s kind of become an escape and, well, I’m worried that I might lose that escape.”
The tips of Feuilly’s ears were turning red with embarrassment and it spoke volumes that Bahorel instantly realized what Feuilly was trying to say. “You’re worried that if you didn’t physically hold on to the books, you might never find your escape again?” he asked quietly.
Feuilly smiled weakly. “See, it sounds so dumb when you say it.”
“I don’t think it’s dumb at all,” Bahorel told him honestly.
Feuilly smiled tentatively at him, then, to Bahorel’s surprise, leaned in and kissed him. Had he been less surprised, maybe he would’ve returned the kiss sooner, or picked Feuilly up and set him on the counter and kissed him as if they were the only two in the world, the way he had dreamed of for months. But all of the circuits in Bahorel’s brain seemed to short out, and before he could even process what had happened, Feuilly had pulled back. “Well,” Feuilly said, suddenly brisk, “I guess I’ll see you later.”
And with that, he was gone, leaving Bahorel sitting there, stunned.
Feuilly had been back since then, including that day when Grantaire was there, but there had been no further physical encounters between Bahorel and Feuilly. Not that Bahorel didn’t want that...not that Bahorel hadn’t been dreaming ever since that day of just crossing the bookstore and kissing Feuilly senseless.
But part of Bahorel couldn’t help but wonder if maybe this was for the best. Feuilly was amazing -- teaching himself to read, using what little he earned to buy books and escape into a world of words -- and Bahorel was, well, not.
So he decided to be fine with the way things were. “Wimp,” Grantaire told him one evening when Bahorel confided what had happened in him. Bahorel simply looked pointedly from Grantaire to Enjolras, and Grantaire winced. “Fair point. But just because I’m a wimp doesn’t mean you also have to be.”
But apparently, it did.
Bahorel stared up at the clock, his chin propped on his hand as he leaned against the counter. Feuilly was late. It wasn’t that rare an occasion, but normally Feuilly would have been there by now. There was only a half hour until closing time.
Twenty minutes. No Feuilly.
Ten minutes. Still no sign of him.
Bahorel watched the clock as if willing it to stop, but it kept up its inexorable march toward 10 p.m., dinging a low chime at the top of the hour. Normally, Bahorel celebrated closing time, standing at the door counting down the seconds until he could lock it. Instead, he slumped towards it, dragging his feet as if Feuilly might burst in, panting and apologizing for being late.
After locking the door and flicking off the lights, Bahorel reluctantly headed out the back door. “Hey!” a familiar voice called, and Bahorel looked up, grinning, as Feuilly jogged over to meet him.
“Hey, yourself,” Bahorel said. “I was beginning to worry when you didn’t come in today. I thought maybe I got my dates wrong or something.”
Feuilly smiled. “No, nothing like that,” he reassured Bahorel, who noticed that Feuilly seemed unusually energetic, shifting on his feet as if he was nervous. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”
“It’s fine,” Bahorel told him, curiosity beginning to peak. “I’m just wondering why you didn’t buy a book today. I have to make my monthly quotas, after all.”
Feuilly wisely ignored that comment. “I, uh, I decided I wanted to spend my money on something else today,” he told Bahorel, his ears burning bright red even in the dim light. “I know that you’re not a fan of books, so I was wondering if maybe you would let me take you to the movies for a different kind of escape.”
Bahorel just stared at him for a long moment, long enough that a blush spread across Feuilly’s face and worry tightened the lines surrounding Feuilly’s eyes. Bahorel noticed this and muttered, “Oh, shit”, before closing the space between them and kissing Feuilly. “Sorry,” he said, when they broke apart. “I didn’t mean to not say anything. I think my brain short-circuited.”
Feuilly’s smile was wry. “Not the first time it’s done that around me,” he said. “Makes me think I’ve misinterpreted things...which I’m assuming I haven’t.”
“Dude,” Bahorel said as an answer, kissing Feuilly again. This time, he threaded his fingers through Feuilly’s hair, opened his mouth against his and turned the kiss downright filthy. “You haven’t misinterpreted anything.”
Feuilly grinned and they kissed for a moment before Bahorel pulled away, his grin turning dirty. “You know, as great as a movie sounds, I have a different idea for what we can do, and it doesn’t involve spending money on anything…”
Bahorel rolled over in bed, snuggling in against Feuilly and kissing his bare shoulder. “What’re you reading?” he asked, resting his chin on Feuilly’s shoulder.
“American Gods by Neil Gaiman,” Feuilly murmured without looking away from the book.
Bahorel considered that for a moment, playing connect-the-dots with his tongue and Feuilly’s freckles. “Isn’t that coming out as a TV show next year?” he asked.
Feuilly squirmed around so that he was facing Bahorel. “You know what I never asked?” he said, suddenly serious. “I never asked why you don’t like reading.”
Shrugging, Bahorel glanced away. “I don’t really have a good reason,” he admitted. “There have just always been more exciting things to do than read.”
“And now?” Feuilly asked.
Bahorel grinned and leaned in to kiss him, the kiss slow and lazy and as familiar as the worlds Feuilly explored in his books. “Now there’s nothing I would rather do than lie here with you.” Feuilly kissed him before turning around to go back to his book. Bahorel nuzzled the pale ginger hairs at the base of Feuilly’s neck. “You know, there’s something I never asked you,” he said, grinning. “You aren’t dating me just so you could get my employee discount, are you?”
Feuilly laughed. “Of course not,” he reassured Bahorel, who grinned and snuggled closer to him. After a long moment, Feuilly added, “But I would consider it a perk.”