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Very few things were certain in Napoleon’s life. When you’re in the military, you learn very quickly to always expect the unexpected, whether in life or in battle. Of course, death was the first on the list. Napoleon never actually lost his battles, but he reckoned it was good to keep that simple lesson in mind; after all, the last few weeks had been enough proof of that unpredictability.
Very few things were certain in Napoleon’s life. That night, while he was curled up in his cold bed and wrapped in cheap linen sheets, he was particularly certain of two things: the first, that he was destined to something greater. That it didn’t matter if the Jacobins had ceased to exist, if his friends had been guillotined while he was kept in a filthy prison cell for weeks; it didn’t matter if they had stripped him of his achievements and gave him no choice but to seek shelter in his friend’s shitty apartment while waiting for another chance to prove himself. Napoleon knew that he was born for something more, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to let himself rot in there forever.
The second thing Napoleon learned to be always true was the September rain in Paris. It poured incessantly for days on end, washing away the last traces of summer from the boulevards. Almost ten years later, Napoleon still remembered clearly his first Parisian rain. He had watched it with apprehension as it violently hit the ground, his young face peeking through the window of the sleeping quarters. How different it was from the warm rain of Corsica! This rain wasn’t meant to nurture the soil like that of his island, no; the Parisian rain was meant to get rid of everything in its way. “Does it rain often?” he had finally asked another boy in the academy once he had gathered up the courage. The boy had nodded without even looking at him.
Outside the window, the first lightning of the night made its presence known with roars that shook the ground. Napoleon’s stream of thoughts had been interrupted. Not by the thunder—really, he had gotten used to them by now—but rather by the strained moan coming from the man lying next to him. Napoleon sighed, knowing his rumination had come to an end.
Another thunder, this time louder. The groans coming from the other side of the bed quickly turned in irritated mumbles. It wasn’t long before his friend gave up and rolled to his side instead, finally facing Napoleon. “Good morning!” the ginger exclaimed with a tired look that betrayed his playful manner. “You’re awake”.
“Yes. So are you, Andoche” observed the Corsican with much less jubilation. The other man simply shrugged his shoulders. “Yes. There’s a thunderstorm outside” he pointed out, as if it hadn’t been obvious enough.
This hadn’t been an uncommon occurrence in the few weeks that Napoleon had spent sharing a bed with Junot. The other man had turned out to be almost as restless as him, which resulted in many nights of small talk while waiting to fall asleep. Napoleon didn’t mind sleeping next to a friend, especially if said friend was the owner of the apartment, who also happened to be paying for all of his expenses. After all, both men were now used to the lack of privacy that came with military life. And it’s not like they had much choice either; there were only two beds in the house and the twin-sized one was taken by the other resident, their friend Auguste de Marmont. When they first moved in, they had settled the bed arrangements with a game of vingt-et-un, which Marmont had apparently won fair and square. Which he had found rather strange, actually, given Junot’s ability with cards, always busy gambling with the last bit of their money. Despite himself, Napoleon had to admit with admiration that his wins far outweighed his losses. So it was bizarre, really, how Junot had been defeated by two rookies like them. The general had never brought it up, but he suspected his loss to have been a calculated move on Junot’s side. Which also hadn’t made much sense in the beginning. But here they were, lying face to face on an old mattress in Paris, as the result of a game of vingt-et-un. Had he known this was going to be his life, Napoleon would’ve spent his teenage years in a tavern instead of the academy.
“Well? Are you enjoying your stay?” Junot inquired, finally breaking the silence between them.
The general quietly pondered the least offensive of answers. “It is an improvement” he admitted, as the vivid memory of a cold prison cell crossed his mind. “Thank you again, by the way” he added quickly. The response seemed to satisfy the other man, who had been staring at Napoleon in complete awe since their eyes first met. In the past few weeks, Junot had quickly become another one of Napoleon’s few certainties. They had known each other for a little longer than a year, but the Corsican had immediately learned that Andoche’s loyalty was worth more than a hundred men. He proved that to him when he had offered to bail him out of jail and live together as fugitives, and was continuing to prove it again every day, caring for Napoleon despite his fall into disgrace.
“I wish I could do more” the ginger admitted with a sigh, and Napoleon knew it was sincere. He knew Junot would’ve given him the world, had he been able to.
“You’ve done more than enough” he tried to reassure him.
Outside was pouring, a nice contrast to the soothing silence of the room. The sky still roared with the same might as before, giving no sign of stopping.
“Does it really bother you?” Napoleon asked with an inquiring look. “The thunder, I mean. You’re not one to be affected by noise, Andoche”. No, it wasn’t believable. Junot la Tempête, his aide-de-camp, afraid of a storm?
Junot’s eyebrows raised in a surprised expression, like he was being called out for a crime he had indeed committed. Unexpectedly, he giggled. Now it was Napoleon’s turn to look surprised.
“No, you’re right. I wouldn’t have made it in Toulon, if that were the case”.
Ah, the siege of Toulon! The battle that had changed both of their lives forever. Napoleon couldn’t help but smile at the memory of his first military success. And of course, his first meeting with Junot and Marmont, his friends and rescuers. Simpler times, those were. Times where they had almost believed in the revolution. It wasn’t unusual for the three of them to reminisce about that first encounter, though it hadn’t been long since it happened. Truthfully, it was Junot that had impressed him the most. The image of that man calmly writing orders as a cannon ball almost hit him, immediately turning it into a joke, was forever burned in Napoleon’s mind. From that very moment, he knew that he needed Junot by his side.
“What is it, then? What’s disturbing your sleep?”
The ginger looked away while searching for an answer. By his look, you never would’ve guessed Junot was a soldier. His boyish features hadn’t morphed into those of a man yet, and it was with the face of a boy that he had gone into battle and came out as the victor.
“I’ve just been finding it so hard to sleep with everything that’s going on lately…” he admitted. Napoleon nodded. He often forgot that he wasn’t the only one struggling to find a meaning after the fall of the Jacobins. It had all happened so fast. In a breath, they held the world in their palms; in the next, they were bystanders to the end. And Napoleon might’ve lost his freedom for a short time, but other people, people turned soldiers like Junot, had lost so much more; something to live for.
As silence fell in the room, both men became quickly aware of their synchronized breathing.
“Nap?” once again, it was Junot who broke the silence. “May I?”.
“Yes”.
He replied quickly, too quickly, anticipation betraying his usual composure. The general mentally cursed himself for that rare display of weakness, knowing that it hadn’t gone unnoticed. Junot was kind enough to ignore it.
The other man wrapped his arm around his waist and closed the distance between them. They embraced in silence, holding onto each other as if they were the last people on earth. Napoleon had never enjoyed this kind of contact, but it was different with him; for the first time that night, his body relaxed, and every pain or discomfort became a distant memory in the warmth of Junot’s arms.
He couldn’t quite remember when they had started doing this, or why. It had just happened so naturally that neither of them questioned it. At first it was just holding hands, taking infinite strolls in the park with their fingers intertwined. When it wasn’t enough anymore, they started looking for contact in other ways: through tight embraces, stolen kisses, and unbuttoned garments. Napoleon had heard about how strong and intimate a military bond between two comrades could be, but he had never fully understood it before meeting Junot.
“We will get through this, right?”. We. The ginger had buried his head in the crook of Napoleon’s neck and was now mumbling against his bare skin. The feeling of warm, chapped lips brushing over his neck made the Corsican shiver.
“We will, Andoche” he said, and he was sure of it. “I promise”.
The other didn’t answer. In this newfound silence, Napoleon noticed that the thunderstorm outside their window had begun to fade away. Now it reminded him more of the rain in Ajaccio.
Junot raised his head to meet the general’s eyes, now interlocked with grey gems full of admiration, unchanged since that cold December morning in Toulon. Robust fingers reached for the back of his head, brushing and playing with long brunet locks of hair. In that moment, Napoleon found himself thanking God for his awful ability as a card player.
As the last thunder of the night disappeared in the dark sky, Napoleon’s lips met those of Jean-Andoche like it was the first time.