I'm sad, they're all dead, in my world the ladies love them
The soldiers dismissed them towards the end of the day, some looking exhausted and somber, the others chatting in relieved voices about their wives and children and parents who would be happy to see them tonight. One of them said: Good thing this was over so fast, this time around, eh? and Matelote almost lost her decorum, only held back by Gibelote's hand in hers, squeezing hard and pulling her away from the group and the dead.
She could almost hear Grantaire, unsufferable as ever, joking about Gibelote being strong enough to move Matelote anywhere despite their respective sizes. It'd be a crude joke, but he'd laugh and not get mad if Matelote got annoyed enough to hit him with her apron, shrugging as if to say: fair enough, I deserved that.
There had been a smile, on his face, when she'd close his eyes a couple of hours ago.
There was no question of where they would go, now that they were free from the enforced duty of helping clean the scene around Le Corynthe and the barricades. They'd sent as as soon as they could a message for Louison, in the morning, and it was a message from Irma who had returned, with no surprise. Still, when they approached the building where Musichetta lived, they both slowed down despite themselves.
"She knows," Gibelote said, very softly. "It's not as if we'll have to tell."
"She might want the full story," Matelote muttered.
"We don't have it," Gibelote answered. "Not really."
Upstairs, everything appeared to be the same as it had always been; there was no sign of disaster, the way it'd been at the Corynth; no obvious tell that something violent and tragic had come to pass. Still the atmosphere was just as heavy and suffocating as it had been at the barricades. In Musichetta's fancy little rooms, grief had arrived long before Matelote and Gibelote.
Nobody had ever acknowledged directly how huge Musichetta's bed was - it was never very surprising, when a grisette had several gentlemen pressing at her doors, but quite unusual for the gentlemen to be happily welcomed at the same time - but, ironically, it was very serviceable that night, as all the women gathered around her prone form. Musichetta was curled up her head in Marguerite's skirts, arms wrapped around her own self, dressed only in her chemise. Floréal sat near her, hand on her thigh, propriety be damned, Louison at her feet, her own knees up to her chest. Irma was the only one moving around the rooms, methodically going through clothes and ribbons.
"Well?" Marguerite said as soon as Gibelote and Matelote had appeared. They'd never seen her so grave and serious, caressing Musichetta's hair like she was a little child who needed to be soothed.
"All over," Gibelote said. "It's all done."
"All of them?" Marguerite asked.
"All of them," Matelote confirmed in a rough voice. "They'll inform families tomorrow, they said, but we -" she faltered a bit. "They asked if we knew their names, so we gave them. They won't ask anybody else."
"Your hands are shaking," Louison said, so sweetly, with a frown. "Come sit, both of you, that must have been - you must be so horribly shocked."
"Why your restaurant in particular?" Marguerite asked. "That's what I've been wondering. There has been so many other places. Heard some men elsewhere even made it through. I told Bahorel, the idiot, that- oh, damn it all, why does that matter? They knew what they were doing, all of them, weren't they, he told me, kissed me just like in 1830, left me his damn purse-"
She raised one hand to her face. Floréal leaned forwards and embraced her tightly.
Matelote and Gibelote let Louison guide them to two seats. In doing so, Matelote cross the empty, hollow dark gaze of Musichetta and shivered harder. She knew, she thought, with sudden certainty. Of course she knew, that Bossuet and Joly had had breakfast there with Grantaire. They told her everything, those two, this hadn't been a secret at all. Did she realize, too, that it was Bossuet who had said why not here? Oh, Madame Hucheloup had been so mad -
"Have you had any news of Grantaire's whereabouts?" Irma asked sharply. "Last time, he got so drunk he found way to my flat the whole time they were fighting, but there was so sign of him today. Much as I dislike the poor sod, I doubt we should have him alone when he hears the news."
Matelote froze.
Grantaire had been smiling, when she'd closed his eyes for the last time.
Next to her, Gibelote made a faint, painful little noise. "Irma," she said. "Irma when we said all of them we meant: all of them."
Irma paled; she wavered on her feet, swallowed hard, eyes widening in bafflement: "Grantaire?" she asked. "Grantaire?"
"...But I saw him not even two days ago," Floréal whispered, sounding just as shocked.
"He was very drunk," Matelote said, briskly. "Slept through so much of it he was still sleeping when we left. I dunno how or when he woke up, but he must have, because he wasn't at his table anymore, when we - was right there on the ground, bullet to his heart, and he was - he was-"
He'd been smiling. Who else but Grantaire, she thought, would smile at death? Except of course Enjolras has been smiling too. But that wouldn't matter to Irma, who'd never cared to met Enjolras at all, no matter how much she heard about him.
"No matter," Marguerite said, bottom lip trembling a little. "No matter, ladies. They fought, they lost, they're gone. That's how it goes, in the times we live in. We will weep tonight, and tomorrow, we'll think of the future, alright?"
A pained, horrible gasp escaped Musichetta. All the women in the room stiffened, looked at each other, then back to their friend. Floréal made a little gesture in her hand and, without a word, they all started to rearranged themselves as Musichetta wailed. The big bed was still here at least for a few weeks, certainly - Joly, Musichetta had said, was the most thoughtful of all the lovers she'd had - and tonight, they'd take advantage of it.
“That’s quite the agitated look, my dear,” Bossuet remarked with raised eyebrows. “Should we turn the bed around tonight?”
“I’ve met with Courfeyrac in the streets,” Joly answered, hastily getting rid of hat and coat, his brow furrowed in a preoccupied air.
“And he’s not came with you? What a friend he is; I haven’t seen him in almost two weeks, and he doesn’t come for a drink when the occasion presents itself --”
“Bossuet,” Joly cut him off, “Lamarque is dead.”
Bossuet slowly straightened up. “Well,” he said, after a beat. “All the more reason to pay us a visit, I should say. I assume we’ll go by the Musain soon then?”
“No, no,” now that Bossuet knew what was troubling Joly, it seemed clearer as ever that anxiety battled with some sort of flushed excitement. His hands were worried, but his eyes shine. “He said that perhaps it’s best if we only meet each other here and then, by surprise, in the next few days. Enjolras told him the police would be on the look out.”
“So we’re heading for some real, proper troubles then?” Bossuet asked, feeling a shiver running down his spine as well.
“If we trust our friends.”
“That’s Bahorel who will be pleased; two years’s a long time for a good brawl.”
“You jest,” Joly said gravely, “but I shan’t be the one who tells Grantaire.”
“Bah, Grantaire will be Grantaire; he barely noticed the last one anyway, for all he talked. I’ll go have lunch with him tomorrow.”
“My brave hero,” Joly grinned. “I’ll have Jehan write poems about you if you do not come back.”
“The sentiment is appreciated,” Bossuet grinned back, raising a hand to brush it against Joly’s hip. “But I’ll settle for a kiss or two, I assure you.”
“It’s where I envy you,” Grantaire said, trembling hands gripping Enjolras’ coat. “It’s where you lose me and you fascinate me, where I want to run and I cannot let go. You do not suffer; you fly through it all believing, believing so well you manage to glow even when it’s all grim and dark and grey everywhere and anywhere. How do you do it? I listen to you and I drink it all in, I am more thirsty for what’s underneath all your tirades than from the wine, and I do love my wine, you know I do, I loved it more than all the rest before you opened your mouth for the first time. How do you it, Enjolras? Were you born like this? You must have; I thought I had mastered the art of men -- they all think they are great, and all of us are small. We are nothing but grains of sand that believe they are grander than they’ll ever be, and then there is you, and you are not a rock, or a diamond, you are the sea; you take us all with you, and you are endless and constant, and I wish, I wish, --”
“Enough,” Enjolras cut him off quietly. “You’ll hurt your throat.”
“Ha! Do you think I am talking non-sense again? Maybe I am. I told you, I am nothing but emptiness, and you are trying, I thought you might be trying, to fill my soul with something, speeches upon speeches upon stern calls of my name, but I cannot do it, I cannot do it like you do. Do you believe me, if I say I tried? Do you?”
It was not the first time, that Enjolras witnessed the desperate wildness darkening Grantaire’s eye. A particular sort of excitement that looked nothing like drunkeness -- god knows he’d seen Grantaire drunk too many times before -- and more like something fragile and raw that might bruise and bleed in front of him if he dared lay a finger upon it. It was almost unsettling in its honesty. A certain sort of misery that he had to acknowledge, even if, in Joly’s soft words, it could not be soothed or extinguished like giving some bread to a starving child in the street.
Still, they were alone here, and though he often was irritated with Grantaire, he was still one of this own: if there was pain to soften, he would try. He prayed Grantaire’s fingers away from his coat with a firm hand, and gently cup his cheek. Grantaire looked up, his unblinking, teary stare stirring something in his own heart that couldn’t be named.
“I believe you want to try,” he said gravely. “If you were not, you’d be long gone. One day, I hope that you will feel brave enough to try properly; no one is born believing that things can be done, and that good can prevail. If they did, man would stay good, and do good, and we would already live in the world we’re leading towards. Belief must grow, Grantaire. It’s a seed you might get from another flower, if you so wish, but eventually it’s your hands that will have to be dirtied.”
“Beautiful,” Grantaire murmured, leaning in his head against Enjolras’ palm. “You are beautiful, everything about you is --”
Enjolras sighed. Grantaire’s mutterings were growing feverish. Enjolras’ thumb brushed against his brow, and he took a step back.
“I will call a carriage for you,” he said. “You should sleep. Joly will surely welcome you tonight.”
Grantaire kept on rambling, as if he hadn’t heard him at all; perhaps, in this state, he hadn’t indeed. Enjolras’ lips tightened. Some things, he reminded himself, could not be easily soothed.
Well now I want to write Azelma Thénardier because I was reminded her life is actually the worst as well ( @flo-nelja , @aflamethatneverdies )
Azelma sits under the elephant. She knows it’s daft, and she knows it’s empty. Been empty for months. And it’s way too cold to be sitting here anyway, but if she looks miserable enough she might get a few sous, so that’s as good an excuse as any, if anybody asks why she’s doing this.
(Nobody’s going to ask; papa never does, he just grabs her arm and tells her she’s late and has she done everything she needed? Is she ready for tomorrow? Doesn’t she want a good, warm bed to sleep in? Good, obedient girls get warm beds.)
(Rebellious girls get killed and their bodies disappear who knows where, to be hand-waved and forgotten like all the events of last June.)
(Mama would have asked; Mama would have cared, in that rough way of hers that means she loves her. But mama’s dead too, rotting now under the hard soil of the prison that Azelma finds herself missing, sometimes.)
But it’s fine, it’s all fine.
‘Cause Azelma’s good; ‘course she is. She curls deeper into her shawl, the last gift from the Lark, who’s all grown and pretty and rich now, and didn’t even mock them for their misfortune when they meet her back. (”That’s worse though,” Eponine had bristled, voice hoarse and brows furrowed. “You understand it’s worse, right? We’re not even worth that, to her.”) (Eponine had said that, but Montparnasse had told Azelma, later on; he’d said how Eponine had protected the house) (Azelma wasn’t daft. She’d never been.) (She’d went by the house, one night, out of curiosity. But there was nobody left there either.)
That’s a trend, she thinks, and looks up to the elephant, shivering. She misses Mama, sometimes, and she misses Eponine, because they were strong, even if they were harsh, even if Mama slapped her cheek harder than papa when she was unhappy, even if Eponine looked so exasperated at her most days, thin fingers closing around her own wrist like claws to drag her along on their errands, perpetually saying “faster, Azelma, faster--”
But she misses Gavroche the most, because Gavroche was fun. Gavroche had been a bird who sometimes gracefully lended his wings to her. He always seemed quite pleased, or at least quite unbothered, when Azelma showed up under the elephant. He would say “Well, ain’t that Zelma! What’s the news, then?” and she’d tell everything she could think of as they run all over Paris together for a few hours.
Everything had always seemed so insignificant, when she’d been with Gavroche. How stupid did he have to be, to go and get killed too?
She could perhaps leave in the elephant instead of him, she ponders sometimes. It’d be a bit awkward, with her long legs, but she could; but then she’d be alone, and she’d always been scared of that. No Mama, no Eponine, no Gavroche. She only had papa left, and he wasn’t a good man, and she knew that, but he was the only one who could make sure she’d be warm, and that had to be enough.
Azelma doesn’t wish for much, after all, but she knows that she doesn’t want to die.
So she comes here, and she sits under the elephant, and she waits for laughter that won’t ever come again, just for a little bit. But then she’ll get home, after a few appropriate tears, and she’ll help papa with whatever he wants. Like a good, obedient girl.
I cannot stop thinking about it. Challenge accepted. Combeferre/Marius in canon it is. ... I think I’ll have to do a series out of this. No way I can do this in ONE tumblr ficlet. Oh no. This has to be a slow burn.
To be quite honest, Combeferre hadn’t expected Marius Pontmercy to linger in Courfeyrac’s social circle. It was true that Courfeyrac had many friends, and, indeed, even more acquaintances -- and it was true that he also had the sort of presence that attracted the lost and shy souls seeking some solace in their lives. But even among them, few had left such a disagreeable impression as Pontmercy in Combeferre’s mind, and so, with the sort of quiet certitude that comes with long years of friendship, Combeferre had assumed that Courfeyrac would naturally gravitate towards other new faces and forget this one regrettable mishap soon enough.
It was the very reason why, a week after their unfortunate first meeting, Combeferre visited Courfeyrac, found Pontmercy already there, greeted him with the sort of politeness he used for people visiting his school, and proceeded to ignore him for the duration of his visit -- which wasn’t hard, as Pontmercy stayed silent all that time, his frown severe and his back too straight, pretending to read a book from which he did not turn a single page the whole time.
Courfeyrac tried to include him in the conversation, of course, but with no results, until Pontmercy suddenly stood up, and abruptly said: “I can see that I am disturbing you both; I will see you another time, Monsieur Courfeyrac. Thank you for your invitation.”
He left despite Courfeyrac’s protests. Combeferre might have looked unimpressed, because Courfeyrac glared at him afterwards.
“Really,” Courfeyrac said. “Seeing you like that you’d think the poor fellow went and burnt all your precious books. I really wanted him to see you in your natural element, so he’d forget to be scared of you -- is that you I should have had a conversation with? I think now you went and properly offended him.”
“That does not sound very hard to do,” Combeferre pointed out.
Courfeyrac looked baffled, and, to Combeferre’s surprise, even slightly annoyed. “Has he burnt all your books? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so vindictive. It does not look good on you, my friend.”
This, if nothing else, made Combeferre feel a tinge of guilt. “I’m sorry if I offended,” he told him. “Perhaps monsieur Pontmercy and I are merely too different in our ways of behaving; if we must meet again, I shall try to be more accommodating.”
The following week, Combeferre was told by Bossuet, who’d just met with Courfeyrac, that Monsieur Pontmercy had moved out. For a brief moment, he feared that it was his own attitude (rather harsh, perhaps) that had led to his departure -- but Bossuet spoke of money troubles, and Combeferre reprimanded himself immediately for being so arrogant to believe he could have had such an impact on someone he’d merely spoke two words to.
The conversation moved along, and with it Combeferre’s thoughts. By the end of the day he’d quite forgotten about Marius Pontmercy’ all together, burying him at the back of his mind like many other, unimportant things in his life, satisfied that this particular problem had solved itself on its own.
As soon as he had stepped into the flat, Joly knew the problem; one could have said it was because he was an excellent doctor. A lovely thought, though in this particular case he was pretty certain it was more a case of being an excellent friend. He put his hat down, pressed his handkerchief against his nose, and bravely made his way to the bedroom.
Inside, with very little surprise, he found Bossuet lounging in a chair near the open window; Bossuet had his eyes half closed, but he still grinned into his direction.
“Fancy seeing you here, doctor.”
“Your note was worrying to say the least,” Joly said. Experimentally, he poked at the lump on the bed, hidden by several blankets. The lump groaned. Joly met Bossuet’s eyes and raised his eyebrows.
“Oh, he’s near death for sure,” Bossuet nodded gravely. “I thought to call for a priest, but I know how talented you are; I’ve always been an optimistic fellow.”
“It’s a very charming quality of yours,” Joly couldn’t help but retort, and Bossuet’s smile widened. Joly tried to pull on the blankets. The blankets resisted. “Still, there is only so much I can do with a patient that won’t show his face.”
“Pity,” Bossuet sighed dramatically. “I guess I’ll have to sharpen my quill for an eulogy -- I was always better at them than he was, though he’d never admit it.”
They both waited a beat, glancing at the bed. When nothing came out of it, a genuine flash of concern passed through Bossuet’s face. Joly took a few steps towards him, lowering down his handkerchief, and squeezed his shoulder. Bossuet bent to kiss his gloved hand.
“I must thank you for coming,” he told him. “It’s certainly making me feel better to see such an handsome face in those dire circumstances.”
“Always the flatterer.” Joly pondered on how appropriate it would be, to take seat on Bossuet’s lap; Bossuet,reading his mind as ever, pulled him towards him a second later, settling the question. “Hello,” Joly said. “It has been too long, Monsieur Lesgle. I have a mistress who’s very unhappy with you.”
“Surely she can forgive me nursing a friend,” Bossuet retorted, rubbing his nose against Joly’s. “Though it would seem I did quite terribly --”
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that at all, my dear; you looked extremely catching, on that chair; enough to make a worried doctor very distracted --”
Somewhere on their left, the bed creaked.
“Well, doctor, I still feel bad making you come here for nothing,” Bossuet breathed against his lips. “Now that I think about it, I might have a few symptoms myself.”
“Oh then that just won’t do; thankfully, I have a remedy for you, it has proved very efficient in the past.”
“You haven’t heard my symptoms.”
“I am a very good doctor,” Joly told him, and pecked his lips.
The lump groaned much more loudly this time. “Can a man not be left in peace as he ponders on the worthlessness of existence?” it mumbled. “Is it not enough that everything is bleak and grey and incredibly boring, is it not enough for this whole country to be a tragedy, this whole city to be a lie, and this whole flat to be a sewer! Must we also have to suffer through the callousness of unfair and uncaring people who would call themselves friends! Take your flirts and your hope far away from me, I want nothing with it, nor with you; you are both disgustingly happy and it makes me want to be truly sick. Out! Both of you!”
“He lives!” Bossuet exclaimed, with a note of real relief under the sarcasm. “Well, Monsieur Joly, you were right. You are the perfect doctor.”
“Now, now, even I can admit when seeing a miracle,” Joly said humbly.
Peeking from underneath his blankets, Grantaire glared at them both. His eyes were red and blotchy, his skin in terrible condition; he must have not shaved in days. Joly kissed Bossuet’s cheek, and got to his feet again; Bossuet followed gingerly. Joly bumped Grantaire’s nose; Grantaire made an offended noise, and tried to move back underneath the blankets. Bossuet pulled them off him instead.
“I cannot stand the sight of you,” Grantaire declared and turned to properly lay on his back, staring at the ceiling blankly.
“Well I cannot stand your smell,” Joly retorted, his voice gently firm. “We all have our grievances. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to take a bath, and then, we’ll go back to my lodgings for the night. Tomorrow, we’re cleaning up your flat and moving your furniture around. No wonder you’re so grumpy, with your bed to the South. Have I taught you nothing at all?”
I keep thinking of the quietness of that night; the day before; the nervousness and anticipation and joy of the event to come, but nothing left to prepare for really - there are guns and bullets hidden everywhere in every flat, and Prouvaire and Bahorel are out for the night, and Bahorel’s mistress is laughing when they get out of the theater despite the rain; he’s offered her arm to her, and his other hand rests firm and warm on Prouvaire’s back, who’s commenting quite strongly the play they just saw; they bring back Bahorel’s mistress to her lodgings, and Bahorel could stay, but he glances at Prouvaire, and Prouvaire is blushing a bit, but his eyes are bright and full of both hope and fear and the beauty and tragedy of it all, so he presses a kiss upon his mistress’ cheek, who’s not at all offended and shooes them both away, and it’s arm in arm that the two of them walk through the streets of Paris, and Bahorel’s words are loud, and Prouvaire’s a whisper, but both of them hold the fervour of tomorrow’s promises.
They never quite decide where to go, but it isn’t suprising that they end up at Combeferre’s, only to find him outside already; he chides them for not wearing scarves despite the chill and humidity of the air ( “do you truly want to end like Jollly?” he asks, and Prouvaire, reaching out shyly to brush his fingers against Combeferre’s badly done cravat, says: “do you?”). Combeferre was staring at the sky; pondering and thinking of the stars; there’s a nervousness to him; he dreads the violence that tomorrow could bring; he recalls the fight of 1830, and still applauds - with some reserve - the result while still privately thinking that, perhaps, in an ideal world, there would have been no dead people to mourn.
It’s easy to guess at Combeferre’s thoughts, at the eve of what could be a revolution; Bahorel and him argue good-naturedly; Prouvaire says “you both need an arbitrary, for I refuse to choose between you two” (”not even if we duel?” Bahorel asks. Prouvaire hesitates. “Let’s go see Enjolras” says Combeferre precipitedly)
They go to Courfeyrac’s instead, because Bahorel declares Enjolras is naturally bias and will agree to Combeferre’s everything; Courfeyrac looks relieved and delighted to see them; “my roommate fled from me once more, as he does every night,” he says mournfully. “I do hope she’s pretty. I was almost ready to leave myself and go to Enjolras’.” (Combeferre gives Bahorel a pointed look). Courfeyrac offers wine, and cheers, and warmth; there is no arguing, in the end. Once they’re pleasantly drunk, and it’s now almost one or two am, they collectively decide it is time to pay a visit to their dearest leader;
Enjolras, of course, is not sleeping; he is not even writing, but making more bullets, cool and collected, eye shining with a light that makes all his friends subdue for a second of reverence, before they see behind him Feuilly, who’s working at bullets as well; “You two -” Courfeyrac begins, and then he laughs, and Combeferre says “we should sleep, the day will be long tomorrow” and everybody agrees but still, still, they’re young and enthusiastic and they are ready to change the world tomorrow, to bring justice and light and happiness to the people, their people, and as they all half fall against each other, spread hazardly in Enjolras’ tiny lodgings, they talk and sleep little, their hearts beating fast, their minds racing and yet all utterly peaceful from knowing that their cause is just, and that whatever happens tomorrow, they’ll be together.
(On the other side of the city, Musichetta is fast asleep in a bed, and Joly is coughing a bit; Bossuet and him can’t quite sleep either, and they hold hands and talk, talk about the future, about tomorrow, about Lamarque and revolutions and the dreadful weather, and they make each other laugh and they don’t allow themselves a time to worry; they’ve lived through 1830. They’ll live through 1832. “With the luck I’ve got,” Bossuet says, “I’ll die an old man just to watch yet another king on the throne.” “Mmh,” Joly says. “It could be worst; we could have another Napoleon - he’s still got family after all)
(Somewhere else, Grantaire drinks; and drinks; and laughs; and rants; and dances; he craves; he yearns; he doesn’t sleep at all.)
“[...] and I can see her, Diane, unmoved by my plea - ”
It’d been over ten minutes. Bossuet felt like he had to step in:
“I’m pretty sure there are endless shorter ways to tell me you do not wish to sleep with me,” he told Grantaire.
Grantaire winced; then he sighed, mournfully. “But I do. Only I don’t.”
Bossuet pecked his lips, letting his hands fall on Grantaire’s hips again. Grantaire did not protest. On the contrary, he moved a little closer, and tilted his chin just enough that Bossuet understood he wanted another kiss. This was proving to be way more confusing that he’d first expected when they’d started to drunkenly make out. He brushed his lips against Grantaire’s once more, longer this time. Grantaire hummed pleasantly, his hands resting on Bossuet’s chest.
“Are you - afraid of your virtue?” Bossuet mumbled after a while, when he felt Grantaire stiffening again as his fingers played with the edge of his shirt. “Should I court you perhaps? Buy you flowers, ask for your hand to your father?”
Grantaire snorted. “First off, you’d have to buy flowers with my own money, so I’m not sure you’re much of husband material; second, my sister would never agree to the match; you’re a rascal, and she’s good at recognizing them.”
He had a point. Still; Bossuet bite his lower lip in punishment; Grantaire hummed louder.
“Come on, Capital R. Is this a matter of virginity? I’d be sweet, you know.”
“I’m charmed,” said Grantaire. and then, he stared for a moment at Bossuet; it struck Lesgles that, for once, there was a hint of vunerability in his eye that made him look exactly his age; not even eighteen. “isn’t it enough to kiss?” he said at last. “The pleasures of the flesh are very boring, terribly human, and disgustingly plain; we’re neither boring nor plain though, halas, there’s no escape from the general human condition yet - One should assume -”
There was another rant in the making; and Bossuet knew that when Grantaire felt uncomfortable, he ranted for even longer than when he felt happy. Thankfully, kissing was proving to be a very efficient way to shut him up.
“Just kissing is fine,” he said, and affirmed his words by immediate action.
“Good,” breathed R against his lips. “Because when I finally lay with someone, it’ll be Irma Boissy or no one else.”
Bossuet burst out of laughter. “A virgin for the rest of your life, then! Suits yourself.”
