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Variations (Bahorel): July, 1828
I came but late to their discourses, but found the debaters enchanting. They had fought no battles in the beginning, only claimed the back room of a café and begun to fortify it with their presence, night after night. They went to no great lengths to make me feel at all welcome; it was even then something of a closed society, with its lovers and its standoffish friends. It was only a few months before they accepted me -- I suspect that my willingness to say aloud what they tended to speak in hushed voices endeared me to them.
Once I had earned some measure of their trust, they decided to induct me into their fraternité. As Aimery said later, I was straightforward about everything: my ideology, my willingness to fight for it, and my affection for the male form. The latter did not inspire them to initiate me, but it can't have hurt. Audric explained it all to me in his earnest way, one evening, a little apart from the rest in case I should be offended or what have-you. All the rules, all the guidelines for building this brotherhood -- while behind us men were talking and laughing together, in love with each other and with their blazing ideals. Audric asked, when he had finished explaining, "Do you consent to this? Will you join us?" I kissed him for an answer, and heard Aimery laugh.
The initiation was an odd thing, one of those traditions that is done the way it is because that is the way it has always been done -- no matter whether the ceremony is two years old or two hundred. It began with Julien. Audric was there, but only in an official capacity -- "To observe, mon ami," he told me, and explained that if I were ever to tell any governmental authority about this rite, it would be Julien's word and his against mine about what had happened, and who had been coerced. That would be a spectacle for the court indeed: fragile Julien and his sweet-faced flatmate, crying "Rape" and pointing to the libertine, the offender -- me.
It may as well have been rape, though he consented. There was a set to Julien's jaw all through it, as though he were determined to enjoy it, or not to enjoy it, but either way his body was disobeying him. He offered no great intimacy but the touch of his pale hands, and would accept nothing more from me. He trusted me, and the brief pleasure signified that, but he did not want me as an intimate on the level of his Audric, who apparently took no great joy in his observations. I slept there afterward at their request, another unpleasantness that was obligated by ritual.
The next night, Audric joined me in my bed. After the meeting, he asked me in an officious voice if I would prefer it if someone accompanied us. I said I'd rather not. I felt entirely confident in my ability to overwhelm him, if he were to break from his own tradition. He smiled and said that he agreed, and so we left together. I felt sure that Julien watched us go. Once we were there, embracing each other more comfortably than I had held his lover, he confessed to me that he took a certain vicarious pleasure in watching the ceremony the night before, such as it was.
I had gathered as much; it would hardly support a lawsuit to go home with one's roommate's putative rapist. There was, then, a reason for the observer. I smiled at him and said, "I'm sure you enjoyed it."
He blushed. "It -- I don't know."
I kissed him. "This will be better, mon ami. I promise you that."
It was. He was nowhere near as prudish as Julien; once past the initial trouble of precisely what he wanted, and precisely how he would manage to ask for it without giving me offense or embarrassing himself, he seemed nearly comfortable with me. Audric made no pretense of inexperience, which put me more at ease than Julien's diffidence had. I doubt that I would have had the confidence to do anything that required finesse with Julien, even if he had requested it, given his inability to relax. Audric's hands were gentle but practiced. When he spread his legs for me and asked me to make love to him -- those words, for he would not use anything coarser -- I could not refuse him. "Ah, mon frère," he sighed as we began. It was incongruous, disconcerting for a moment, before I remembered that that was the aim of the evening. We were not making love so much as making friends.
Fraternité aside, it was a pleasant evening. We did not spend a great deal of time in "making love," for I have never had a great deal of patience with the sort of care he expected. I took him aback for several moments before he understood my intent and responded in kind. He smiled at me afterward, warm and relaxed in my arms. "It is good to have you among us, Christophe. You are -- not entirely like the others."
I kissed him. "I should hope not. If there's more than one of me, I don't want to meet him."
He chuckled. "Perhaps not."
"Is this what you wanted, then?" I touched his cheek.
He bit his lip. "I suppose so. -- It was pleasant. Thank you."
I smiled. "Good. I wanted it to be." We lay together in silence for a few moments. I asked something I would not have considered inquiring of Julien: "Is that it, then?"
"What do you mean?" He stretched, then relaxed into my embrace.
I ran my hand over his chest. "You really only -- make love -- with each of your brothers once?"
Audric paused before he answered. "Not necessarily. But -- no, thank you." He kissed me gently, then turned away to sleep.
The night after that, Daniel came and sat with me near the end of the meeting, such as it was. It had devolved into a heated discussion of the various merits of Diderot's Letters on the Blind as compared to Montesquieu's Persian Letters and Voltaire's Letters on the English, for no better reason than that Bossuet was feeling argumentative and Julien took him up on the offer. No one had a copy of the works handy, so for once we were spared the interminable page-flipping, "A ha!" and pointing to a particular passage, "See? I told you so," in which some people so delight. The lack of quotations also made the argument and therefore the meeting shorter than it might have been. After Julien left, no doubt making a mental note to bring Montesquieu with him every night thereafter, Daniel put a hand on my shoulder and said softly, "Ought to get it over with, n'est-ce pas?"
I grinned at him, which made him blink. "Don't sound so enthusiastic, mon ami. Someone might think you were proposing something interesting."
"I didn't think I was." He stood up, and so did I.
"Ah, then we disagree." I gave him a mock bow. "Let us go home and check our references to see which one of us is correct."
Daniel smiled. "Better your flat than mine, I think. There are rats and too many neighbors."
"Good enough."
We walked together, for I don't live far enough from that café to warrant a fiacre. Daniel was quiet, and I did not disturb his reverie until we had arrived, and stood in my room with a candle burning. He was frowning a little and looking at my floor rather than at me. "You seem excited," I said, mildly enough that he would know I was teasing him.
He shrugged. "I'm not, particularly. If it were not for the rules of this society --" he looked up at me, and half-smiled "-- I would not share your bed."
"I see. All in the name of duty, then?" I touched his shoulder.
He shrugged again, then embraced me. "I suppose. I would rather not be obligated to this, but one does what one must."
I kissed his forehead. "Is it so terrible, then?"
"It is nothing I would have chosen." He kissed me, then said, "You're very tall."
I chuckled. "If you're used to grisettes, I suppose I would be."
Daniel blushed. "No, I'm not, particularly. I don't have a mistress. I have a, um, friend."
"Do you?"
"Well, yes, when he's not busy."
"Really." I started unbuttoning his waistcoat; he began to return the favor. "Do I know this fellow, then?"
He looked at my buttons carefully. "I believe you've met Aimery."
I laughed. "Yes, I've met him. Charming fellow. And you're his lover?"
"Not entirely. Sort of. Yes?"
"You could be much worse off. -- Daniel, mon frère?"
"Yes?"
"Kiss me."
He was, on the whole, a diffident lover, not comfortable either touching me or being touched. He knew well enough what to do, and perhaps he had some practice at it beyond the inductions of his various friends, but like Julien, he took little pleasure in it beyond the physical release. It was not love, and it was not lust. It was, perhaps, what it was intended to be: a peculiar intimacy, embarrassing and sticky, that obviated the need to be embarrassed around one's friends and brothers. I have never been inclined to embarrassment, but Daniel clearly was. In those few moments, he had seen me brutish and vulnerable, arguably at my worst. He had little to fear from me after that.
We lay together afterward, next to each other rather than in each other's arms. He explained the intricacies of our friends' relationships. Some I already knew -- that Bossuet and Jehan might as well have shared a flat, for the amount of time they spent in each other's beds; that Julien and Audric had been lovers for years; that Chrétien had a mistress and was not involved with any of his brothers. But I had not realized that Audric shared a bed with Aimery at times, nor that Daniel lived with Aimery, on the nights when he was not otherwise occupied.
"It's all damnably complicated," I said, when he finished a stammering explanation of how he had begun sleeping with Aimery.
"I suppose so. It's only friendship. Or possibly it's something else." He shifted a little and shrugged.
"I'm not entirely sure, yet. I wonder how it will all settle, with another person in the mix." I prodded his shoulder gently. "Would you advise me to find a girl?"
"How should I know?" Daniel thought a moment. "You're going to scare the wits out of Chrétien, but then everyone does."
I chuckled. "Monsieur is not the sort of person I would associate with in that manner. And the rest?"
"Everyone's self-sufficient, or not, I suppose."
"Ah, well. It could be worse."
Daniel poked my arm. "Yes. We could be expected to do this more often."
"Mm. Remind me not to proposition you, then."
"I shall. Goodnight."
"Goodnight."
No one approached me the night after that; Chrétien was not there, and the rest went off, chattering and giggling to their beloveds, without a thought for their lonely brother. I did not try to stop them. I hadn't the authority to do that, and I knew they were all obligated to visit me, sooner or later, on their own time and in their own way.
All through the meeting on the night Jehan went home with me, he sat so close to Bossuet that he might as well have been on his lover's lap. They were sharing a bottle of wine in the corner, quiet in the main discussion -- the merits of Rousseau's reactions to censorship as opposed to his contemporaries' -- but they whispered to each other in the manner of children or sweethearts who don't care that they vex their fellows. At inappropriate times, they would laugh aloud, then glance at whomever had been speaking of something important, and whisper to each other again. The waitress nearly caught them kissing, except that Aimery faked a sneeze and drew her attention. Julien rapped on the table when she'd gone, and would have stood -- probably intending to tell them off -- but Audric put a hand on his shoulder and murmured something in his ear. He sat back down. It was the condemned poet's last meal with his beloved, the sacrifice's moments of glory before fate struck him down.
At the end of the evening, they walked to my table together, Jehan's arm around Bossuet's waist. I'd been sitting with Aimery, who rolled his eyes at them and said, "You are going to start a fight in here if you keep on like this. Fratricide, mes amis, is an ugly thing."
Jehan giggled and kissed Bossuet. He was more than a little drunk, in the acclaimed fashion of the king-for-a-day who knows his death approaches. His Eagle was not much steadier. They were both lucky that there were no classes in the morning. "We'll be good tomorrow. Probably." Jehan leaned on Bossuet's shoulder. "It's just I was scared, and Théo was keeping my spirits up."
I said, "Bottoms up," and Jehan blushed.
Bossuet put a hand on my shoulder, and said to me in what was meant to be a conspiratorial whisper, "You be nice to him, or I'll -- I'll -- you'll pay."
Aimery laughed. "I'm sure he would. You'd trip over your own feet and punch yourself in the nose, Bossuet, even if you were sober, which you aren't."
I shook my head. "I'll be kind. No fear."
Bossuet nodded and stood up again to bestow a lingering kiss on Jehan. "And you be careful. I ought to come with you, make sure nothing happens."
I shrugged. "If you like."
Jehan looked from Bossuet to me and bit his lip. "It'll be all right. I think."
I smiled in relief. If I'd had to deal with them both in the state they were in, I would have had no patience. "All right, then. Come home with me, Jehan?"
He kissed Bossuet again, then took my hand as if he were really as young as he seemed. "Goodnight, mon amour, mon adoré. Goodnight, Aimé."
Aimery said, "Goodnight, you two," and grinned at us.
Bossuet sighed. "Goodnight, mon coeur."
As Jehan and I left the café, I let his hand go in order to remind myself that he was my brother and my equal, not a lost, drunk child. He chattered to me about gods and prophets all the way home, and chortled over the incestuous couplings of Olympians as though he were first discovering them. I did not try to encourage him, but he took my mumbled "Mm-hm"s as if they were valuable contributions and kept up both ends of the conversation quite well until we reached my flat.
He looked around in the dim light of well past dusk. "You have a nice room," he said, as if it mattered what the room was like.
"Thank you, Jehan." I locked the door behind us and waited for him to do something.
He stood in the middle of the room looking out the window for several minutes, then shook himself a little. "I should drink some water, I think. I'm rather thirsty."
I smiled, though he was looking away from me and couldn't see. "There's a pitcher on the table by the bed, and a glass that probably isn't too dirty."
"All right." He sat on the edge of my bed and fetched himself a glass of water. He looked delicate, sitting there, like something out of a painting: dark, curled hair and smooth hands, with his cravat askew courtesy of his lover, but perhaps the artist was slightly colorblind, for his waistcoat was a horrid shade of green that made the cravat look sickly mustard-yellow. He was a rather small person, and he had a tendency to slouch, which made him look even smaller. I sat down beside him when he set down the water-glass. For a few moments, I felt a twinge of guilt, and I could understand why Bossuet had been posturing at me. Jehan was so very young and beautiful, and I could certainly hurt him if I were not careful. I sighed. He blinked at me, looking distressingly innocent. "What's wrong, Christophe?"
"You don't have to do this," I said, though I would rather have made love to him than sent him home. "You can sleep here, and I'll tell them we did what we were supposed to do."
Jehan blinked again and bit his lip, then shifted sideways so that he was on my lap. "I want to -- well, mostly." He kissed me and fidgetted a little, thereby destroying the illusion of his virginity and my resolve to keep my hands off him in one fell swoop.
"Jehan," I protested, "not tonight." I didn't push him away; I was afraid that if I tried he would end up on the floor.
"Why not?" He wriggled again, and I gritted my teeth.
"You're drunk, mon ami, and it wouldn't be -- properly binding. Stop that."
He gave me a petulant look that was first cousin to a pout and got up. "I'm not that drunk." His lower lip had the wobbling quality I generally associate with a mistress who wants something.
"All right, you're not drunk." I shrugged. "I'm not particularly in the mood."
Jehan gave my trousers a pointed look. "Yes, you are."
"No," I lied, "I'm not. Come to bed, mon petit. We can make pretty promises just as well in the morning." He frowned at me for a moment, then started undressing. I had to look away to preserve the fragile prevarication; he knew perfectly well that I wanted him. But I didn't want him with false courage, nor did I want him falling asleep in the middle of things. I started undressing to distract myself from the spectacle of Jehan in a state of deshabille. "Have another glass of water," I suggested.
"Oui, papa," he said, giving me a most adolescent look.
I shook my head. "Come to bed when you're ready." I pushed back the covers. It was July, and too warm for sheets, too warm to do anything but sleep in the nude, but I left my shirt on for the sake of his sensibilities.
He had no such pretensions of dignity. When he had had his water, he climbed into bed and lay half on top of me, naked, young, and intoxicated. "Are you sure you don't want to?" he asked, with another fetching wriggle.
"I'm sure," I said, still lying. "It's too hot to sleep like that, petit."
"I'm not petit. Don't call me that." He sniffed and moved off of me, which was what I had wanted.
"All right, you're not. Go to sleep."
"I don't want to. I want to make love. Please?"
I turned on my side so that I wasn't facing him. "Not tonight."
Jehan sighed gustily. "You're dull."
I bit my lip, hoping that the pain would distract me from my arousal. "I know. Goodnight, Jehan."
He made a small grumbling noise. "Goodnight."
I am sure he slept easily, given his inebriation. It took me rather longer, and it took a great deal of willpower not to wake him and take him up on his offer.
Jehan woke before I did and got out of bed in the predawn hours to perform ablutions. In getting up, he woke me, though I fell asleep again almost immediately. I remember looking at him in crepuscular illumination and wondering why he had stayed. When I woke again, the sun was well up, and Jehan was asleep, his torso on my chest and his cheek pressed against my shoulder. He was snoring a little in the breathy, gentle way of someone whose lovers will never tell him he snores. His rather absurdly long hair had slipped out of its ribbon and sprawled across my sheets. I shifted a little, for he was making one of my arms fall asleep. Then, given the golden opportunity, I ran my hand down his back, appreciating his smooth skin and the soft curve of his buttocks. He twitched a little but gave no sign of waking until I combed my fingers through his hair and attempted to gather it. He stirred and blinked at me with wide, dark eyes.
As soon as he realized that he was on top of me, he blushed and rolled to the side. "I'm sorry, Christophe," he mumbled. "I shouldn't --"
I caught at his shoulder. "Do you think I minded, pretty one? Not at all. Let me find you some breakfast, let me wake up a bit, and I believe we have unfinished business from last night."
His blush deepened. "I thought you said we needn't."
"And you said you wanted to, n'est-ce pas?"
He frowned at me. "I was drunk, and you were gentleman enough not to take me at my word."
I touched his cheek and smiled, though he flinched. "I wasn't being chivalrous. I was waiting for you to be sober so that we could do this properly."
"But --"
I clucked my tongue. "Ah, mon frère. It will not be so terrible as all of that. Don't worry so."
Jehan frowned again. "But I don't want to."
"Pity, as you're under an obligation." I kissed his cheek. "Should I find you wine for breakfast to ease your discomfort? You were more than willing last night."
He turned away from me. "Then you ought to have done what you were going to do then."
I ran my hand down his spine and made him shiver. "You were too far gone for that."
"Too far gone to give you a moment's pleasure?" His tone was sharp. "I am not that inept."
"No." I caressed the curve of his buttocks. "Little brother, I want to share this with you, not steal something from you. I want to take you in my mouth, lovely boy. I want to taste you and make you cry out. What you do to me -- if you do anything -- is entirely up to you."
He did not answer for several moments. "How can you say such things? I -- I -- if you like."
I smiled. "Is that an appealing thought, then?"
He turned to look at me. He was blushing again, but his cock was more than half-erect. "I -- yes," he admitted in a small voice.
"Good." I kissed him. For all his earlier protestations, he kissed me back eagerly. Still -- I broke the kiss and said, above the pounding of my heart, "If you truly want to go, I shan't keep you, and you don't need to do anything."
He blinked at me for a moment, then put his hand on my erection. "Your conscience can be quiet." He kissed me again, then explained, "I was just afraid you'd ask me to -- to --" His cheeks went red.
I asked, "To what?" indulging my prurient curiosity, and wondering what words he'd use for what he apparently dreaded.
"You know," he said, looking at the pillow and waving a hand. "Because -- that would hurt."
I chuckled. "Is that what you think?"
"Yes." The asperity was back in his voice. "You're -- yes. It would."
"Perhaps," I said lightly. "But you want me to touch you, yes?"
He shivered. "If you like."
"I would like to, at that."
"It might be pleasant," he admitted.
"What faith you have in me." I kissed him again.
"I'm sorry. All right, then."
I paused and looked at him, flushed cheeks, red lips, wide eyes, and all. "All right, what?"
He waved a hand. "If you're going to -- to do what you said, then get it over with."
I laughed until he frowned at me. "I've nowhere to go today, Jehan," I said, which was perfectly true. "I could make love to you all morning."
He wriggled. "Théo is expecting me." He didn't mention that, given his youth, he would be less likely to wait all morning than I was -- and I am not patient in bed.
"Ah. Well, I shan't keep you any longer than necessary." I let him go and leaned over the edge of the bed.
I felt him sit up. "What are you doing?"
I retrieved a somewhat dusty bottle of oil and showed him. "Looking for this."
He lay back, but frowned. "I thought you said you wouldn't."
"Only if you want me to." I wet two of my fingers with the oil and smiled at him. "Relax, would you? I won't do anything you don't want."
"All right," he said, but he sounded dubious.
"For God's sake. Spread your legs, would you?" He did, and hid his face in his hand, so that one vulnerability might be counteracted by a modicum of protection. I moved down the bed and settled comfortably between his calves. "Don't forget to breathe, petit." I bent to take him in my mouth. He gasped and twitched at the first touch. I hadn't realized how aroused he was; I let him go again and kissed his cock lightly as he fought for breath. "Sweet Jehan. Calm down a bit, or it'll be over too soon."
"Calm down?" he asked, on the end of an incredulous gasp.
"Yes." I kissed the inside of his thigh and felt his muscles tremble. With the oiled fingers of my right hand, I rubbed the cleft of his buttocks, wide as it was with his legs so far apart.
He spluttered. "God, Christophe --"
"Relax, mon frère." I pushed one finger inside him to the knuckle. His hips moved. "Relax." I took him in my mouth again and eased my finger farther in.
"Ah, God," he sighed. He lifted his hips from the bed, thrusting into my mouth. I pulled away and went back to kissing his straining muscles and his cock while I regained enough logical thought to crook my finger just so and make him swear again. He opened his eyes while I watched him grimace, and raised a hand to knot it in my hair. "Don't stop. Please."
"All right," I said, amiably enough, and went back to the simple but enjoyable art of making a lovely boy come in my mouth.
He was embarrassed afterward and would have turned away, except that I was between his thighs and I still had a finger inside him. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I should have warned you."
I blinked at him, then moved to lie beside him and kissed him softly. "Did you think I minded?"
Jehan blushed. "You should have minded."
"But I didn't."
He bit his lip. "I don't know why not."
I clucked my tongue. "All right -- I minded terribly." He looked at me with frightened eyes. "I did," I insisted. "It was hideous. The only way you can make amends is by letting me make love to you." I moved my finger inside him and made him shiver.
"If -- if you're careful." He put a hand on my shoulder.
"I'm always careful," I assured him, and kissed him again.
It was peculiar how readily I overcame my sense that he was too young for debauchery. Certainly no such pangs of conscience kept me from spreading his legs once he was somewhat recovered. For all his earlier protestations, he enjoyed that as much as I had hoped he would. Afterward, we both fell asleep for perhaps an hour. I woke with Jehan in my arms and his head pillowed on my shoulder. He had apparently been awake longer than I, but had refrained from waking me. He kissed me and shifted a little, and I realized he was aroused again, which made me smile. "It's good to be young, n'est-ce pas?"
He blushed and closed his eyes. "I'm sorry. I'll go."
"Like that? However will you get dressed?"
"Christophe! It will go away."
I ran my fingers down the arching length of that which we were discussing. "Why would you want it to do that?"
He mumbled something.
"What?"
"What you must think of me," he said, a little more loudly.
"I think you're lovely. Here, petit frère, let me teach you something."
I sent him home well after two in the afternoon, walking a bit less confidently than usual. By the end of it, he had ceased to be quite so timid, and I felt -- as I had not felt with the others -- that perhaps he was more than just a political ally.
It was not at all difficult to convince Bossuet to come with me the day after Jehan visited me. He must have heard the story of the long morning in detail. Monsieur Laigle approached me when they first arrived, the poet safe in his lover's arms as though he had not been in my bed six hours previously. Bossuet asked, "Are you busy tomorrow night?" clearly sure that I was not, and that I would like to be.
"I suppose not, mon frère. Are you?"
He gave me a broad wink. "I'm always busy, but I can join you if you like."
"We do have an appointment of sorts, don't we?"
"Sooner or later, yes." He glanced at Jehan, who was discussing something with Audric and paying us no heed. "Perhaps sooner is better."
"Indeed." I gave him my most wicked smile. "You won't be busy tomorrow night, if you're at home."
Bossuet snorted. "Thank you for the advice."
"Always glad to be of service."
"Tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow."
Bossuet was neither as frightened or as enthusiastic as his paramour. He knew his obligation, and he was willing to fulfill it with skillful fingers, thus sacrificing as little dignity as possible to the cause of fraternité. We lay in each other's arms when the vows were done. He had the manner of one who is accustomed to sharing a bed, and he seemed a great deal more comfortable naked than he had been dressed. He told me about Jehan, how they had met and fallen in love, and the sweet madness that was their romance. I might have been jealous if I had not held Jehan the day before; I might have felt lonely hearing such tales at another time. In that context, however, I could kiss him between anecdotes, and I had the memory of his beloved's face in ecstasy to warm me.
Two nights later, Chrétien approached me. "Let's be done with this," he said, sharply, and I blinked.
"Is it such a terrible burden on you?"
"We've not done anything yet. We must." He spread his hands. "Come home with me, and let us have done with the nonsense."
It was the oddest proposition I had ever received, but I was under as much obligation to accept it as he was to extend it. He called me brother and took what liberties were expected of him, offered me the same in return, and winced the whole time. If I had not known better, I would have sworn I had taken his virginity, at least in regard to members of his own sex.
He did not fall asleep immediately afterward, but he did not speak to me either. We were silent until we fell asleep. I woke before he did and took my leave of his room; my continued presence would doubtless have distressed him further.
Three nights later, Aimery realized as he was leaving the café that I was still there, alone, waiting as in the courtyard of Astarte's temple for someone, but all of the other someones had left. He came back in and sat on my table for a moment. "I take it you're not busy tonight."
"I haven't been for several nights, no." I stood up, and so did he, with an easy grace.
"Ah. Well, then -- shall we?" He kissed me, long, lingering, and very much against the rules.
"Let's."
Aimery's flat was closer than mine. His bed was wide, and he called me brother in a manner both teasing and earnest. "You've had quite a week, then," he said as he unbuttoned my pants.
"More than a week, because you kept me waiting." I kissed him. He chuckled and embraced me.
"I do apologize, mon frère, but I thought that you were still waiting for Chrétien."
I tucked a strand of his hair behind his ear and ran my hand down his back. "Why were you waiting when we could have done this sooner?"
"Chrétien is difficult. I didn't want that to be your last memory of this." He slid his hands inside my pants and pushed them down. "I expect this will be much more pleasant."
I gave him a measuring look. "So far, it's dull compared to frère Joly."
"Really?" Aimery did not sound as though he believed me.
"You haven't flinched once." I laced my fingers in his hair and kissed him again.
"It isn't that easy to make me flinch," he said breathlessly when I let him go.
"So I see." I glanced over his shoulder. "Bed's behind me?"
"About three steps."
I sat down, and he sat half beside me, half on my lap. We kissed again, and I asked, "Better?"
"I think so, yes."
Once the possibility of falling over was gone, we kissed and caressed each other for quite a while. He got me to gasp first, and gave me a rather smug look. To prove that my mind was not entirely disconnected, I said, "There is a flaw in this system, mon frère."
"Oh? What's that?"
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