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Impatience (Bahorel): April, 1830
It took a long time to walk home from the Café Musain last night, for all we had been there until three in the morning. Every few steps, Jehan tugged on my sleeve like a fretful child until I stopped in a shadowed street, whereupon he embraced me as though he had not seen me in a year and kissed me with all the subtlety of rhythm and meter that he could bring to bear on the moment. At first, he did it to tease me, but as we kept on -- and kept on stopping -- he was more affected than I was. He protested a little when I made a sharp left turn into an alleyway, but he followed me just the same. I kissed him until he stopped complaining and clung to me, trembling. When I unfastened his pants, he looked almost as though he was going to swoon, his eyes wide and dark in the dim light. I let him go and he leaned on the wall of a house. I whispered his name softly as I knelt in front of him. That seemed to wake him from his daze. He said, "Christophe, we can't do anything here!" softly and furiously. "Everyone's asleep. They won't know." I kissed the tip of his cock gently, and he sighed. "And you won't like walking the rest of the way if I leave you alone." "We shouldn't." "Mm-hm." But he let me once I had begun and tangled his long, pale fingers in my hair to keep me from teasing him. When he came, he made a soft noise, almost a whimper. "You're terrible," he told me affectionately when I stood to help him button his pants. "I know, chéri. But you don't seem to mind." "Not very much, no." He walked the rest of the way with his arm around my waist, leaning on my shoulder a little.
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