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Malice: April, 1829
For the last three days, Chrétien has been abed with a flu or stomach ailment or possibly chicken pox, but most likely all three. Bossuet has been taking care of him to the best of his abilities based on this changing diagnosis. When at last Chrétien emerges from his sickbed and is able to attend a meeting, Bossuet of course accompanies him, smiling and gently teasing him about his diseases. Jehan greets Bossuet with a kiss that makes Chrétien avert his eyes in annoyance and Julien glare, and for half the meeting sits beside him with a hand on his knee, reinforced with the occasional whisper of "Don't go, chéri. Not tonight." Meanwhile Chrétien sneezes into his handkerchief and seems little better for all he's been horizontal. Partway through the meeting, Christophe arrives without a single apology for his tardiness. With half a glance at Bossuet, Jehan goes to sit with Christophe and share the wine and bread that pass for his supper. An hour and a half pass before the meeting breaks up. As soon as Julien and Audric are out the door, Jehan is in Christophe's embrace, the recipient of a reckless kiss. Bossuet blinks after him, and leans back in his chair with a faint sigh, looking away. Chrétien coughs sharply, presumably from the smoky fire. "Well." "Oh, Christophe," Jehan exclaims, not half softly enough, in the rapt voice he is wont to use in such situations. "We shouldn't -- not here." Christophe grins at him. "We can go." "Going to be a cold night," Chrétien remarks, to no one in particular, a little too clearly. Bossuet gives him a look, then pushes away from the table and stands, heading for the door without a word. As Théo opens the door, Jehan giggles. "You're terrible, chéri!" "Not half as terrible as I'd like to be," Christophe says, almost mildly. "Come on, then?" "Yes, go be picturesque elsewhere, why don't you?" Chrétien coughs again. "D'you want company, Théo?" "No," brusquely, and the door shuts. Jehan glowers at Chrétien. "You can leave, yourself, as you're the only one complaining." Chrétien glares back. "Because I'm complaining doesn't mean you're behaving well." "Don't mind him," Christophe says to Jehan. "We ought to go." He shrugs a little at Chrétien, as if asking for forgiveness or possibly demonstrating that he doesn't care. "I don't want to." Jehan begins to pout. "He always gets everything he wants." Chrétien shoves back his chair violently. "Yes, and I don't have to whine for it, either. Good night, Christophe." Christophe's mild, "Good night, Chrétien," is more than drowned out by Jehan's, "Go to hell!" The door shuts behind Chrétien much more loudly than it did after Bossuet. Jehan glares at the door a moment before he gives up and kisses Christophe as though he were not angry. "Jehan," Christophe says afterward, "if you want to go home --" "That's not my home. Come with me?" Christophe shrugs. "All right." * * * * *Chrétien shows up alone the following night, sneezing much less. He spends most of the evening talking to Aimery and Audric, pointedly ignoring Jehan. After a couple of hours and a good deal of wine, he leaves with Aimery in search of other company. Jehan orders himself dinner and sits alone at a table, poking at it. Audric, Daniel, and Julien flip through a beleaguered tome and occasionally quote from it, but they do not seem to notice Jehan's disaffection. After half an hour of this, Audric breaks away from the discussion and taps Jehan on the shoulder. "Would you like to --" Jehan stands up. "Not at all. Good night." He gathers his things and storms down the passageway into the front room, where although it is loud, it is at least impersonally loud. Bossuet is there, ensconced in a corner, solitary and silent, staring at the floor. He does not look to have slept much. It takes Jehan a few moments to notice him. When he does, he swears under his breath, hands off the cold remains of his dinner to a passing waitress, and takes a seat at Bossuet's table withut saying a word. Bossuet looks up sharply, and blinks at him. Jehan puts his head in his hands. "You can live with him, if you want. As long as you want to. God knows you don't want to be anywhere near me." "Not if I have to watch you climb all over Christophe." Bossuet scarcely sounds like himself: hoarse, surly, contemptuous. "Not then. I'll sleep in the street first." "At least he treats me honestly. Damn you." "Oh. Really? When did I toy with you, petit? When did I whisper in your ear, Stay for me, and then go off and amuse myself with some swaggering lout with well-lined pockets?" Jehan stands up in a red-faced fury but keeps his voice low. "You were fawning all over Chrétien while he pretended to sneeze into a lace-edged hankie. Pardon me for being tired of his nonsensical 'illnesses,' but of course you'll pardon me nothing because you are entirely too caught up in him." "At least," bitterly, "he treats me honestly. I'll pardon you nothing? You sleep with Aimery and Chris, I don't get angry; you snipe at Chrétien, I don't say anything; if you threw me over entirely," growing tremulous, "I wouldn't blame you. I'd forgive you anything but this, this was--" He shuts his eyes tightly, resting his head in one hand. "If you're tired of me, say so, but you don't have to torment me." Jehan falters. "Théo -- Théo, come home with me? I can't talk to you here." Bossuet's shoulders hunch. "And if I did, would we find somebody waiting?" trying, not very successfully, to keep his voice steady. "Of course not." Jehan reaches toward him. "Please, mon ami." Bossuet puts his face in his hands for a moment, then takes Jehan's hand blindly and gets to his feet. Jehan thumps him on the shoulder as though he would actually be capable of half-carrying Bossuet anywhere. "Come on, then. You've been drinking entirely too much," loudly, for the benefit of everyone else. "Haven't," but he allows himself to be maneuvered out the door, uncomplaining. Jehan puts an arm around his waist once they're partway down the street. "I was stupid," he admits softly. Bossuet shrugs, without pulling away, inexpressibly hopeless, though no longer teary. Jehan catches at his sleeve. "I was stupid and cruel. Oh, Théo --" Bossuet stops and looks at him, brow furrowed. "Cher..." Jehan gives him a watery look. "I don't deserve you, darling." Bossuet winces, and looks at the pavement. Jehan touches his shoulder lightly. There is a tense pause, and then Bossuet embraces him fiercely. Jehan hugs him back. "Oh, God," in a broken whisper. "Don't play with me. I love you too much. I can't, I--" "And I love you," softly. "But I can be a horrible fool. I'm sorry, I'm sorry." "God." Bossuet takes a deep breath, hugging him tightly. "And you know, don't you, you know I can't stay angry with you." "I'm sorry," again. "I love you." "I adore you," on the end of a sigh. "Come home with me." Bossuet lets him go with a wan smile. "Since you ask so charmingly--" Jehan squeezes his hand. "Please?" "I suppose I can make time. In my busy schedule," returning the squeeze. Jehan smiles a little. "Come and stay?" "If you'll have me," softly. "Gladly, cher." Bossuet smiles a bit. "Lead on." Jehan nuzzles him. "All right, mon ami."
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