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Warmth (Feuilly): December, 1827
They are all charming boys, in their own way. They can sit and talk for hours about nothing with great enthusiasm, for they are in love with each other. That much would be evident to any observer careful enough to see the way that they watch one another, the politeness that they grant to their fellows, somewhat incongruous in boys of their age. It is not only the couples -- Audric, who gazes at Julien as though he were a masterfully executed painting, looks at the others with only slightly less reverence. Jehan and Bossuet, who share smiles and the quiet chuckles of lovers with their own language, will both make similar jokes with Audric, and sometimes with Aimery. I sometimes suspect that I am in love with them -- not in the manner of Audric, who welcomes them with open arms, nor in the reserved but certain way that Julien has. I love them as my brothers, not as lovers. Bossuet's grin is infectious, but it makes me laugh; it does not make me want to kiss him. I want to be with them, this little family of dreamers who are so close to each other, and who, for reasons of their own, consider me a worthy addition to their ranks.
The rite of passage was uncomfortable. I only half-understood it until it was done, and then I saw what it could have been, if I were truly the sort of brother they wanted. It should have been a chance to share pleasure, to partake of something forbidden. It was not pleasurable -- I was frightened, and it was, on the whole, a distressing process. I thought, afterward, that such acts were probably illegal in order to keep people from trying them who might be as discomfited as I was. Though the induction itself was unpleasant, I enjoyed having the company of friends in the night. I have little chance to spent time with young women who would be at all interested in me, romantically, and now that I have brothers, I will have less time. It was something of a novelty to sleep in someone's arms. I would not mind doing that again, but they all have their lovers, except for Aimery. He is as much a part of this mad society as any of us, perhaps more so than I am, for he has more ties of love and desire to the others than I. I love him best, and I loved him from the start. It was his company that convinced me to stay, the night that I first encountered them, before I had heard any of them talking with lyric conviction about important things. He charmed me as thoroughly as he captures the heart of any girl -- which is not to say that I desire him in precisely that fashion. I want to be with him, to talk with him into the small hours of the night, to joke with him and learn what makes him happy. It is his presence that keeps me from finding a mistress; no girl would look twice at me, with my shabby clothes and unremarkable appearance, when she could flirt with Aimery instead. And yet I would not forgo his company for any girl in the city. He makes my heart light on the darkest days. Sometimes, when he is not otherwise occupied, he invites me home with him, with the supreme confidence of someone who knows that he is thoroughly charming. I go with him as often as he asks me, and I would spend more nights with him if he were not so in demand. We do not make love on those nights. We talk until all hours in his bed, often in each other's arms. It is terribly comfortable to lie like that with him, as if we really were lovers. Some people might say that we are, I suppose. It would provide explanations for a great deal that goes unexplained between us. I should not enjoy embracing him; if we were lovers, there would be no reason why we should not behave as we do. We kiss each other in a more-than-brotherly way, for the company -- and the pleasure -- of it. Aimery could kiss any of twenty people on a given night, and yet he often chooses to lie almost chastely by my side. It is a great compliment, and proof that he cares for me. I have only touched him intimately twice; once in the initiation, and once not long after we began sleeping together. I doubt that he enjoyed either instance particularly, and I am sure that he understood as well as I do that I took no pleasure in the act. I have apologized for that lack at some length. Doubtless, he would rather that I could please him as his other lovers do, without hesitating, without a sense of revulsion, but he does not ask it of me, and I lack the courage to offer. I was not entirely sober the first time I allowed him to touch me. It had been perhaps a month that we had been sleeping together often, sharing kisses and often caresses that were not entirely innocent. We were unfair to each other, for I knew I could not complete what I began, and I did not want to accept anything from him that I could not return in kind. But one night I had had a little too much to drink, not enough to be out of my senses or anything like it, but enough to be incautious. Aimery was slightly less than his normal conscientious self, too, which compounded the danger. We were kissing, as we might have been on a more normal evening, and it was not that unusual for one or both of us to find that a little arousing. It was unusual and discomfiting for Aimery to put his hand on the erection that I ought not to have had, and to smile at me, saying, "Let me help you, Daniel." I cannot blame my response on the wine; I had wanted something like what he offered for too long to refuse. I hesitated only a moment, then kissed him and let him do what he would. It was not as frightening as I remembered from the first time. After all, we had been a great deal more physically intimate in the weeks between my initiation and this fumbling than we had ever been beforehand. It was not as strange, knowing it was Aimery, knowing with absolute certainty that he would not hurt me, and he would not push me farther into this than I wanted to go. I was ashamed afterward, and turned away from him, saying that I should return the favor but that I could not. He kissed me and told me that it pleased him to please me. I did not quite know how to respond, and so I embraced him. We fell asleep not long afterward. In the morning, things were again as they had been. We did not speak of the night's follies until two nights later, for Aimery was busy the next night. He asked me if I was upset by what had happened, and I told him in all honesty that I was not. A few nights later, he made the same offer as before, and after a few moments I accepted. Afterward, I kissed him and apologized again. "It's all right. Truly." He kissed my cheek. "Yes, but it isn't." I could not meet his eyes for a moment. "I ought to do something for you." He embraced me. "You do." "No, I don't. I just waste your time. I should --" "Daniel. Je t'aime. Of course you don't waste my time. If I didn't want to be here," he kissed my forehead, "then I wouldn't be here." I sighed. "I suppose." "You should know that by now." He gave me a kiss. "Goodnight, mon frère." "Goodnight." I have never asked him for any intimacy. He offers perhaps once a week, but it is no more that. It has not become the basis of our relationship to each other, nor would I want it to become any more important than it is. I still feel some guilt, as though I am taking advantage of him rather than benefitting from his generosity, but it is pleasant, and the longer it goes on, the more certain I am that if he did not want to do anything for me, he would not.
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