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It is very late when Combeferre returns to his rooms: it has been a day full of work at the hospital, followed by a furtive meeting with Enjolras, so all he wishes to do is to slip under the coverlet with a book and a warm cup of tea. It is the coldest day of the year so far, with snow whirling on the cobblestone streets: as he hurries home, he pulls his collar up to cover his ears, not looking forward to the chill of his rooms, devoid of fire for hours.
As he opens his door, however, he is greeted by an unexpected guest seated in Combeferre's best chair beside a roaring fire, his shoes off and his feet up, having made himself completely at home: it is Joly, who has charmed his landlady yet again in order to gain entrance.
“Are you ill?” Combeferre inquires, stomping the snow off his shoes and rubbing his hands together, puzzled as to why his colleague has chosen this evening of all evenings to pay him a visit -- knowing Joly, he assumes it must be some sort of ailment, real or imagined.
Joly's familiar lopsided grin appears. “Not quite,” he explains, as Combeferre removes his boots so as to not track mud inside. “I am currently of the mind that I suffer from an illness of a different variety. A seasonal ailment, if you will -- owing to today’s holiday,” he adds, rising to his feet to take Combeferre’s hat and coat.
“Today’s holiday?” Combeferre asks, doffing his cap and brushing the wet snowflakes out of his blond hair. “As I recall, Lent does not begin until next week.” He takes off his blue coat and hands it to Joly, who carefully places it over Combeferre’s other chair.
“And when is the last time you darkened a church’s door on a Sunday?” Joly asks, raising an eyebrow at him, and Combeferre shrugs, conceding the point. “No, I am thinking of a more festive holiday -- one that does not require abstinence as part of its observance.”
Combeferre chuckles as he crosses the room to fetch his decanter of wine. “That sounds like a holiday that would suit you very well,” he teases.
“Do you not know what today is, my friend?” Joly asks incredulously, picking up a glass and holding it out to Combeferre.
With a bemused smile on his face, Combeferre fills Joly’s proffered glass, then fills one for himself. “I do believe it is Saturday, but do not hold me to that,” he replies.
“The date, Combeferre. Are you aware of the date?” Joly asks patiently.
Combeferre hesitates for a moment, then shakes his head. “I am afraid I am not.”
Joly’s sigh is less exasperated than resigned. “It is the 14th of February. Had you forgotten? It is the feast of Saint Valentin.”
Combeferre peers at Joly over his wineglass, wondering where he is going with this line of thought. “It seems I had indeed forgotten,” he concedes, ignoring the smug look in Joly’s green eyes. “But why this sudden interest in a silly holiday? Have you been spending your free time with Monsieur Prouvaire again?”
Joly takes a gulp of his wine. “Perhaps,” he admits, although his expression remains unreadable.
“And you do know that the history behind Saint Valentin is dubious at best?” Combeferre asks. He would offer a lengthy diatribe about the questionable existence of such a saint, but he senses that a lecture is not what Joly is interested in.
“I do know that,” Joly replies stubbornly, putting down his wineglass. “And even if I did not, I would defer to your superior knowledge of the classical world,” he says, moving closer to Combeferre. “But our dear Prouvaire has also spoken to me of Chaucer,” he murmurs, fingering Combeferre’s red cravat, his green eyes never moving from Combeferre’s face.
Combeferre gulps audibly. “Has he now?” he asks. “In the original middle English, I am certain,” he adds, suppressing a twinge of jealousy at Prouvaire’s facility with languages.
With a chuckle, Joly begins untying Combeferre’s cravat. “This is our fair Prouvaire, after all, I would expect nothing less,” he says, slowly removing the silken fabric from around Combeferre’s neck. “‘This was on Saint Valentine’s day,’” he quotes, as he places a hand on Combeferre’s hip to steady him. “‘When every fowl comes there his mate to take,’” he says -- and then he simultaneously kisses Combeferre on the lips and tugs off his cravat.
“And -- and I take it then that you are the fowl,” Combeferre murmurs against his mouth.
Joly’s fingers -- so dexterous in the dissection room -- move toward the fastenings of his waistcoat. “Oh, indeed,” he says, as he starts to push each button through its eyelet. “Why do you think I am here on the coldest night of the year?”
“Point taken,” Combeferre concedes, his own hands moving to Joly’s cravat. “But I seem to recall this fowl in particular has had other mates, has he not?” he asks
“If one considers the eagle to be fowl, that is,” Joly admits, lifting his chin to grant Combeferre access to the elaborate knot he had created earlier in the day. “And I freely confess that my conversations with Prouvaire have not been strictly confined to those that take place in public spaces--”
“But you are choosing to be here instead,” Combeferre interrupts, a little smugly, deftly whipping off Joly’s cravat and tossing it on the floor, not caring what a mess it may make of his tiny space.
“After all these years,” Joly says, undoing his own waistcoat buttons and wriggling out of it, discarding it on top of his cravat. “I have come to the conclusion that one should mate with one’s own kind.”
“You flatter me, Joly,” Combeferre says, although he knows his response is not flattery but truth. “I should aspire to be as good and kind as you.”
Joly reaches up and cups Combeferre’s face in his hand. “And I aspire to your brilliance, my dear Combeferre. And to your skilled tongue as an orator.”
“Just as an orator?” Combeferre teases, kissing him languidly. “It has been a while, but I do believe that in the past you appreciated the other things I could do with my tongue.”
Joly pulls away and shakes his head. “I have become rather forgetful in my old age. Perhaps you would be so kind as to demonstrate.”
Combeferre laughs out loud. “Joly, you are younger than I. But if you insist on this demonstration of my oral abilities, I must insist that we adjourn to the bedchamber, as I am even older than you and my knees cannot withstand this hard floor for very long.”
Joly takes Combeferre’s hand in his. “Then to bed it is,” he says, leading him to the other room almost as if he lives here himself -- indeed, Combeferre recalls, there was a time, back in their first year of medical school, when he practically did.
“I must warn you it is still quite drafty in here,” Combeferre tells him as he unbuttons his shirt, shivering as the cold air hits his skin. “My landlady has never seen fit to deal with the cracks in the walls.”
Joly’s shirt is half-unbuttoned as he comes over to Combeferre and runs his hands up and down Combeferre’s arms. “Then we will have to create our own heat, will we not?” His hands wander to the fastenings of Combeferre’s trousers, tugging them down his thighs to reveal his manhood.
“You were always quite proficient at that,” Combeferre says, his voice strangling as Joly curls his fingers around his cock. “Even in the dead of winter.” He kisses Joly with an sudden fervor and pushes him backwards onto the bed, his trousers still billowing around his legs.
“I have never liked this season much,” Joly says, removing the rest of his clothes and arranging himself on the bed, suppressing a smile at the sight of Combeferre’s half-dressed, half-aroused state. “It makes me want to remain in my bed all day and all night.”
Combeferre realizes how ridiculous he must look, and takes off his trousers, flinging them on the floor before he goes to the top drawer of his chest-on-chest to fetch a small bottle of oil. “I can understand that sentiment,” he says as he puts the bottle on his bedside table and crawls on top of Joly. “I must plan to keep you here all weekend, then,” he says, nuzzling Joly’s neck while his hands explore his still-familiar body. As Joly squirms underneath him, his fingers first brush his cock, then press at his entrance.
“I can think of no better way to celebrate the holiday, then,” Joly murmurs, as Combeferre reaches for the bottle and swathes his fingers with oil. Without warning, he thrusts a single digit inside Joly, as the younger man gasps; he soon adds another finger, and then another, enjoying the increasingly agitated look on Joly’s face with every move he makes. It is all coming back to him now: how easily he can make Joly come apart in his hands -- and how much he enjoys the sight.
Combeferre withdraws his hand, ignoring Joly’s whimper, and reaches again for the oil: he slicks his cock, parts Joly’s long legs and presses inside him with a long groan. He has not done this in months -- not since Courfeyrac took up with that tedious Pontmercy fellow -- and he feels so awake, so alive. He looks down at Joly, who is watching him closely, the affection in his green eyes as always in evidence. Combeferre reaches down to touch Joly’s cock, his dexterous hands making efficient work of him: it is not long before Joly comes with a deep moan, and Combeferre is quick to follow.
Afterwards, they lie together, pulling the blankets over themselves to ward off the cold: Combeferre lays his head on Joly’s broad shoulder, enjoying the feeling of his lover playing with his hair.
“Happy Saint Valentin’s Day,” Joly says, kissing the top of Combeferre’s head. “I do hope you are satisfied with this particular mating.”
Combeferre tilts his head to look at Joly. “In this life,” he says solemnly. “And in the next as well.”