CHAPTER VIII
 
                 Combeferre squirmed stiffly in the lecture hall chair.  Every recognizable part of his body was asleep, excepting his brain, which only managed to remain awake by drifting onto other, more interesting topics.  It wasn’t that he had anything against the ancient Greeks or their lifestyles; he just wasn’t in the mood for them presently.  The thought of Enjolras refused to stop nagging at him, and clashing with this thought in his mind were thoughts of his mother.  His dear mother, who would most likely disavow him as her son before she would ever accept his sexuality.  It wasn’t a subject that he enjoyed dwelling on, but the previous night’s encounter with Enjolras only strengthened his realization that he was going to have to tell her the truth someday.  But how to accomplish such a formidable task, without tearing apart at the seams?
                 “And the ancient Greeks showed surprising tolerance towards homosexuality.” Professor Tetrovosky droned on in his nasal voice, seemingly unperturbed by the fact that nearly half of his class was asleep with their heads on their desks.  “However, only in certain situations was this true.  The relationship between an old man and a teenage or pubescent boy was considered the highest form of pleasure that one could experience.  It is no wonder that the Greeks of the Achaean Period, being an undeniably patriarchal society, would make this ‘nirvana’, if you will, available exclusively to men.  It was a young boy’s highest honor to be chosen to belong to an older citizen in this way…”
                 It was about at this point that Combeferre’s interest once again wandered.  My God, he thought scornfully, the Greeks were certainly a rather perverted bunch…exploiting young boys for the sick, twisted pleasure of horny old men.  How delightful.
                 A young man in the fourth row raised his hand, and the elderly professor acknowledged him. “I think it’s time for class to dismiss, sir.”
                 Tetrovosky glanced at the clock mounted on the wall.  It clearly read eleven-thirty in the morning. “Indeed, indeed.  I just don’t know where the time goes anymore…Don’t forget your assignment for next class.  You are dismissed.”
                 Combeferre had never been more grateful that a few mischievous students had turned the clock forward an hour when Tetrovosky had meandered out of the room for a moment.  He checked his wristwatch.  Sure enough: ten-thirty.  Good, he still had time to meet Enjolras at Maisha.
                 Yawning, the young man stumbled out of the lecture hall, his books in a bag, which was slung over his shoulder.  Within ten minutes, he was yanking open the door to the cybercafé, expecting the usual crowd.  Courfeyrac was there at the back table, Prouvaire was absent, and Enjolras was seated with his back to the door at Courfeyrac’s table.  Combeferre was halfway across the room before he realized that the chair beside his golden-haired friend was already occupied by a familiar-looking girl with a somewhat scraggly homeliness about her.  She looked up as he came in, and he instantly recognized Grantaire.
                 “Hey there, kid,” she addressed Combeferre jauntily.  Enjolras turned to glance over his shoulder, rising to his feet upon noticing Combeferre.  Innocently, and without any apparent misgivings, Enjolras leaned over, kissing the philosopher’s cheek gently.
                 “How was your morning, Ian?”
                 Courfeyrac choked on his drink, nearly spraying Grantaire, who had the misfortune to be sitting across the table from him.  As to the girl herself, she wore a perfectly impassive face, marred only by the slight sardonic upward twist of her lips.  Enjolras seemed not to notice these reactions, and Combeferre tactfully ignored them, sitting nonchalantly in the empty chair to Enjolras’s left.
                 “It was boring, thank you very much.  And yours?  Have you three been here all morning?”
                 Courfeyrac recovered himself, clearing his throat. “Yeah, we’ve been here for a while.” Immediately, he adopted a sly look, and his dark eyes darted to Combeferre’s gray ones teasingly. “Soooooo…you two are…together?”
                 Enjolras flushed.  Combeferre lowered his eyes with a smile.  The older boy answered for both of them, taking Enjolras’s hand gently beneath the table. “Uh…kinda.”
                 “Whaddya mean, ‘kinda’?” Courfeyrac burst out in a laugh. “Either you are or you aren’t.”
                 “We are,” Enjolras blurted.  Combeferre bit his lip to keep from laughing at Enjolras’s embarrassment.
                 Courfeyrac grinned. “So.  Which bunk was it?”
                 “Bunk?” Now even Ian was confused.
                 “Which of your bunks didja do it on?  The top or the bottom?”
                 Grantaire groaned, burying her face in her hands.  Enjolras opened his mouth to protest, but Combeferre squeezed his hand lightly to silence him. “None of your business, Courfeyrac.”
                 Enjolras winced a bit, a twinge of his accent returning in his discomfort. “Eh…incidentally, it was the top bunk.”
                 Combeferre rolled his eyes with a rueful smile. “Next time, petit, leave the talking to me.”
                 Courfeyrac grinned smugly. “Already like a married couple, I see.  Not that that will be much of a departure from the ordinary.”
                 Grantaire snorted. “I guess that’s just life for you, huh?  Suppose I shoulda seen this comin’ from the minute I met him.” She gestured vaguely at Combeferre.
                 “Yeah...” Combeferre shot her a covertly sympathetic look, worried that she would be offended if he openly expressed pity.  Enjolras ignored her, for the most part.  Luckily, Courfeyrac dispelled the unrealized tension at the table by taking a swig of his drink, some unidentified alcoholic beverage, then handing it off to Grantaire.
                 “Hey.  I met this guy last night—“
                 “Oh, you too?” Grantaire smirked.
                 “No!” Courfeyrac grimaced comically. “I’m not gay.  I merely bumped into this guy out on the street, and Keats and I took ‘im and ‘is friend to Les Miz last night.”
                 “Oh, yeah?” Combeferre smiled kindly. “What school does he go to?”
                 “He’s a high-schooler.” Courfeyrac grinned. “Hormonal teenager.”
                 Enjolras cocked one golden eyebrow. “*cough*potcallingkettleblack*cough, cough*”
                 “Oh yeah, I see we have a comedian in our midst.” Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Anyway, this kid’s okay.  I’ll have to introduce you guys.  We always need new recruits for ‘The Cause’.”
                 Combeferre chewed on his lip thoughtfully. “I dunno, Courfey…student protests are sometimes more trouble than they’re worth.  Particularly for kids under eighteen.”
                 “Ah, I’m not saying anything.  I guess I’m just thinking that we oughta give ‘im a chance.”
                 The philosopher shrugged. “Perhaps…perhaps.” He turned to his roommate. “Enjy, did the maintenance guys ever get around to fixing the thermostat in the dorm building?”
                 Enjolras nodded. “They got their lazy-ass workers down to the building about a half-hour after you left this morning.  It was getting pretty hot in there, though.  I was about ready to just open the window and let in the freezing air.”
                 “I’m glad you didn’t.” Combeferre laid his head on his friend’s shoulder, wishing that they were alone right now…back at the dorm…possibly in a nice, warm bubble bath…Yeesh.  Mental slap. “I mean, I couldn’t have you freezing to death in our own dorm room.”
                 “Mmm-hmm.” Enjolras pretended that Courfeyrac wasn’t giving them weird looks from across the table.
                 “Huh.” Grantaire grunted to herself, her soulful eyes sweeping over Enjolras’s slender body.
                 “Marc, I’ve gotta go.” With a regretful sigh, Combeferre sat up in his chair. “I just thought I’d stop by to see how you were getting along.”
                 “I’ll come with you,” the younger boy offered hopefully.
                 Combeferre smiled. “If you like.” He nodded to Courfeyrac, then to Grantaire. “I’ll see you two later.”
                 “’Bye.” Courfeyrac glanced up at them. “I guess I’ll see you at the club tonight.  I convinced Keats to come.”
                 “You’re going to that place tonight?  I didn’t know that.”
                 “That’s ‘cause you’re always the last to find out anything, ‘Ferre,” Courfeyrac said. “That club, down south of here, called ‘Blue Mania’.  You know, the one that Joly and Laigle seem to spend half their lives at?  We’re meeting them there, if you wanna come.”
                 “Maybe.” Combeferre had mastered the art of being noncommittal. “We might stop by for an hour or two.” He turned to go. “’Bye, Grantaire.”
                 “Hn.” Grantaire seemed to speech-impaired.
                 Enjolras followed his dark-haired lover without a look back over his shoulder.
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                 “Laigle?”
                 “What?”
                 “We so need a bigger bed.” Joly squirmed, making a little more room for himself, sandwiched between Laigle and their ‘new friend’, Musichetta. “This dorm piece of crap isn’t cutting it anymore.”
                 “Agreed.” Laigle pressed closer to the other young man. “But where are we gonna get another bed and, more importantly, how are we gonna find room for it in here?  Especially since you have to have every piece of our furniture in its own particular place.  Feng shui, an’ all that.”
                 “You guys need to come to my place sometime,” Musichetta spoke up.
                 “Wouldn’t your pimp have somethin’ to say about that?” Laigle teased.
                 “You little…” The girl reached over Joly’s body in order to smack Laigle’s shoulder. “I’m not a whore.”
                 Joly laughed. “Hey, can you hit him when I’m not stuck in the crossfire?”
                 “Oh, please.  I know you love every minute of it.” The girl nestled closer to the medical student, licking his ear seductively. “C’mon, Joly, baby.  They say good boys fall for bad girls.”
                 “I thought it was good girls fall for bad b—Ow!” Laigle received another smack.
                 “You doubt me?” Musichetta raised an eyebrow. “If I say it’s so, then it’s so, right, Jackson?”
                 “’Course.” Joly grinned.
                 “Sell-out.” Laigle reached over, tickling Joly unmercifully, and the boy burst into rather un-masculine giggles.
                 “Oh, stop, please!” he gasped, tears of laughter streaming down his cheeks.
                 The black young man did as he was told, but leaned over, pushing his lips playfully against Joly’s.  With a deep chuckle, he slid closer to Jackson, slipping his tongue between the boy’s lips.  Musichetta, feeling left out, cleared her throat, puckering her ample lips into a pout.  Joly broke the kiss with Laigle, turning over and kissing those pursed lips.  The girl’s slender arms wrapped around his neck, deepening the contact, and Laigle patiently waited his turn to share one of them.
                 “Mmm…” Musichetta pulled away, licking her lips appreciatively. “They say two boyfriends is better than one.”
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