Chapter Text
Grantaire set his opera viewing glasses aside, reaching over to nimbly grasp Courfeyrac’s pair out of his hands as well. “What is the meaning of this? This is the part where all of the political undertones become less covert.”
“We have interrupted every act. I believe this was your plan all along.” Grantaire ran a hand along Courfeyrac’s collarbone, the other man having left his shirt unbuttoned after act III. At the same time he reached into the inside pocket of Courfeyrac’s coat, pulling out a small vial. “As I suspected. There was a plan for this evening that did not involve the opera.”
Courfeyrac shrugged, smirking at Grantaire. “Perhaps I did. You haven’t objected yet.”
“I imagine that is only because you knew I would not object to the setting, considering Bahorel would not agree. He insists there is part of his ear missing.”
“That is the way we played, he was giving as good as he got.” Courfeyrac played with Grantaire’s hair. “I am sure I could have gotten Prouvaire to agree to my own inclinations.”
“He only enjoys hymns and the chanting of monks,” Grantaire replied. He unbuttoned Courfeyrac’s trousers for the third time that night. Uncorking the vial he poured the oil on his fingers, slicking them and tossing the empty vial aside.
“Are you implying that you have defiled our young poet in a church?”
“I am implying,” Grantaire responded, slipping a finger into Courfeyrac. “That the man does not appreciate opera.” Courfeyrac’s laughed turned into a groan as Grantaire started to move his hand. “At least not as much as you do.”
“The music moves me.”
Carl un Chein looked at the stage unhappily. This would be a poignant moment, perhaps, if he were not focusing on his hope for vengeance. This was supposed to be a lovely night. He always enjoyed his nights in the private booth, analyzing the libretto for when that cat came around.
His night had been ruined though, by the smelly man who currently was exposing his posterior to Carl as he rutted against Carl’s dear companion. Carl had witnessed this act of coitus many a time, it was the only pitfall of taking care of Monsieur.
Carl would not stand for this again. He hopped down from his perch and nosed at the pant leg, until there was exposed skin. He bit down soundly, the smelly man grunting and jerking to a halt.
Grantaire looked down at the tiny runt, his fingers digging into Courfeyrac’s hip. “Your dog is biting me,” he gritted out.
“Did you spend before or because of that?”
“Get. Him. Off.”
Courfeyrac disentangled himself from Grantaire and stooped down, prying Carl’s jaws open. He scooped his dog up, holding him close. He sat down in his chair cradling Carl closer to him. “That was not very nice, Monsieur Chein.”
Grantaire scowled, slumping down to examine his ankle. “He didn’t even break the skin.”
“And thus you escaped more intact then the evening I had with Bahorel. Congratulations.”
Grantaire sulked and decided that it would be best to just watch the rest of the opera.