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The celebrations were nothing but a minor distraction from the chaos outside. Drinks spilled from their glasses as they clinked together, swirling messily and becoming stained into the church's floor. Men bumped into each other and laughed about it, tipsy-drunk from all they had sipped and the little they had eaten. The man of the hour was no exception, as Arnaud came to notice.
Jean wasn't nearly as far gone as the others, no. There was no stumble in his step, no slurring of words in his speech, but there was a subtle flush dusting across his nose and cheeks. It wasn't so evident in the low-light, but he looked different. Looser. His shoulders drawn low and relaxed as he mingled with the small crowd.
An officer now. Arnaud looked away.
This wasn't his space, he reminded himself sharply. Not among uncivilized men who cried about their women all while nursing a half-empty bottle of wine. Arnaud himself had treated himself to a small glass filled barely with a few drops of drink out of courtesy to the occasion, but there was scarcely any pleasure to be found in it. Only when he'd tapped the rim of his glass against Jean's did he let himself smile awkwardly, but even that was a challenge. This wasn't meant for him—not for Arnaud, no matter how gently Jean looked at him. No matter how kind the brushes against his shoulders were, when the two happened to pass by each other. No matter—
That was enough, Arnaud scowled to himself, taking a swig of rationed water that tasted bitter as it went down. No, none of it was for him at all. That was final.
So, if he slunk off beyond the church's main hall and away from the boisterous, anger-inducing festivities, that was on him. And, if he snapped at one or two of those bumbling drunk fools along the way, then it was of little consequence. They'd be getting another earful from him in the morning anyway, no matter how hungover they might be. Sure, it might just be a one-time thing, but these comforts only spiraled further. Once, twice, thrice, and then they'd be caught unaware by one of those rotting beasts. It was never good to get accustomed to such luxuries. More importantly, it was good to never become soft. Not during times like these.
He spared no glance backwards, even at the hair-raising feel of eyes on him, and instead stepped away into the more quieter, dark rooms that welcomed him with open arms.
-
"Arnaud."
Jean's soft voice snapped him out of his reverie. Indignation rose up hot in his chest as he turned to face the newly-crowned officer, glancing briefly at the door before turning his glare onto the man in front of him. But there was no malice to be found in his face. Only a slight crinkling of his eyes and the faint suggestion of a smile illuminated by the soft glow of a candle. Arnaud huffed.
"What is it? Shouldn't you be off celebrating with the rest of your men?" He grunted, gesturing plainly towards the exit. "Or did you want something? I do believe you've been congratulated enough this evening, if that's what you're here for."
But Jean only laughed and set down the light on a nearby chair. "I lost sight of you. Why, can't an old man go out seeking a dear friend of his? Merely wanted to see how you were doing, mon ami."
Scarcely old enough to be saying such things, Arnaud muttered to himself. Not a single grey hair—wrinkles and creases, certainly, but at the very least they added a nice charm. Or, something to look at. Intriguing little quirks that highlighted those smiles of his. Sweet, kind smiles that made something in his chest flutter unpleasantly.
Like right now. He cringed away from Jean's approaching figure, fighting back the nausea that had risen suddenly to his throat. The man had no business forcing his way into Arnaud's temporary alcove of peace. No reason at all. But there he was anyhow, reaching out a single gloved hand that came to rest on Arnaud's shoulder.
"Look," Jean sighed out, finally, after a few tense moments of hesitant silence, "I do understand that these festivities seem pointless to you. I do. But..." A pause. Arnaud took that moment to shift away, only to grumble under his breath as Jean closed the distance once more. "These men deserve a break, yes? There is nothing more tiresome than fending off death at every step. To give them this at least once will do no harm. A night of normalcy. Of rest. Can you understand that for me, Arnaud?"
The space between them had whittled down to nothing more than a hairs' breadth of room, and Arnaud had inadvertently backed himself closer to the desk he'd been sat at. Oh, this bastard.
...but, quite reluctantly, Arnaud supposed that he was right. "I'm not deaf either," he muttered, attempting to wave Jean away, "is that all you came for? To lecture me? Please! Just head back before all those drunks come looking and ruin my peace."
Jean didn't budge. If anything, he leaned in closer and stared on keenly, brushing a loose lock of hair behind Arnaud's ear as he did so. The goosebumps were instantaneous, hot chills running up his spine and freezing him in place. Hesitantly, Arnaud turned his gaze to look at Jean directly. Dilated pupils stared right back. Vividly dark, they were—more privately, then, captivating as well. But there was often a scarce moment to think about it so much. It was better, really, to not dwell on it as much as he'd like to.
This close, however?
"Rest assured that they won't," Jean chuckled once more with wine heavy on his breath, "quite knocked out, if I am to speak the truth. If only you'd taken a peek outside! But no, mon ami, that is not why I'm here."
Something in Jean hesitated. Arnaud could spot it from the little space there was left between them. But, cautiously, as if to not spook a frightened cat, he leaned in. Quiet. Slowly. The very hand that'd swept behind his ear just moments ago came to rest tenderly across his hip.
"You're...you're drunk," Arnaud tuttered out, shock spilling into his voice. It was barely enough to make him pull away, however. Jean had curled around him and his breath blew softly against his neck. But it was wrong. It was. This was no longer the touch of an acquaintance, of a friend, of a leader. Even as comforting as it felt—to which he certainly did not want to admit but oh God help him—there was nothing... nothing honorable about this.
And yet, he stayed, tamed into quietude by the pleasant hold Jean kept on him.
"Hm, am I? I imagine that I'm quite aware of my limits," he murmured into his ear, "but are you? How often is it that I see you working so tirelessly to keep us safe? Even fresh from skirmishes, I spot you pacing around aimlessly. Writing, maybe, if you give yourself such time for that. So taxing on yourself, and for what, Arnaud?"
There there was the slow, gentle press of lips against his neck, done so hesitantly that Arnaud thought he must've drunk far more than he'd thought he had. His breathing hitched quite without meaning too and his heart oh his heart was beating far too fast for this. His stomach fluttered unpleasantly and he thought it must be bile coming up with the way his throat tightened in on itself, but it was only empty nerves thrumming anxiously under his skin. Unthinkingly, he let Jean's weight pull him down onto the desk behind them.
"I'd like to see you rest, is all. Put your worries away for one night. And...and, well. I could help you with that, if you'd let me. Would you? Just once... just once, if not any other night?"
Jean's voice was trembling now. Arnaud thought that he might start shaking as a whole, too, with how quickly his voice had gone so meek. Like that one night, an awful time ago, when Jean had received that wretched letter—
But this wasn't about his son, no. It was about the hand sneaking closer to the cusp of his breeches, of the man laying nearly on-top of him, and of the gentle kiss placed right at the underside of his jaw.
This was not how this night was meant to go, Arnaud considered quite deliriously. The fluttering had moved downwards by now, a faintly building pressure that was becoming significantly harder to ignore in the passing moments. I shouldn't. Oh, this is wrong.
"If you'd like to, Sir."
Arnaud about bit his cheek open as Jean pulled away and the warmth of his hands disappeared. There was no revulsion to be found in the motion—nothing but raw desperation as he looked straight at him.
"No, no. Please, Arnaud. Would you like me to? We can, oh... we can forget about all of this. Why, I'll never look at you in such ways ever again. Shouldn't have, in the first place, but oh Arnaud—"
"I do. I'd like you to," he blurted out, frantically grabbing onto Jean's uniform, "please. Stay. Stay with me."
Jean hesitated. Only after a few delicate moments did he lean back in, breath ghosting across Arnaud's face.
"Would you let me do this, then?" He asked softly, one splayed hand inching downwards. Arnaud felt his face grow impossibly hotter. He nodded, desperate, as those light fingers danced around the buttons of his trousers.
"Words, Arnaud." Jean tuttered, though there was a harsh, just barely restrained edge to his voice that made Arnaud's cock twitch.
"Touch me, please. Sir, please," he whimpered, "please."
His trousers were just about torn off in a hurry, revealing a wet patch staining his undergarments. Jean hummed approvingly, palming eagerly at the growing bulge between Arnaud's legs.
"So eager." Jean breathed out. Arnaud rocked his hips into the touch—wanting and desperate and needy—only to groan as Jean pulled away his hands. He took off his gloves and dug into one of his pockets. Meanwhile, Arnaud scrambled to free himself from the confines of his undergarments. He kicked them off as best he could with a man between his legs. At least, far down enough to where his cock sprung out, hard and with a bead of precum dripping down already.
"No one has held you like this in a long while, hm?" Jean murmured, uncorking a small vial and tilting some of its contents onto his hand. He squeezes gingerly around the base of Arnaud's cock, slick hand sliding up to thumb at the crown of his head. Shame blooms over his face as he gasps out a shaky sigh of pleasure. It is the most action he's gotten in the past few years, not counting the quick, disgracing escapades with his own hand in quiet corners. Shakily he nods once more and resists the urge to thrust into Jean's warm grasp. A curious finger delves gently over his slit, dipping in just the barest bit before bringing that firm grasp down to stroke at Arnaud's hot flesh, and with it comes another wet pulse of precum.
An unrestrained groan slips past his lips. White noise trickles into his ears as Jean continues to press against the underside of his cock, sending hot white pleasure zinging through his skin and making him curl into himself unwittingly. But Jean is there, too, leaning into his neck to mouth at the base of his jaw and whispering quiet comforts that raise goosebumps across his flesh. Briefly, he thinks that Jean must've asked him a question, one too quiet for Arnaud to hear over the buzzing in his brain. He's nodding again, panting and deaf and trembling like a begging dog and oh—
A wandering hand fondles his balls for just a moment before traveling further below. It's easy enough to ignore, being pumped so adoringly as he is, until he jerks to full awareness at the feel of a finger circling around his hole.
"Jean," Arnaud gasps out. The ministrations pause for a moment, only for Jean's hand to pull away and come back coated in oil.
"Relax a little for me, mon ami," he whispers reassuringly while stroking his cock, "it'll feel good, yes?"
The tip of a finger snags on his hole—with it comes just the barest amount of pressure that makes Arnaud's breathing hitch. Then it sinks past his rim, nearly familiar with how slow and measured he treats him, yet the sensation is foreign. Alien. He squirms with mild discomfort. His shoulders draw tightly together as Jean delves in deeper, exploring the soft walls there with curious circular motions, only to drag it back out and push in experimentally. Arnaud huffs with the effort of staying relaxed—tries, desperately, to loosen his shoulders and focus on the slick hold stroking his cock.
The finger crooks into his soft walls. Arnaud jerks in surprise as a shocked moan is pulled from his lips. It's still too odd to find pleasurable, but, he supposes, that the oil has helped dispel most of the pain. Jean is panting against his cheek, the gentle scratch of his hair proving to be a comfort amongst the rest of the red-hot pleasure coursing through him, and something wet comes to lap against the skin of his mouth.
Then, another crook of his finger.
Arnaud is crying out before he even registers the crackle of pleasure that runs up his spine, harsh enough that his back arches and his toes curl in their boots and oh, oh, he's clutching at Jean's uniform until he's sure it'll rip under his frantic grasp. Another spurt of precum gushes from his cock, squelching messily with each pull of Jean's hand—it's wrong, terrifyingly wrong, and the shame burns through him for one moment of clarity, reeking of sex and sweat and desire as he is now. But then Jean is pressing into his face, spit mixing as their teeth clash in what he assumes is a sloppy kiss, and the moment is gone. The faint taste of wine lingers on his tongue and Arnaud has never been an alcoholic, could never be, but it tastes so sweet coming from Jean that he reconsiders it briefly. Thinks he could be, maybe, if it meant Jean's mouth and hands and eyes on him, letting him melt into a delightful little puddle.
Another finger presses against his hole. It's a tight fit, stuffed as he is now, but it stretches him open further still. There's a twinge of pain to it, but between the rhythmic motions on that bundle of nerves and the wet thumbing of his cockhead it's scarcely noticeable. Jean takes him like that—so patiently, so gently, as he drives Arnaud closer to the edge, adds to the need churning in the pit of his stomach.
By the time his orgasm crashes into him Arnaud is nothing but a quivering mess. Cum splashes over his uniform as his hips continue to buck, indecisively, between the hand on his cock and the fingers stroking tenderly against his spasming walls. Jean even pulls away from their open-mouthed kiss to watch Arnaud with eager eyes, his ministrations turning momentarily harsh and demanding and too much, too much, too much—he wants to wring him dry, to drag out his climax until it borders on painful, to lap at the tears now falling freely over rosy cheeks. Those pair of fingers fuck into him even as Arnaud curls into Jean, now turned into a trembling, wordless man clutching desperately onto his officer.
He stops soon enough as silent pleas turn into hiccups and the once-tight grasp on his uniform go loose. Carefully, Jean takes out his fingers and wipes off the excess oil still sticking to his hand. It's nearly tempting to taste the sticky cum covering his other hand, too, but the questioning glance Arnaud sends his way is enough for him to refrain. They've already committed themselves to too much debauchery this night, and he doubts that Arnaud's heart will survive the night if he takes it another step too far. Small victories, then.
The exhaustion that sets into Arnaud's limbs is nearly instantaneous. It drags him down to lay flat on his back, chest still heaving and tears leaving behind stains in their wake as they dry up. There's the twitchy aftershocks, too, and a throbbing hole and a sensitive cock for him to worry about. And not to mention his uniform. Hazy as his mind is, he musters up enough strength to drag the palm of his hand over his face in shame.
Jean leans over him. Doesn't pull his hand away, though he could, certainly. "I'll get you cleaned up." A pause. A hesitating one. "Mon cher ami. Don't you worry about a thing, alright?"
And, for once without argument, Arnaud nods his assent.