[Prouvaire/Bahorel, in case the title didn't tip you off. Why? Because. The companion piece is story ID 623841, and is R-rated.]

I could not say where my fascination with him lies. Before this he was my acquaintance perforce, being a friend of a friend; I am sure I would never have sought him out of my own accord. Men of his temperament, forthright and given to sudden explosions, tend to dismay me.

But there is more to him than the idler and the rabble-rouser. I knew that quite early on. And he kissed me, or I kissed him, I hardly remember which. Both a little drunk, both more than a little frightened, though he would never admit it-- God forbid my brave Guillaume should admit to anything of the kind. Let me walk you home, Jehan, you're too bedamned pretty to walk home alone.

Which was insulting after a fashion, but I was past minding. The way he looked at me, the way he touched me, was irresistible as wind or rain. His hands were rough and warm, like his voice, like his kisses. He stayed until morning, and I had exactly as much choice in the matter as I needed, which was none.

I am not in love with him; I have been in love, and this is not it at all. Even if I were to lose my heart to one of these men, I think, it would be Marcelin or Michel or dear Etienne, anyone but him. He is far too tempestuous, far too maddening, and too independent to hold for long.

But neither am I ready to lose him just yet. He is warm, he is kind, he is amusing, he makes my blood sing in my veins, he keeps me up till all hours, he dizzies me; and I am exceedingly fond of him.

Petit, he calls me, and lovely Jehan; and, laughing, I recognize the caressing phrases I was wont to use myself, not so long since. Slender Coralie who slept late in the circle of my arms; little dark-haired Gabrielle who woke me with kisses at dawn; pretty fragile girls, who made me feel proud and protective, whom I assured that I would look after them.

And now, for heaven's sake, here I am in precisely the opposite situation. I should be much less comfortable than I am. I should be dismayed, embarrassed, ashamed, unmanned, annoyed at the very least; anything but enchanted.

It helps, perhaps, that he is so utterly without embarrassment; in the face of his forthright, friendly desire it is impossible to feel anything unnatural. When Charles kissed me, in those stolen afternoons, he was always so shamefaced about it that I felt guilty afterward, as though it were contagious, and never dared encourage him. He was brusque with me later, out of shame, and I was brusque with him, and so we left it.

Perhaps I am simply a more adaptable creature than I knew. Charles expected me to share his embarrassment, and I did; the women wanted me to be gallant and charming and tender, and so I was; Guillaume wants me to be carefree, yielding, joyous, and so, somewhat to my surprise, I am.

Such a delightful novelty to lie wrapped in his arms, so that I have to prod him to be allowed to move; to rest against his shoulder; to sink back against the pillow and let him do what he will; to follow his lead, and give myself up to his fancies. I suppose it will pall, after a while. For now, I cannot get enough of him, and all I can do is make sure that he knows it.