"But the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny, and blithe, and good, and gay."
Sunday dawns with the crystal clarity of midwinter days after snow. The rooftops are capped with smooth blankets of white, and church bells echo in the still, cold air. The pale, pure blue of the sky is like a prayer in itself. Drowsy as he is, Courfeyrac is keenly aware of the beauty of the morning.
He rolls over, stretching out at full length against the still quiescent length of Bahorel beside him. The sheets smell of sweat and wine and musk, not unpleasantly; the sunlight paints bars of pallid gold on the wall above the bed. There is, he notes with satisfaction, a bright red mark on Bahorel's neck still, just below the collar line. He kisses it again, and settles closer.
Presently Bahorel stirs, muttering sleepily, and slides an arm around his waist. "Morning," Courfeyrac says in his ear.
"Morning," comes gruffly in answer. "You still here?"
"I live here."
Bahorel peers at him groggily. "Oh, it's you."
Courfeyrac laughs, and embraces him. "You wicked fellow, do you forget that quickly who you went to bed with?"
"Only when they've driven me out of my senses."
Bahorel's hands are broad and confident, even when he's half awake. Courfeyrac very nearly purrs under their caress, and twines his fingers in Bahorel's wiry hair. "Are you incapacitated, then?"
"Bite your tongue, young man."
"I'd rather bite yours," Courfeyrac says lazily. Bahorel gives a bark of laughter, and surges up from the pillow to pounce on him. Pinned under his warm weight, Courfeyrac squirms a little in triumph. "Kiss me."
He has never been able to resist scribbling on blank paper or sitting on a newly made bed; still less sinning deliciously on a pristine Sunday. He runs both hands down his lover's strong back, and kisses him industriously. The response is gradual, but gratifying. By the time they pause for breath, at least half of Bahorel is wide awake.
"Well. Good morning."
"Isn't it?" Courfeyrac grins at him, slipping a hand between his legs. "Nothing like good company on a fine day."
"As you are, I must say. Most congenial."
"Not to mention responsive," Courfeyrac goes on, caressing him to further attention. "What nymphs were you dreaming of last night, pray tell, to wake up in such a splendid humor?"
Bahorel sighs. "I don't recall."
"Don't you? Pity. I was hoping to take notes."
"Did you wake me up merely to tease me?" and though Bahorel is laughing, there is that certain note in his voice that prompts Courfeyrac to take pity on him. He bestows another kiss, and reaches over the side of the bed.
"Come here, then."
Bahorel is a man of sudden impulses and frequent indolence, but in this as in his battles he is painstakingly thorough. Courfeyrac gives himself up to it, revelling in the slide of skin, the clinging of mouth to mouth, the rising tide of pure, hot pleasure, drowning thought. He is braced against the mattress with the covers half gone, the January chill prickling his sweaty skin as Bahorel eases into him, and through a haze of sensation he can hear himself crying out softly, without words, over and over.
"Lovely, lovely, mon ami--"
Those hard, sure hands; that hot, caressing tongue--
It passes in a wave of white fire, and Courfeyrac sinks against the pillow, boneless with bliss. At his back Bahorel shudders, and buries a kiss in his hair, and the unexpected tenderness of that gesture gives him a second, gentler thrill. "Mon ami," he murmurs affectionately, and reaches for Bahorel's hand.
Bahorel sighs, squeezing his fingers. "Now that's a way to wake up."
"Isn't it?" He could never explain how he loves these Sunday indulgences, how deeply they refresh him. They feel like sin and penance and absolution in one; they feel like renewal. On such a morning, sleepy and sated in Bahorel's arms, he is at peace with all the earth.