It wasn't love, certainly not. It never had been - and never should've become, either. Of course, it was never about love, anyway. Love would've been a terribly received stranger, had it come knocking on the doors of either man, caught in a tangle of sweat and limbs though they were.
But it has already been said that none of this was love in the slightest. The one was red-blooded, hot-headed, vain beyond belief. He needed somewhere to go when he wasn't on the streets, and didn't feel up to finding some witty young girl to seduce - though the last bit would've been no trouble at all. That boyish face could churn out smiles so gut-wrenching, he could've had any woman in Paris. More than his obvious needs, though, he wanted to show off. He was no stranger to the bed, no doubt, and with a new partner each week - saucy grisettes in between - he certainly wasn't stranger to any of love's less holy physical manifestations... to civilly phrase his 'fondness of kink.' And with every new maneuver he learned, he felt it doubly necessary to flaunt and brag.
It was for the better, though, that Montparnasse took all his own pleasure out of pleasing his partner, because the second was definitely not in it to please anyone but himself. With a beastly, grizzly madame, he was left with nowhere to take himself out but the whores in the streets. And they did him less than no good, because he never managed to take his mind off of the emptiness they put in his wallet and get a single night worth what he paid. One wanted to give, and the other wanted to take. It was nothing deeper than that.
It would've been embarassing, more than uncharacteristic, for any fondness to exist. Even lust was absent in their loveless loving. Far too harsh to be any sort of scapade between caring mates, but far too gentle to assume either had forced it on the other. They writhed and groaned with all the heart in the world, but neither found any happiness in their partner. There was not love in the heart, nor lust in the body - but from the recesses of the mind, these passionless acts took passionate form night and again.
It was out of love only for himself that those boyish looks would turn carnal, would jerk in all directions just to prove he could make another body shake and pant and beg like all his more experienced partners made him. Respectively, it was out of love only for himself that the scrawny man would ever admit his littleness, and subjugate himself to the torments of being toyed with, dominated, by a boy not half his age. It sounded terrible in words, but in practice, he could scarcely do more than slide and moan and remember how he'd never felt so good with any woman. So, in complete selfishness, the two could always flip the world inside out, and bring about that manifestation of complete selflessness... or at least something that looked a lot like love.
Montparnasse shoved left and right, unrelenting, reducing the rough body in his hands to a quivering mess in minutes - but he paid no attention to the Thenardier. Not that night, or any other. He didn't expect anything more in return, either. A few kisses on the neck, a bite on the ear. Hands to provide him enough friction that he might finish as well. And then he was dressed in minutes, gone in seconds. Rarely a word passed between them - the beautiful boy and his yellow partner. Rarely. And then, it was also rare that they take so little time about it. Not leaving, but the act itself. Montparnasse had gotten lost and fumbled in his demonstrations, and still, it had worked for the better. Both stood panting for several moments, though Thenardier was naturally the one taking the brunt of their exhaustion. The first made a motion toward the door, and was stopped by a hand in his shoulder.
Through ragged breaths, "Je t'aime, mon ami. Bon nuit, adieu."
Odd enough words to catch him off guard, warrant a look back before he slipped away. Such odd words...
"I didn't think you drank! Adieu, Thenardier."
An honestly surprised little pout, a tip of the hat, and then he'd crawled out the door just like any other night. The room was lonely and cold, but the man couldn't help but feel a bit of their last episode still lingering on skin. His body hummed with warmth.
"I don't, mon ami. I don't"
With a crooked smile, he flicked his hand and chuckled. There was no one still around to hear the most horribly honest words his devil tongue had ever spoken.