There's something wrong with you, you think as the jabs and snarks surprisingly don't make you want to get up and actually make him put his goddamn bottle down. It has to be something, because there's nothing else to explain the amusement replacing annoyance, the good humor that runs through you instead of irritation- you're either becoming used to the skeptic's remarks or your brilliant mind is finally starting to betray you. Instead of thinking of ways to shut him up, you welcome his debate- he's intelligent and knowledgeable when he wants to be, and can make often reasonable points. Not that you agree with him- no never, he's still disparaging of the revolution and doubtful of the people and you will never be able to change his mind just as much as he will never plant his seeds of cynicism in yours.
You've been starting to notice the way his blue eyes shine when you talk to him, like your attention is actually something he craves; the way he seems to relax and focus on you when you address the room despite the fact that he already has counterpoints lined up against you. It's when you catch yourself staring at him, admiring the arch of his neck as he dips his head back to capture the last dregs of his wine, when you find yourself wondering what the skin there tastes like, how his stubble would feel scratching across your skin- it's then that you're frightened of yourself.
In his own words you are the marble lover of liberty; Patria is your mistress and nothing will or should be distracting you from her and yet the image of black curls and red lips keeps haunting you. Perhaps this is a test, you think, some higher power has sent him to you to test your loyalty to the cause, to see if you're worthy of carrying liberty's banner. He catches your eye, suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts as he takes another swig from his omnipresent bottle. He flushes, and it's not from the wine and you can tell because he looks away then, embarrassed to be caught starting. And it strikes you then, like Zeus' lightening (and oh you're starting to talk like him, adopt a mannerism or two, and how has it taken this long for you to notice)- you're captivated, and drawn in, a magnetic pull towards him.
As you find out later, his neck tastes like salt and something you can't quite name but it's delicious and you don't ever want to stop licking and nibbling the skin there- except you do because his lips are sweeter (they taste of wine and laughter, which you didn't even know you could taste). This was a completely unexpected occurrence- he had caught you staring at him during the meeting and assumed you were angry, staying after to apologize when everyone else had gone, you couldn't quite take the closeness and the fact that he noticed, so you kissed him, deep and full. Having never done it before you bless your instincts and the fact that they worked to your favor.
He froze as you pressed yourself against him . He thought you were mocking him, but you just kissed him again to prove your point and for a second you think that you misjudged him but then he's kissing you back like he prefers it over oxygen and you can't help but agree with him. You're as close to him as you can get- you're pressing him into the wall of the room that Madame lets you and your group use. He's pulling at your shirt and cravat just as you had earlier to give himself more skin to explore. The idea thrills you. He's moved onto your neck and you're mirroring each other's movements and you just work together, you're in sync and it's wonderful and you can't hold back the moan as his tongue slides against your collar bone and-
He pulls away, horrified. He's staring at you wide-eyed and you want to put that tongue of his back to work but he stays in place and doesn't allow himself to be pulled back. He mumbles apologies and that's what hurts more than anything. You thought he wanted this. You're disgusted with yourself for a moment; the thought passes through your mind that perhaps he didn't want this and that somehow you were forcing him to comply. He hasn't properly left yet, his shirt still in need of buttoning, his cravat needing to be done up, when you remember- he had been the one apologizing to you, he thinks he's in the wrong. You stop him with his name because he gathers his things and makes to leave when he catches you just staring at him, and he obeys. He obeys like the devoted disciple he claims to be, he listens to the whim of his god.
You ask him if he's drunk, because of his wine-flavored lips and his almost dazed expression. You ask him because you want to know if he'll remember this in the morning rather than it just being lost in the delirium of hangover. He responds in the negative, and you believe him. He looks a bit timid, he looks a bit weary and he looks nervous and unlike himself. He won't meet your eyes but he has nothing to be ashamed of. You reach out a hand to get his attention, to tip his chin up and get him to focus those blue eyes on you and you smile softly at him, a warm smile a real smile.
You are positive he's never seen you like this, (because you know your eyes are telling the actual story, because it's open emotion which you just don't do) but you need to give him the confirmation he's seeking. His own eyes go wide, and he raises a hand to stroke your cheek as if checking that you are actually real, and when he smiles back finally, it practically glows. Your hand slides to cup his neck again and he mirrors you; and you don't think you're going to find it in yourself to pull away for a while.