A/N: Set myself a little challenge to write every pairing within the Amis, as well as E/C/C and J/B/M. I have a numbered list, and courtesy of a random number generator, my first pairing is Bossuet/Jehan. Please note, there is no link between any of these. A character could be a complete ass in one story and an utter sweetheart in the next. There summary will change for each fic, and there'll be individual warnings for each fic. No explicit content, but may include things like swearing, possible genderbending, etc.

P.S: This one contains swearing.

Bossuet had been cursed all his life, really, or so it seemed. He'd been raised by fairly wealthy parents, but there'd been falls from trees, tumbles down the stairs, things like that. This morning, he'd managed to lose his wallet, including the rent he'd been saving all month. Joly would be furious. Three months in a row, he'd had to bail Bossuet out, and was starting to lose patience with his calamities.

Trying to postpone the fury - Joly was meek, most of the time, but when he got angry, it was scary - Bossuet wandered around the Luxembourg Gardens. Enjolras and Combeferre would be occupying the Café Musain, and he was in no mood for politics. Bahorel would be at the Corinthe, take him out, only for him to be unable to pay his bill. No, a nice walk in the park would do him good.

He sat on a bench, basking in the summer sun, half-asleep. After an hour or so, a beautiful, melodic voice stirred him, singing some popular song that had been floating around the city. Bossuet had hated it, used to hearing it in grating, drunken voices, but it sounded like an angelic chorus. He opened his eyes to see a young man sat a little way from him, under a tree. His clothes were mismatched and poorly sized, but hardly a pauper's clothes, made of expensive fabrics. He was likely a poet, then, a little vague and dreamy when it came to life, fashion included, though most poets were impoverished. He must be some eccentric aristocratic child, still young enough that his parents funded his oddities.

That didn't matter, though. He studied the boy's face - he was just a boy, no older than sixteen. He was a lovely young creature, with wide, almost amber eyes and mousy brown hair falling into his face. He flipped his hair back every so often to study something he was holding. After a few moments - well, alright, not until he started playing it - Bossuet realised it was a flute.

When the boy got up to leave, Bossuet followed, with the intention of introducing himself. The boy was swift, and Bossuet wondered if he was cursed to let the boy slip through his fingers.

He knew it was unusual to be interested in men. Joly had been curious, wondering if there was a medical explanation for such a thing. Combeferre dismissed it - he recognised a similar quality in Grantaire, and knew that was the only quality Bossuet shared with the drunk. It was painfully unlikely that the amber-eyed boy would be interested, but it would be pleasurable enough to spend a little time in his company.

They were back in the depths of the city, Bossuet always a few paces behind, the boy just out of reach for a tap on the shoulder. He stopped at a stand outside a greengrocer's, and Bossuet thanked Fortuna. Just once, things might work out. He took a moment to catch his breath - by God, he was becoming unfit - and admired the boy, deliberating between apples and grapes. He had his flute tucked under his arm, a beautifully carved and no doubt expensive piece of work, as he took a handful of coppers from his pocket.

And then it all went wrong. It was bound to, Bossuet realised. He reached out to tap the boy on the shoulder, just as a thief grabbed the flute and ran. The boy gave a cry of dismay, tripping over his too long trouser legs as he turned after the thief. He sat on the street, tears brimming in his beautiful eyes, a drop of blood on his lip where he'd bitten it as he fell. WIthout another thought, Bossuet gave chase.

What was he thinking? These theives were fast. It was the only way they could get away with this. But if he wanted any chance of speaking to the amber-eyed boy, he had to keep running. Maybe it wouldn't bring back his lost rent, maybe it wouldn't abate Joly's inevitable anger, maybe the boy wouldn't care, but he had to try. He ran and kept running, keeping an eye on the thief.

Suddenly the thief tripped. Bossuet hardly dared to believe it. He stayed down, and when Bossuet approached, he understood why. Feuilly was leaning against the wall, a knife in his hand. Always wary, always armed - old habits die hard. The thief cast him dirty glances, but didn't dare challenge him. Feuilly's name was stil notorious among the underbelly of Paris as someone not to be messed with.

"What. The. Hell?" Bossuet stammered, gasping for breath.

"I've just watched you chase him down the street. I figured you could do with a hand. Who is the bastard, then?"

"I don't know. He robbed a boy..."

"A boy you had your eye on."

"Maybe."

"Well, go save your damsel in distress, or whatever he is. Oh, Joly got your note about the lost wallet. He says he can't afford the rent on his own this month, so you have to think of something."

"Fuck. Well, maybe I can make a young man happy before I'm made homeless." He took the flute off the thief, and Feuilly crouched beside the man.

"I will find out who you are. And if I hear you've been stealing from defenceless little boys again, the law will be the least of your worries." Bossuet stepped back. He knew Feuilly had turned his back on a life of crime, but in moments like this, it was easy to see why he had been notorious. Now, he was a protector of the weak and innocent rather than preying on them. Nonetheless, it was scary.

Bossuet headed back to the greengrocer's. The shopkeeper's wife had apparently taken pity on the boy, and had him settled in the apartment above the shop, giving him a cup of tea to sip. Bossuet was let in, after a hurried explanation to the greengrocer, and he presented the boy with the flute.

"You got it back?" He jumped up and threw his arms around Bossuet. "Thank you so much! Let me take you for a drink to thank you properly."

Bossuet accepted, taking the boy to a nearby cafe. He finally introduced himself to the boy, and found out he was called Jehan.

"That's an unusual name."

"Well, I was christened Jean, for my father, but I thought that was boring. I decided to change it. But thank you so much for bringing my flute back. I have money, there must be some way I can reward you."

Bossuet hesitated. "Well... I'd accept a kiss." He wouldn't take the boy's money, he couldn't. Of course, asking for a kiss could land him in serious trouble. Jehan could look at him in absolute disgust. But instead, he smiled, and gave Bossuet a gentle kiss, before bidding him goodbye.

In the end, Bossuet borrowed money from Enjolras. Being both wealthy and frugal left him with a large surplus, and he lent it willingly, though most were too proud to ask. Ah, well. He'd pay him back eventually. He gave Joly the rent money, using the little he had left to buy a bottle of wine. Things would go back to normal, but that was fine. He'd had a kiss from a beautiful boy, and managed not to injure himself while chasing a thief - even if it was Feuilly who'd stopped him in the end.

He drank a glass, musing. A small gamin came in to the cafe. "'Scuse me, are you M. Bossuet?"

"Yes."

"M. Jehan requests that you meet him at the Luxembourg Gardens at eight o'clock, if it is convenient."

Well. Perhaps his luck was beginning to change.

A/N: Hope you enjoyed! Next pairing will be available ASAP.