Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/480179.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      John_Adams_(TV), Real_Person_Fiction
  Relationship:
      John_Quincy_Adams/OC
  Character:
      John_Quincy_Adams, John_Adams, Benjamin_Franklin, Henri_de_Rochambeau_
      (OC)
  Additional Tags:
      First_Time, Mildly_Dubious_Consent
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-08-07 Words: 3326
****** L'Aigle ******
by Vingtieme
Summary
     John Quincy is bored. He's been in Paris for so long, but his father
     never lets him do anything. One day, he goes to L'Aigle, a cafe that
     all the young men of Paris frequent, and meets a certain Henri de
     Rochambeau. Romance ensues when Henri decides to woo young John
     Quincy.
John Quincy was bored. He’d been in Paris for quite a while now, and he hadn’t
done anything.  All day, he sat and studied and, while he didlike studying, it
could become tiresome. His father was out every day on diplomatic missions, and
he never took John Quincy with him. Even in the evenings, there was never any
entertainment. His father never liked the opera, and there was no way he’d ever
take John Quincy to a party or a gentleman’s club. That’s foolish of him, John
Quincy thought to himself, for everyone is always charmed by a child. He
resolved to bring the matter up at the soonest possible hour.
But, in the meantime, he needed something to do. It was time to test the limits
of his power. He called for the valet. Trying to look as sure of himself as
possible, he said, in perfect French, “Would you please call the carriage? I am
going out today.”
The valet normally quite liked John Quincy, probably because he could speak his
own language around him, but he hesitated. “Are you sure your father has given
his permission, Master Adams? He did not say anything to the staff.”
“Quite sure, thank you. When will it be ready?”
The valet reluctantly gave in to John Quincy’s will. “Half an hour, sir.”
“Thank you. I will be ready.” He stood and made a dismissive, but not unkind
gesture. When the valet left the room, John Quincy made himself ready for a day
in Paris. He was excited. Perhaps he’d see some attractions or meet someone his
own age.
He climbed into the carriage half an hour later in his second-best suit and
hat, cheeks flushed with anticipation of the day ahead. With some final
reluctant farewells by his caretaker, he was off. “Where to, Master Adams?” the
chauffer asked as they went down the drive.
“You know, I’m not really sure. Where would you recommend a young man go in
Paris?”
The chauffer looked slightly surprised that John Quincy did not know his mind,
but said, “Well, sir, there are the traditional attractions, of course. Or you
could go shopping. And I know of a very nice club in that district where all
the young men of Paris spend their free hours. L’Aigle is the name. I’m sure
you’d meet some pleasant folks, some perhaps your age, though probably a bit
older. The young master is very… young.”
John Quincy flushed a bit. He was one of those children who did not at all like
being a child, and the powerlessness that came with it. He therefore acted
quite a bit older. His precocity was probably what adults found so charming
about him. “Very well, L’Aigle it is. Perhaps I will go shopping, as well, but
this seems like a good place to start.”
When they arrived, John Quincy felt a little twist of nervousness. What if no
one liked him, or even talked to him? What if they were offended if he spoke to
them without an introduction? But he swallowed his fear, and left the carriage,
telling the chauffer to come back in a few hours.
It was a very nice club, stylish and youthful, and certainly the place to be.
It was mid-morning, before luncheon, so only a few people were around. At one
of the occupied tables was a group of three boys, probably around 14 to 16, and
obviously well-born, like everyone else in the club. But no matter. In America,
there was no such thing as well-born.
They were the closest to John Quincy’s age, but he didn’t yet dare to approach
them. Instead, he went over to the bar. The bartender looked at him curiously.
“A newcomer, eh?,” he said loudly. “What’ll ye be having?”
John Quincy felt everyone’s eyes upon him now, but it wasn’t so bad. There were
only about 10 people there, at best, and their gazes were only curious.
“Just tea, please,” he said with a nervous smile. The bartender nodded, smiling
kindly at John Quincy, and retreated to the kitchen to fill his order.
John Quincy hopped up onto a stool to wait. A minute later, someone plopped
down onto the stool beside him. John Quincy turned. It was the youngest of the
group of three.
“Bonjour,” the boy said amicably, and John Quincy replied in kind. “You’re not
from around here, are you?”  the boy observed.
“No,” John Quincy replied, “how did you know?”
The boy grinned. “Well, you came in here looking like a lost dog,” he laughed
lightly. “That, and you have an odd accent.” When John Quincy looked concerned,
he amended. “Do not take this ill; you speak quite correctly. I can understand
you perfectly. But where are you from?”
“I’m from America,” John Quincy said with a smile, quite pleased that this
outing was going so well.
Recognition dawned on the boy’s face. “Oh, you must be – I mean, are you
Monsieur Jean Adams’ son?”
John Quincy nodded. “Yes, I am.”
The boy looked quite pleased. “Glad to meet you!” he said, extending his hand.
John Quincy shook it, while the boy introduced himself. “I am Henri de
Rochambeau. My uncle is the General, you know,” he said, not boastfully, but as
a way of identifying himself. John Quincy’s eyes widened. “I – I am John Quincy
Adams. Your uncle is known to me.”  The boy looked down modestly, and the
bartender came with John Quincy’s tea.
“Come join us at our table, Monsieur Adams. You would be quite welcome.” So
John Quincy did. He was introduced to the other boys, one of whom was
Justinien, the 16-year-old son of a chief minister. The other was Alain, the
15-year-old son of another chief minister. All of the boys were extremely
interested in John Quincy, a boy from revolutionary America. They asked him all
sorts of questions, and bought him food, and asked him more questions, all of
which John Quincy answered as graciously as he could. Even the ridiculous ones,
like “Does it ever snow in America?” and “Is everyone there a drunkard?”
So they talked and laughed for nearly two hours, and John Quincy was very happy
to have made new friends. Presently, Justinien had to leave. He bade them
farewell, but then did something very strange. He kissed Alain, right on the
lips. It wasn’t any bissous, either. It was definitely a kiss. Shocked, John
Quincy flushed. “Au revoir, Alain. Until tonight?”
“Oui, Justinien. I must be going as well. See you all.” Whereupon they took
their coats and, arms wrapped about each other’s waists, left L’Aigle.
John Quincy’s reaction had not gone unnoticed. Henri smirked at him, and said
archly, “Oh, everyone knows about those two. Been lovers for nearly a year
now.” When John Quincy flushed even deeper, he laughed out loud. “Oh, my dear,
young Jean, how innocent you are! All the boys in France love a friend at one
point or another!”
The concept of this sort of love was not unfamiliar to John Quincy. He had read
enough Latin and Greek love poetry to know of it. But he never once thought
that people still did that sort of thing. “Henri! I – I didn’t know people
still… that is, I’ve read of it but…” John Quincy floundered, thoroughly
scandalized.
Henri looked positively gleeful. “Of course they do, mon ami! It is the best
experience of one’s youth! My father always says it is unnatural not to go
through a phase of kissing boys, for then you can never learn to fully
appreciate the beauty of women.” Then, his expression changed. Flushing, and a
bit hesitant, he covered John Quincy’s hand with his own. “If you’d like… I
could show you…?”
John Quincy looked at Henri, then down at their hands on the table. He was
uncertain. It was all so sudden and… Well, he had been having certain… urges
lately. He did likeHenri, and he did not want to hurt his new friend. What harm
could a little bit of kissing do? It was all part of immersing himself in the
French culture, no? It could be very… educational.
“Well… alright, I suppose. We could do that…sometime…” John Quincy flushed
deeply, his heart battering in his chest. Little did he know that his flush,
and the demure fluttering of his eyelashes on his pretty, young cheeks made
Henri simply ache for him.
Henri grinned happily, and said. “We are hosting a party tomorrow night. Will
you come?”
When John Quincy hesitated, Henri said, “Oh, please, Ami? It will be dreadfully
boring without someone my age to talk to. Your father and Doctor Franklin are,
of course, invited as well.”
“Alright,” said John Quincy, smiling good-naturedly. “I will see what I can
do.”
“I will send a formal invitation! They cannot refuse that!”
Then the topics drifted onto other things, until the chauffer came to get John
Quincy. Henri stood, and sent John Quincy off with a friendly bissous, leaving
him flushed and bothered the entire carriage ride home.
That evening, while they were at supper, the invitation came. “What is this?!”
His father exclaimed. “We have been invited to the Rochambeau’s party tomorrow
night!”
            Doctor Franklin looked up. Even he was surprised. Not just
anyonewas invited to the Rochambeau’s.
            “And they have asked we bring John Quincy with us! John Quincy,
won’t that be exciting?”
            John Quincy smiled. “Yes of course, Father.”
            “Come now, Johnny, where is your enthusiasm?! You do know who the
Rochambeaus are, don’t you?”
            John Quincy could not contain his laughter at this point. “Of
course, Father!”
            His father had caught on. He knew something was up. “Now, now, Son.
What is it that you know that I do not?”
            John Quincy swallowed his laughter, and said, “Well, you see
Father, I already knew we’d be invited.”
            “How could you have possibly known that, Johnny?”
            John Quincy couldn’t resist dragging this out a little longer, so
he answered in French, with a perfectly straight face. The servants could all
understand what he’d said, and so could Doctor Franklin, to an extent, so Mr.
Adams was the only one left in the dark. It infuriated him. “John Quincy Adams,
you answer me in English this moment!”
            John Quincy finished his fit of giggles, and finally said, “Well,
today I met Monsieur Henri de Rochambeau at Café L’Aigle. He is two years my
senior, but we became fast friends immediately. He’s the nephew of the General.
Really, Father, you should bring me to social occasions more often!”
            “Hm. I suppose I will.” And he was so pleased that he forgot to
scold John Quincy for going out without his permission.
            The next day, everyone seemed to be in a flurry for the party that
night. The stagecoach had to be polished, and all of their best suits must be
cleaned and ironed. John Quincy, who refused to wear a wig, was subjected to a
hairdresser. When the hairdresser was finished, however, John Quincy had to
admit that he looked just fine. His curls were perfectly arranged around his
face, and a long curl, tied back with a blue ribbon that matched his favourite
waistcoat, cascaded down his back. When he dressed, his father even let him
borrow some cologne. Happy he was when they were all seated in the stagecoach,
making their way down the drive. Perhaps he would be able to spend more time
with Henri tonight…
            When they arrived at the party, they presented their invitation,
and were announced accordingly. Many Parisians were very interested in the
American Revolution, and clamored to talk with his father and Doctor Franklin.
They absolutely fawned over John Quincy, but all he could think about was
Henri. He glanced around often, trying to find him, but he was nowhere to be
seen.
            Just as the dancing began, John Quincy caught his eye. “Excuse me,”
he said to those with whom he was currently conversing, and he practically
dashed across the room to Henri. Henri immediately took his hand and tugged him
out of the crowd, and out of the room, smiling playfully. “Jean, Cheri, how
glad I am to see you,” he said as he shut a door behind them. John Quincy
looked around. They were in some sort of drawing room. It was dark, and the
curtains were drawn, but there was a single lamp burning, and it was enough
light.
            Henri crossed and collapsed onto the loveseat, stretching his legs
out in front of him and crossing his ankles, his arms spread across the back of
the seat. “I have been thinking of you nearly non-stop since yesterday. I
couldn’t wait to see you, but I was detained by various guests who wished to
speak with me. Come, sit down, Jean, I won’t bite.” He grinned happily at John
Quincy and, with his heart pounding, the younger boy sat down next to Henri.
            “I have always found parties tiresome,” said John, boldly, but not
at all insincerely.
            “Ah, I would find any party tiresome if given the option of being
with you, instead, Ami.”
            John Quincy flushed, and looked down.
            “What would you like to do, then, Jean?” continued Henri. “We could
play cards, or perhaps… tour the house?”
            “I would like that very much.”
            “Ah! A tour it is, then!” Henri jumped up enthusiastically, and
held out his hand to help John Quincy up. John Quincy was just charmed, at
laughed lightly. They went on their way, as if it were a grand adventure.
            Henri showed John Quincy the parlour, and all the back rooms, and
the kitchens, where they were shooed by a busy cook staff. Then they made their
way upstairs. “This is my room,” said Henri. John Quincy looked around in awe.
It was decorated in the grand style of the French. He remembered his shared
room back in Boston, and back on the farm, and was amazed that a room could
harbor this much wealth. Henri lit the lamps, and went and flopped down on his
giant four-poster. John followed, still marveling at the room around him.
            “In America, we do not have rooms such as these.”
            “I will share everything I have with you. What is mine, is yours.”
Grinning, Henri pulled John Quincy down onto the bed and wrestled on top of
him, tickling him. John Quincy laughed, and tickled him back and soon they were
panting and exhausted with the exertion. The last of the chuckles dying down,
Henri pulled John Quincy close to him, so that their noses were nearly
touching.
            They looked into each other’s eyes, and John Quincy was spellbound.
In the distance, he could hear the music from the party, as if from a long ago
dream. Henri cupped his face, and pressed his lips against John Quincy’s.
            Happiness coursed through him. Never did he imagine a kiss could be
like this. Eagerly, he leaned in for more, and Henri pulled him closer. John
Quincy felt hot and excited. Henri’s tongue brushed his lips and John Quincy
tentatively opened his mouth, and started to try things. As their tongues met,
Henri moaned. John Quincy’s eyes flew open in surprise. He did not know he
could make another feel so.
            Henri continued to deepen the kiss, caressing John Quincy’s sides
and combing his fingers through John Quincy’s pretty curls. “Mmmmnnn, Jean,
cheri,” Henri moaned breathlessly, “Shall we remove some of these clothes?”
            John Quincy started, eyes fluttering wide open. “Henri… I – I do
not think I am ready for that…”
            “Oh come now, Jean. Just our shirts? I want to feel your skin
against mine.”
            John Quincy was not so sure about this. He had not done anything of
this sort before, and felt there was something wrong about it. Still, it was
not every day that one was so solicited. John Quincy, for once, felt needed –
felt valued. Henri’s desire was very flattering. It fanned that little spark in
him that longed for approval into flame. At this point, John Quincy was willing
to do anything to make himself feel like he was worth something to someone…if
not to his father. Determination clicked into place, and John Quincy sat up and
began fumbling with his buttons.
            Henri grinned triumphantly and giggled, sitting up to remove his
own coat, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves. When John Quincy was bare to the waist,
he turned tentatively, his arms crossed in front of his chest, to meet Henri’s
hungry gaze. The older boy sprawled out onto the bed, leaning on his elbow, and
patted the bed beside him. John Quincy crawled over and lied down beside him,
allowing strong arms to pull him closer; gentle fingers to caress his cheek –
his lips.
            Henri tilted John Quincy’s face up to meet him in a kiss and
pressed their bodies together. It was all heat and sweat and sensation between
them. Despite his initial nervousness, John Quincy could not profess to dislike
the way their bodies moved together – the way their mouths fit together – the
way their tongues slid, hot and wet, over one another.
            They broke away for air and, panting, Henri rubbed at the bulge in
his pants. “Ah, Jean, touch me! I desperately need your hands.” John Quincy
also had the stirrings of arousal, but was unsure. He’d never touched anyone
but himself before, and even then, it was seldom. Sensing John Quincy’s
hesitation, Henri reassured him.
            The older boy pulled him close and whispered wantonly in his ear,
“Oh, Jean, ma amour, s’il vous plait! It isn’t any more difficult than touching
yourself. I’ll make you feel good in return. Please, I need you.” Again, it was
the draw of being needed that enticed John Quincy to give his permission. He
understood the intimacy of what was about to happen, perhaps more than Henri
did.
            “Oui, Henri, d’accord. Only, please forgive me if I am not… good
enough.”
            Pulling him close joyfully and kissing him on the forehead, Henri
replied, “Anything from you would be wonderful, Amour.”
            Eagerly, Henri unbuttoned his britches and pulled them, and his
undershorts, down about his thighs, exposing his flushed hard cock. Gingerly,
he stroked it, groaning. “Jean, darling, please. I need you.”
            Hesistating slightly, and blushing furiously, John Quincy reached
out and palmed the elder boy, stroking him gently. With a strangled cry, Henri
choked out, “Harder. Faster.” John Quincy obeyed, squeezing harder and
quickening his strokes. Henri gasped and moaned, and clung to John Quincy for
dear life. It is amazing to have this much power over someone, John thought,
and for them to surrender themselves to you completely.
            Henri, finally realizing that John Quincy had been neglected,
stopped John’s movements, and made quick work of the younger boy’s clothes,
tugging them down about John’s thighs. John Quincy had to admit that Henri’s
rough, hard strokes felt deliciously good. He could hardly maintain his own
rhythm of strokes.
            Either way, the boys were young, and couldn’t last long. They came
quickly, crying out loudly. Henri pulled John Quincy to him and embraced him
tightly, and they kissed gently for a bit, regaining their ability to breathe.
            “Jean, Mon Amour, that was wonderful. I should love to do it again
sometime.” He winked, and John Quincy giggled lightly. Heaving a sigh, John
said, “We should get back to the party. My father will wonder where I’ve been.”
            “Let’s just stay here a little longer,” whispered Henri, more
tender than he’d been all night. They did cuddle for a while but John, afraid
of falling asleep and being found in their state, roused them. They cleaned
themselves up, dressed, and made themselves look as presentable as possible.
            At the door, Henri kissed John Quincy one last time. “Shall I see
you tomorrow at L’Aigle, Jean?”
            “Noon?”
            “Noon.”
            And, grinning at one another, they returned to the party, where
they had not been missed.
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