“And that–” Courfeyrac lifted his pen with a flourish. “That is the last! No more than we deserve, I suppose, daring to use a printer other than the illustrious house of Enjolras–” And a careless printer at that, one who had missed a very obviously stricken-out name (and Combeferre had gone back to the manuscript at least thrice to be certain of this) and included it instead, leaving repairs to be made by hand before the pamphlet could be distributed. By the hands of Courfeyrac and Enjolras specifically. What felt like all night long.
“I suppose we– oof, Enjolras, have a care–” But the sudden weight against his side wasn’t Enjolras using Courfeyrac to hoist himself up, but a presumably unintentional consequence of Enjolras having drifted to sleep right there where he sat. He slumped against Courfeyrac, his face pressed against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, his gold curls spilling into his face. Courfeyrac smiled and very carefully tucked a curl back out of the way.
“I hope you don’t think I’m going to let you sleep there all night,” he said softly. “You look perfectly comfortable, but I would be in agony. I suppose you didn’t think of that, did you.”
But he could sit there for a minute or two more.