Enjolras looked up from his reading to see that Courfeyrac had listed over from where he’d been propped up on the pillows on Enjolras’s bed.
No wonder. Courfeyrac had been up since dawn. They had helped some of Enjolras’s friends from a different print shop, and one or two of Feuilly’s fellow fan painters, flee the city a few steps ahead of the police. Charles X was trying to tighten his grip; many of their allies were feeling it close around them.
And now it was past midnight. Enjolras put his book down. He removed the papers from Courfeyrac’s lap and laid him down on the bed, pulling the covers over him. Courfeyrac had already rid himself of boots, coat, waistcoat and cravat. They were strewn about the floor, Enjolras noted in fond exasperation.
He tidied up and changed for bed himself. As he slipped under the blanket, he felt Courfeyrac stir next to him. “Mmmm.”
Enjolras kept silent, hoping Courfeyrac would go back to sleep, but it wasn’t to be. Courfeyrac’s eyes snapped open. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he said, sounding bleary. “I–where’s that letter–I wanted to–”
He flailed out with his arm; Enjolras caught his wrist, and drew it back to the bed. “It needn’t be done right this second, whatever it was.”
Courfeyrac made a soft, harrumphing noise. “I suppose you’re right.” He flopped back down on the pillow and closed his eyes, managing to look sulky about it.
Half-smiling, Enjolras lay down beside him.