Courfeyrac and M for the letter meme? ^_^

aporeticelenchus:


M. When it rains/snows/storms. 

Marius feels a thrill of apprehension as he hears a knocking
at his door over the howling of the wind. It isn’t a storm yet, not truly, but
neither is it a night to be about without business. And what business would
anyone have with him? Not a visitor then – perhaps a neighbor? That thought
does little to quiet Marius’ concerns, given what little he’s seen of them.

But when he opens his door, he finds the ever-smiling face
of Courfeyrac, soaked through and holding out a coat and umbrella – both
miraculously no more than damp.

“Ah, I am delighted to find you at home!” declares
Courfeyrac. “I doubt I’ll be back this way today if I can help it. I was
passing through on my way to visit some associates and wished to pay my
respects.”

“Some…associates,” says Marius, doubtfully.

Courfeyrac waves a hand in dismissal of the implied
question, sending drops of rain flying. “I must introduce you soon – but never
mind that. I have discovered that this coat is the wrong color for me, and the
cut unflattering. But it would favor you – your build is more classical than
mine and your coloring a match for darker shades. Won’t you take it and spare
me the trouble of throwing it away?”

“I don’t want charity,” says Marius firmly. He may be cold,
and his old coat nearly as full of holes as his rooms are, but he stands on
that. He catches himself looking longingly at the proffered coat and umbrella
and makes himself look Courfeyrac in the face instead.

“Don’t call it charity,” says Courfeyrac mildly, “it’s no
more than a small favor to me if you take it. I do hate to waste such nice
fabric. And if you want to make the favor double, you may aid me by taking this
umbrella before my friends see it. They will tease me mercilessly.

Marius isn’t sure he believes him, but he takes the coat and
umbrella anyway, already feeling a little warmer for reasons he can’t explain.

I AM 100% OK WITH THIS TURNING INTO A CM FIC. 😀  And, AW, Courfeyrac, how utterly transparent can you be??  ^______^  AWWWWWW.  Seriously, everything about this made me smile.  Thank you!!

edwarddespard:

edwarddespard:

mademoisellepoupee:

edwarddespard:

Okay…I’m still fiddling with all the lighting effects and this is a rush job of a couple of hours, but fwiw…

“June 6, 1842”

Wait, is this Marius and Courfeyrac? =*((((((

Forgotten this one! But yes, Marius and Courfeyrac.

Reblog from long ago. 

♗ for Marius & Courfeyrac (platonically if possible?)

thecoffeetragedy:

thecoffeetragedy:

♙:Sharing a bed…

EDIT: so I realised the font was too small and my crappy eyes made a mistake, this wasn’t the prompt you picked. I’m sorry. ;-;

Marius hadn’t really been sleeping; he had been in bed, and his eyes had been closed, but unfortunately, the images he had been projecting on the inside of his eyelids had been a little too flat, not quite bright enough to be dreams.

If he’d been asleep, he certainly would have awoken when he heard the floorboards creak as Courfeyrac moved towards his bed – no, as Courfeyrac sat on his bed. No, lie. On Marius’ bed, above the covers.

“Courfeyrac?” Marius called, alarmed.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Courfeyrac was laughing, but it was a pitiful sound, wet and weak and broken. “I am quite dressed. Don’t worry.”

The autumn night was too dark for Marius to see anything; nevertheless, he turned around, pushing his friend slightly.

“Just get under the covers. It’s cold and you’re freezing.”

Marius’s bed was barely large enough for one man, let alone two, especially considering Courfeyrac’s sturdier build. But somehow, this Courfeyrac felt so much smaller than the man Marius had befriended.

“Thank you, Marius,” Courfeyrac said, and he sounded like he was trying to smile. “Really.”

Marius bought a hand to his friend’s shaking arm. He hoped it was reassuring – he wasn’t sure what had scared Courfeyrac so much, though he had a vague idea. Battles, canons, friends injured, dying by his side. Enemies dying in front of his eyes. Marius suspected his own father had had similar nightmares. Had he ever shared them? Would Marius ever know? Marius’ father had never been able to talk about what he had seen with his son, but perhaps Courfeyrac would feel better after voicing his own demons.

Still, it took Marius nearly five minutes to ask.

“Do, uh. Do you want to talk…? I mean. I’m here.“

But Courfeyrac was already snoring softly, knees curled up against Marius’s side.

#les miserables #courfeyrac #marius pontmercy #courfeyrac & marius #other people’s fic #fic recs#emotional hurt comfort #*squeaks!!* #*VERY LOUDLY IN FACT* #*rolls around on the floor making gleeful inarticulate noises* #THIS IS EVERYTHING I LOVE ABOUT THE TWO OF THEM #so caring of each other but so awkward#needing each other but SO AWKWARD #and i love that courfeyrac is awkward in this moment too #because it highlights so well how out of his depth marius is #because without courfeyrac able to be the emotionally strong one he flounders SO HARD #omg you precious bbs #^_____________^ #also YES #COURFEYRAC WITH NIGHTMARES ABOUT THE 1830 BARRICADES #nuuuuuuuuu #come here let me cuddle you #TT^TT #I LOVE THAT#^____________^ #anyway #i’ll stop now #^_^ #queue you hear the people sing?

( @eirenical)

I’M SO GLAD YOU LIKED IT! whenever I write Courfeyrac I think of you honestly and I’m glad you approve ❤ ❤ 

Awwwwwww.  ^________^  Thank you!  And YES.  You captured them SO WELL in this!  And also, because I forgot to mention…

“Courfeyrac?” Marius called, alarmed.

“Don’t worry, my
friend,” Courfeyrac was laughing, but it was a pitiful sound, wet and
weak and broken. “I am quite dressed. Don’t worry.”

OMG, MARIUS, I CAN’T WITH YOU.  XD  And I love that Courfeyrac knew RIGHT AWAY that that’s what had Marius concerned.  OMG, you precious bbs, I CAN’T.  XD

♗ for Marius & Courfeyrac (platonically if possible?)

thecoffeetragedy:

♙:Sharing a bed…

EDIT: so I realised the font was too small and my crappy eyes made a mistake, this wasn’t the prompt you picked. I’m sorry. ;-;

Marius hadn’t really been sleeping; he had been in bed, and his eyes had been closed, but unfortunately, the images he had been projecting on the inside of his eyelids had been a little too flat, not quite bright enough to be dreams.

If he’d been asleep, he certainly would have awoken when he heard the floorboards creak as Courfeyrac moved towards his bed – no, as Courfeyrac sat on his bed. No, lie. On Marius’ bed, above the covers.

“Courfeyrac?” Marius called, alarmed.

“Don’t worry, my friend,” Courfeyrac was laughing, but it was a pitiful sound, wet and weak and broken. “I am quite dressed. Don’t worry.”

The autumn night was too dark for Marius to see anything; nevertheless, he turned around, pushing his friend slightly.

“Just get under the covers. It’s cold and you’re freezing.”

Marius’s bed was barely large enough for one man, let alone two, especially considering Courfeyrac’s sturdier build. But somehow, this Courfeyrac felt so much smaller than the man Marius had befriended.

“Thank you, Marius,” Courfeyrac said, and he sounded like he was trying to smile. “Really.”

Marius bought a hand to his friend’s shaking arm. He hoped it was reassuring – he wasn’t sure what had scared Courfeyrac so much, though he had a vague idea. Battles, canons, friends injured, dying by his side. Enemies dying in front of his eyes. Marius suspected his own father had had similar nightmares. Had he ever shared them? Would Marius ever know? Marius’ father had never been able to talk about what he had seen with his son, but perhaps Courfeyrac would feel better after voicing his own demons.

Still, it took Marius nearly five minutes to ask.

“Do, uh. Do you want to talk…? I mean. I’m here.“

But Courfeyrac was already snoring softly, knees curled up against Marius’s side.

Courfeyrac: You know how everybody has a voice inside them that tells them how they are? Mine goes like this: “Hey, Courf, you’re awesome no matter what anybody says, you’re so beautiful and bold and strong and no matter what you can do anything.”
Marius: The voice inside my head just says, “Wine and cheeses are not a meal.”

michellicopter:

i’m sure that’s the first time he’s heard that one, courf

Please imagine marius dedicating cute songs to cosette

just-french-me-up:

Don’t tell me Marius never went to serenade Cosette under her windows with Courfeyrac playing the ukulele in the bushes cause I’m pretty sure they did

marius/courfeyrac/cosette fake married au?

aporeticelenchus:

“I confess, it was not my finest hour,” said Courfeyrac,
collapsing onto the chair across from Marius; “I panicked, I prevaricated, I perjured
myself, and in short I told my father that I wouldn’t meet his eligible society
mademoiselle because you and I were passionately in love and soon to be married.”
Courfeyrac let out a great sigh and mournfully added, “The damnable old fellow
didn’t even disown me.”

Marius paled; “But I’ve
just told my grandfather I’m going to ask Cosette to marry me whether he likes
it or not and I can’t pretend to be engaged to both of you at – Courfeyrac, why
are you smiling like that, this is serious!”

takethewatch:

reysaglass:

takethewatch:

combeferrifying:

words-like-weeds:

nicecourfeyrack:

cosette visiting courfeyrac’s grave and thanking him for taking care of marius bye dudes

Oh wait I’m not sure any of the amis had graves.  Because they all died and there was no one left to bury them (except marius who was unconscious for like two weeks afterward) and even if they did leave people behind (like muschetta) who was going to come claim the bodies of the people the government had just killed as dangerous radicals? 

I suppose the national guard (or whoever cleaned up after them, I don’t know) would have piled all the bodies on a cart and dumped them in a pauper’s grave somewhere.  There probably wouldn’t be a marker, and marius wouldn’t have been able to find out where they were put since it’s not like he could go up to the police station with a month-old bullet wound in his shoulder and ask about the students who had been killed in last month’s rebellion. 

marius goes back to the musain for empty chairs at empty tables because there are no graves to visit.

ah yes you make a fine point

honestly when i’d said “grave” i was thinking along the lines of “the general area of wherever his body would have ended up” but “grave” just sounded nicer, ha

but yeah i hadn’t thought about marius not knowing where they are hm i must fix this now

let the change be noted, then: cosette visiting the decrepit remains of the musain and thanking courfeyrac for taking care of marius

yes i think that’s sadder thank you friend

She stepped down from the carriage several streets up from the corner she wanted.  The driver raised his eyebrows when he saw the direction she was going, but she paid him no mind.  She knew these streets well, had spent many hours on them with her father.  She knew the people here and she knew how to carry herself to blend in with them.  She was wearing the plain dress (a faded gray that might once have had aspirations at black) and headscarf she saved in the back of her wardrobe for occasions such as this.

Such opportunities were few, and they would be rarer still in the days ahead, with her husband’s sweet concern added to her father’s watchful eye.  But today her father was out “seeing about a few things” and her husband-to-be was sleeping–a peaceful, though exhausted sleep, at long last–and she had seized on the chance to get away, to lay eyes on the place she felt needed to see in order to begin to understand what her beloved was going through.

She had never been to the little cafe, but she found it easily enough (how could you not, when the bloodstains that still streaked the paving-stones all pointed to it, like fingers of infection spidering out from a wound?).  The sign was gone, probably carted away with the rubble of the barricade, but a ragged, singed scrap of red cloth still fluttered from the hinge of an upstairs window.

Inside, the rooms were bare, the walls marked with gunpowder and blood.  Broken bottles and trampled leaflets were scattered over the floors.  In one corner, a neatly-stacked pile of fabric strips stood at the ready.  The unused bandages were the cleanest thing in the room.

She took the stairs carefully, testing each creaking step before putting her weight on it, wondering what she would do if she could not reach the top room.  (She would climb the alley wall to the window; she knew she could do it–her father, for his own mysterious reasons, had trained her in all manner of unusual accomplishments–although it would be difficult in long skirts.)  But the stairs held, and she made it to the upper room, where the stains were everywhere and where, despite the open windows, the smell of smoke and blood still hung in the air.

This was it.  This was where they had made their plans together, laughed together, sung together.  This was where they had died–all those hopeful, hopeless boys who still haunted her husband’s dreams.  The room was empty, stripped of all furniture and bottles and papers, of everything but the blood, but she could feel their presence still.

He had told her, finally, last night.  Not about the fighting–that, he had recounted freely, first in gasps and incomprehensible cries as he burned with fever, then later, after he had awakened, more clearly.  But always the fighting: the rush for the barricades, the noise of the rifles, the rush of excitement and fear, the way the gunpowder flashed in the darkness, the pain of the wound.  It had terrified him–terrified him still, in his dreams–but it wasn’t the part that had truly broken him.

It was his friends.  The passionate, generous, impossible students and workers who had taken him in when he was alone in the city and given him a cause to believe in when the old causes were dead, and a family to love when his own family cast him out.  They were all dead now, every one of them, and last night he had told her about them for the first time over a candle and a cup of cool water, in that darkest hour of the night when his pain would not let him sleep.  His voice was so faint she could barely hear him, and it broke when he whispered the names: Combeferre.  Enjolras.  Jehan.  Lesgles.  Joly.  Feuilly.  Grantaire. Bahorel.

Courfeyrac.

Once he had started, he couldn’t stop, and he talked for hours about them, tears running down his cheeks as he told her how they’d met, how they’d wandered aimlessly through the city laughing at things chalked on walls, how they’d stayed up far into the night talking of France and the glory that could be hers, how they’d breakfasted by the Seine on day-old bread and cheap wine.  She had cried with him when he’d awakened screaming, when he told her brokenly of the guns and the chaos and the fear, when the pain was too much for words–but now she sat silent and dry-eyed, feeling too much even for tears, as her beloved poured out to her the men who still filled his soul.  They had been so much to him, and now they were gone.

The tears pricked at her eyes now, as she stood in the middle of the room and listened for the echoes of their laughter.  She imagined them sitting there, in that very room, at tables littered with maps and pamphlets and lukewarm wine.  She imagined them teasing Marius for blushing about her, some of them pestering him for details of their first meeting, others groaning and rolling their eyes fondly at his head-over-heels love.  She imagined them dying.

The wooden pillars that held up the ceiling of the ramshackle room were pitted and scorched, as everything else was, but on one of them, another kind of mark caught her eye, and she stooped to examine it.  Five letters, blocky capitals, had been carved messily into the wood: COURF. 

They were about waist-high, at just the right height to reach easily when sitting at a table.  She thought of Courfeyrac sitting there in the middle of a meeting, listening but never content to have his hands still, scratching his name into the column.  It was unfinished–had he broken off to poke Marius in the ribs or clap his friend on the back?  Or had he never intended to carve more, content to leave this shortened version of his name, the way he was known among his friends?  He had–they all had–left so little behind.

“Thank you,” she whispered, brushing her fingertips over the letters.

this is the fic i followed you for ❤

yessss i saw the first line of the post and I was like THIS IS IT THIS IS WHEN I MET JULIA

it’s our old urls and everything wow

(but ugh how awkward i didn’t know how to talk to people on tumblr i just reblogged some stranger’s post and crapped all other their idea oops.  it’s a miracle we ended up friends tbh.  well not a miracle more it’s thanks to you being a kind and easygoing person.)