Remember, we love you.

I reeeeeaaaally wanted to draw something for Les Mis Rare Pairs Week – so here’s my favourite OT3: Valvertine ^_^

(Psst! Click the doodles to see my secret comments on all my posts ^_^)

27 for maybe Courfeyrac and Combeferre for the meme? Unless there are others you’d prefer idk


27. Things you said through a closed door

“Courfeyrac.  Courfeyrac.”

There’s no sound but the shuffling of his feet on the uneven wood floor of the hallway.  He tries again.

“Courfeyrac, come on.  I didn’t mean it.”  And then, because if he can’t be charming and he can’t be good with people and he can’t be naturally kind, at least he can be honest, he adds, “That way.”

“You meant it.”  Courfeyrac’s voice is stretched thin and uneven.

“I didn’t mean your family.  Courfeyrac.”

“Combeferre, go away.  I don’t want you here right now.”

Combeferre has never been able to read people well, but even he knows that this is Courfeyrac’s serious voice.  And yet.  He can’t bear to walk away, to leave things be when they are so terribly Wrong.  Not when it’s Courfeyrac on the other side of that door.  “I’m sorry,” he tries.  “It was rude and unthinking of me.  I didn’t–I’m not like you, Courf, I’m not good with people.”

The door is wrenched open, and Courfeyrac is there.  His eyes are wet but Combeferre knows he’s not really crying–he’s just angry.  (He knows him that well, God, he knows him so well, how is it that there is one person in the whole world who he actually gets and he’s still managed to hurt him?)

“I’ve heard that–that cowardly excuse from you too many times,” Courfeyrac snaps.  “It’s not good enough, Combeferre.  There’s a difference between being awkward, and being cruel, and you like to pretend you don’t see it.”

Combeferre ducks his head, heat rising to his cheeks.  Courfeyrac runs on, flinging out the words with frighteningly precise ennunciation, even as his tongue’s going a mile a minute.  “It doesn’t take any kind of social acumen to recognize when something you want to say might hurt someone–it just takes a little bit of logic and enough caring to actually stop and think about the facts.”

Unspoken: Combeferre literally has a master’s degree in logic.  Combeferre is a slave to logic.  Combeferre is the one who is constantly pleading with Enjolras and Courfeyrac to stop and think about the facts.

Unspoken: Combeferre doesn’t care about Courfeyrac.

It’s not true, Combeferre’s brain protests–and yet it’s where all the facts are pointing.  Given what’s gone down this evening, the logical conclusion is that Combeferre is a selfish bastard who likes people only for how they benefit him and doesn’t actually give a shit about Courfeyrac’s feelings.

And Combeferre is a slave to logic.

He turns away, and the door slams behind him and he can still hear Courfeyrac’s restless pacing around the room.  And he knows Courfeyrac well enough to know to text Joly with the suggestion he and Bossuet drop by to channel Courfeyrac’s angry energy into something less destructive than what he’ll come up with on his own.  He’s sent the text and received an affirmative reply (bless Joly, he doesn’t ask what happened), and has already let himself out of the apartment before he realizes that he’s once again proved that he knows Courfeyrac so well.

He really has no excuse.

As he turns up his collar against the cold, spitting rain that feels more like November than April, it occurs to him that he might also be being a little overdramatic, about the whole thing.  He said something shitty; now, twenty minutes later, he’s come to the conclusion that he’s an inhuman wretch with a rotted-out soul who’s probably going to die alone and deserve it.  It pains him to realize that that part of his personality is a fairly recent grafting, courtesy of Courfeyrac.


HOLY COW, GUYS.  😀  One of my Hair stories got translated into Russian!  😀  Isn’t that cool?  ^____________^

(It’s my first story to ever be translated into another language and I’ve just been sitting here squeaking and kicking my feet over it.  XD  …even though it apparently happened months ago and I just found out but oops.  ^_^  BETTER LATE THAN NEVER, RIGHT?)

Joly and Legle, 22?


Joly blinked at Laigle. “There’s something in your coat sleeve,” he said.

The thing in Laigle’s sleeve mewled piteously and thrashed its tail as Laigle fished it out. It was revealed as a small kitten, only scarcely old enough, in Joly’s opinion, to be taken from its mother. It was all black save for patches of white on its feet and a little white spot near its nose. Laigle had to hold the kitten close to keep it from escaping as he presented it for Joly’s inspection. “Behold, mon Joly, I have brought you a soul mate.”

Laigle had joked often enough that Joly has the soul of cat, but he’d never approached it so…concretely before. “Where did he come from?” It was always a good idea to ask, where Joly’s friends were concerned. Especially Bossuet. He might be a stolen pet of a minister, or a witch’s familiar, or simply the most ill-tempered feline his friend could find.

“My drinking friend Pierre’s cat had kittens. He’s been trying to sell the litter off as rat catchers, like their mother, and this one was the last of the lot. It seemed no one wanted a beast of his color.” Laigle scratched the kitten under its chin in obvious sympathy. It squeaked happily back at him.

“So you bought him?” Joly did have something of a problem with rats. It wasn’t bad idea, come to think of it.

Laigle laughed. “Lord no. As though I had the money! Pierre was going to drown the poor fellow as an omen of bad luck. I told him that as a fellow omen of bad luck I objected on principle, and that if he proposed drowning unwanted nuisances he might start with himself.”

“Did he follow your programme?” asked Joly. He held out a finger cautiously and the kitten sniffed it.

“Alas, no. He condescended to baptize me with a glass of wine, and we agreed that was drowning enough for one night.”

“And he gave you the cat?”

Laigle gave an airy shrug. “I took the cat; he did not object. The legal grounding is tenuous but precedent is ample. Therefore on this rock I will build my church, and in my church I will place this cat.”

“I’m going to have to take bigger rooms if you want to make my apartments into a Basilica. Especially if you keep bringing back new parishioners. I don’t suppose this one pays rent?” The kitten was rubbing against his fingers with remarkable enthusiasm, and Joly couldn’t help scratching it lightly behind the ears.

“No,” replied Laigle, “but I dare vouch that he will work for his bed and board. So you see that he is already an improvement on other of your tenants.”

“Never.” Joly knew he was blushing, a bad habit of his he had yet to find the nostrum to cure. “What could be worth more than your companionship?”

When Laigle smiled – really smiled – it was like sunshine, like a warm cup of tea, like a new discovery that made the whole order of nature clear. “Why, yours, my dearest friend.”

Joly decided to hide the growing redness of his face by pulling Laigle into a kiss. After a few moments Laigle began to laugh, and to breathlessly pull away. The kitten had climbed up the front of his shirt and was stubbornly butting its head against Laigle’s neck. “It seems I have aroused jealousy!” he declared cheerfully. “Didn’t I tell you he was to be your soulmate?”

Joly knelt down to look the kitten in the eye and affected a serious expression. “I’m sorry,” he announced solemnly, “but the position of soulmate is filled.”

“Nonsense,” said Laigle. He held the kitten in check and kissed Joly again. Joly melted happily against him and let himself be thoroughly kissed.

“Is it possible for you to be loved too much?” Laigle asked quietly after the kiss was through. “I think not.”

Joly hummed contentedly, in no mood to disagree.