“scratch that. don’t answer that.” (and did you want a pairing too? bc I’d love to see what you do with Courfeyrac and Enjolras.)

bootsselbst:

Open
your baskets!  The ingredients you must use in your dish are…

Enjolras
sets the remote control on the coffee table, next to an empty pint of
Ben & Jerry’s and two spoons resting on the upturned ice cream
lid.  Chopped is a show that they can both agree on; Enjolras likes
to learn new tricks he can use in the kitchen (he really is
getting better at cooking
, he insists as Courfeyrac teases him),
while Courfeyrac enjoys most any kind of reality competition show.

The
two of them had been sitting together on the couch, with Courfeyrac’s
head on Enjolras’s shoulder.  When Enjolras sits back again after
setting down the remote, Courfeyrac leans against him and rests his
head where it had been before, snuggling close to him.  Enjolras’s
hand comes to rest on top of Courfeyrac’s, and he rubs his thumb
gently against the back of his friend’s hand.

After
a moment, Courfeyrac lifts his head.  Enjolras looks over at him,
curious, and the look on Courfeyrac’s face is not one he recognizes.
Courfeyrac takes a deep breath.

“Enjolras.”
Another breath.  “Um.”

“Yes?”
Enjolras is even more curious now.  Courfeyrac’s tone of voice
doesn’t worry him, exactly, but it makes him feel uncertain.

The
next few words sound as cautious as Enjolras feels.  “What are we?”

Enjolras
definitely looks confused.  But Courfeyrac barely gives him time to
think before backpedalling.  “Scratch that.  Don’t answer that.
I’m sorry.”  His hand stiffens under Enjolras’s, and he looks down
at it, then back up at Enjolras, as if to ask if this was still okay.

Enjolras
smiles that gentle smile of his, the one that warms something in
Courfeyrac’s chest, and squeezes his hand.  “It’s all right.”  

Courfeyrac
shakes his head.  “No, I’m sorry.  It’s just I’ve never done
anything like this before.  I don’t really do the romance thing, and
I know you’ve said you don’t either, but it’s—.”

Enjolras
leans in quickly to kiss Courfeyrac on the cheek.  It works as he
intended, and Courfeyrac cuts himself off mid-sentence.  “It’s
really all right.  Honestly, I don’t have a word for this either.
But… that’s fine, yeah?”

Courfeyrac’s
eyebrows flash up for a brief moment, then sighs with relief.  “Yeah.
Yeah, that’s fine.”

Enjolras
nestles back into the couch and pats his shoulder.  “Come on, the
judging’s about to start.”

Courfeyrac
laughs and flops back down, his head finding Enjolras’s shoulder as
his hand reaches for his friend’s hand.

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I don’t know if you’re still writing LM at all, but “you don’t care, nobody cares, just leave.” for Enjolras and Courfeyrac? (Or if you’re not writing Les Mis, then for any fandom and characters of your choice. ^_^)

hoseokked:

I’m not writing anything at the moment, so Les Mis is as good as any! I’m. So rusty, though, what a throwback this fandom is. 


“Courfeyrac?” 

Courfeyrac pays him no heed, throwing clothes into a satchel with ill-disguised rage. He shoves past Enjolras to his desk, sweeping all the papers into the bag with one fell swoop. 

If Enjolras couldn’t already tell that something was very, very wrong, the fact that Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to care about the fact that ink is rapidly spreading all over his favorite linen shirt, staining the insides of his bag. 

“Courfeyrac–” 

“Go away, Enjolras,” Courfeyrac snaps. “I don’t have time for revolutionary business.” He spins around, snatches an errant sheaf of papers off the floor and shoves it into Enjolras’s chest, making him stumble backwards. “Here. Your maps.” 

“Courfeyrac, stop.” Enjolras snaps his arm forward before Courfeyrac can rush off again. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Courfeyrac is livid, his normally sunny face twisted into a snarl. “You don’t care,” he hisses. “You don’t care, nobody cares, just leave.” 

“No.” He tightens the fingers around Courfeyrac’s list. 

No?” 

“Do you honestly think I care for nothing but politics?” Enjolras asks quietly. “That I’d do anything for my beloved Patria and nothing at all for my beloved friend?” 

Courfeyrac sags in his grip, and Enjolras leads him to sink into the chaise, wordless. He waits. 

“It’s my family,” Courfeyrac whispers, licking his dry lips. “There’s trouble.” 

“You have to leave.” 

Courfeyrac nods. “I’m sorry.”  

“Well.” Enjolras looks at him solemnly. “I will do my best to throw documents into the fireplace in a fit of dramatics while you are gone.”

Courfeyrac bursts into laughter, and the room brims with sunshine.  

send me hurt meme prompts!

Enjolras and Courfeyrac, ♙?

robertawickham:

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.

Oooh good meme! How about Enjolras and Courfeyrac, one falling asleep on the other?

ratheralark:

Isn’t it??

“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. 

Hi! Could I request Enjolras and Courfeyrac, ♟: Patching up a wound? :)

Why, nonny, of course you may!  😀  H/C is my bread and butter!  ^_^

If anyone else would like to send prompts, feel free!  ^_^

(You’ll have to forgive me, though, nonny–I have barricades and social unrest on the brain after this weekend.  ^_~)


Enjolras gripped hard at the hand held tightly in his, putting on another burst of speed.  What should have been a simple trade—a sheaf of proscribed pamphlets for a box of even more proscribed ammunition—had turned into anything but.  Whether they had been spotted, or had been betrayed by a spy in their midst hardly mattered; the result was the same.  The police had arrived, ready to arrest everyone involved.  Enjolras and Courfeyrac had acted to provide a distraction, allowing the others time to scatter.  They’d led the police on a merry chase—down dark alleyways, up a sewage pipe, across a rooftop, and back again—and had only just lost them, when Enjolras saw Courfeyrac falter.  Even in the flickering lamplight, Courfeyrac’s complexion was ashen, his eyes beginning to glaze with pain.  He’d been wounded; he wouldn’t be able to run much longer.  They had to get to safety.

Enjolras eased them further back into the alley, pressing Courfeyrac into the depths of a doorway that was just out of sight.  Ignoring the softly hissed protests—“I’m perfectly fine, my friend; no need to stop on my account!”—Enjolras took a few precious moments for a brusque exam that would have had Joly and Combeferre cringing at his manner.  Courfeyrac thought no more of it than they would have if his indrawn breath and low, creative cursing was any indication.

The difficulty became clear rather quickly.  Courfeyrac’s hand was clutched to his side, his coat rapidly acquiring a deepening red stain just below.  Enjolras winced.  “How bad is it?”  As Courfeyrac’s gaze lowered, darting away from his, Enjolras grabbed his shoulders and gave him a brief shake.  “And don’t think of lying to me, either.  How bad?”

Courfeyrac sighed, shook his head.  “Not as bad as it appears.  It happened as we went over the fence.  One of the pikes had aspirations of being a spear and tore a rather impressive hole in my new coat—the nerve.  It did rather more damage to my coat than it did to me, I think—and do you have any idea what this coat cost me, Enjolras?—but I don’t mind admitting that it doesn’t feel exactly pleasant.”

Enjolras let the flood of words wash over him, more relieved than he could say that Courfeyrac was feeling well enough to be indignant over his coat.  Untying his own cravat to Courfeyrac’s accompanying gasp of dismay and a fresh diatribe over the unseemly behavior, Enjolras pulled Courfeyrac’s hand from the wound and opened his coat to get a better look.  Satisfied that the wound, though bleeding, was relatively superficial, Enjolras pressed his cravat to it.  Though Courfeyrac flinched at the pressure, he replaced Enjolras’ hands with his own readily enough when Enjolras let go to untie Courfeyrac’s cravat, as well.  Another lecture accompanied that action, but minor though the wound was, Courfeyrac had to be feeling its effects, as he made no move to stop him.  Courfeyrac’s cravat ended its fashion life as a bandage to hold the other in place.  With that done, and Courfeyrac in less danger of blood loss, Enjolras stepped back to admire his handiwork.  It wasn’t pretty, nor was it neat, but it would do.

When next they left the wall, it was with Courfeyrac’s arm slung over Enjolras’ shoulders and Enjolras’ arm wrapped firmly around Courfeyrac’s waist, applying added pressure to the wound.  It was slower going now, but for the first time that night, luck was on their side.  They ran into no more patrols on the way to the apartment that Joly occasionally shared with Bossuet, the only casualties of the night being a pair of cravats, a coat, and assorted other garments.  There might come a time when Enjolras would lose his friend in truth, but it was not to be tonight, nor any other night, as long as Enjolras had any say in the matter.

wokecourfeyrac:

courfeyrac and enjolras holding hands is the most pure